Zero Hour (NUMA Files 11)

“You heard?”

“HQ called and left a message. Aside from that, you’re all over the news,” Joe explained. “CNN is reporting that an ‘unnamed American’ brought down the house in Sydney.”

“That’s witty of them,” Kurt said. “Too bad they weren’t performing the 1812 Overture, it would have been a showstopper of an ending.”

“And you said the conference was boring.”

“Seems I was wrong,” Kurt said. “So do you want to join in the fun or not?”

“Well,” Joe said, “I’m supposed to show off our new diving speeders to a group of reporters and a fifth-grade honors class from Cairns tomorrow as part of the Great Barrier Reef Project, but considering how repetitive their questions are, I think I’d rather throw my lot in with you. What do you need me to do?”

“Have the speeders been tested?”

“We checked them out today.”

“Perfect,” Kurt said. “Pack them up and bring them to the airport. I’ll have a plane chartered for you.”

“You got it. So what are we doing with them?”

“Just following up on a hunch,” Kurt said.

“You know you could phone it in,” Joe suggested. “Let the Aussies handle it.”

“If I had any brains, I would,” Kurt replied, “bu

t my last conversation with them didn’t go so well. I figure I’ll have to show them instead of telling.”

“Sounds about par for the course,” Joe said. “So where are we going anyway?”

“Not entirely sure yet,” Kurt said. “But you’ll find out when you get to the airport. I’ll meet you at our destination.”

“You know you can count on me,” Joe said. “Hasta mañana, amigo.”

Before Joe could hang up, Kurt spoke again. “One more thing,” he said. “Keep this under your sombrero. It’s not exactly an approved NUMA operation.”

SIX

Janko Minkosovic stood in the center of the octagonal room. The lighting was dim and subdued, the air around him chilled below fifty degrees. Despite that, Janko was sweating. That the room was kept near one hundred percent humidity didn’t help, but fear and anxiety were the real causes.

He tried to control it, but the longer he stood in silence, the more his mind wandered.

All those who’d been called to this room felt great trepidation. Their master resided here. He ruled from here like a dictator, gave pronouncements from here like a judge.

No one knew that better than Janko. He’d brought many here against their will and dragged them out of the room afterward, either sentenced to some awful punishment or dead.

Two members of the guard stood behind him. Short-barreled versions of the American M16 rifle were clutched in their hands.

In a way, they were Janko’s men. After all, he was Captain of the Guard. He chose not to look at them. They were not here to support him, they’d received an order to bring him in.

Across from the group, staring out a window into utter darkness, their master waited. “What’s your main function, Janko?”

The imposing figure spoke without turning. There was a strange hushed quality to the voice. It came from scorched and damaged vocal cords.

“I am chief of security, as you well know,” Janko replied.

“And how do you judge your performance in light of recent events?”

Maxmillian Thero turned around. Janko saw familiar burn scars that ran up the man’s neck and onto his face. Only Thero’s mouth was visible, twisted into a scarred cut by what must have been a horrible fire. The nose, eyes, the right ear, and the rest of the face lay beneath a black latex mask. The mask hid features too hideous to show, but it also put a sense of fear into those who looked upon it. It separated him from them. It made him seem less, or perhaps more, than human.