Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

Kurt laughed. “From the profile they gave me, I don’t think Ms. Townsend gets teased much. Around the NSA, her nickname is Hurricane Emma.”

“You know what that means,” Joe said. “Either we got stuck with her because we’re the problem children or we got stuck with her because she is one and the Navy didn’t want her on one of their ships.”

“She’s got a background NASA would

kill for,” Kurt said. “A job with Rockwell right out of school, designing propulsion systems. Three years with Jet Propulsion Laboratory, and then the last five with the NSA. She’s definitely an expert in her field.”

“An expert,” Joe said sarcastically, “okay? I’m upping my estimate to a ninety percent reduction in progress.”

Kurt checked his watch. “I’ll do my best to charm her and turn her into an ally instead of an impediment. With a little luck, and some fine wine, all will turn out well. Trust me.”

“You seem to be in a very good mood,” Joe said. “Nothing gets your blood up like a challenge.”

“Especially when someone else is doing all the hard work,” Kurt said. “And all I have to do is charm an attractive woman.”

“Good luck with that,” Joe said, turning back to his inventory of equipment. “But be careful. Some icebergs can’t be thawed.”

Kurt left the warehouse and passed through the security gate unaware that he was being observed. Perched high in one of the oversized mobile cranes that moved the shipping containers around the port, two men were watching, one through binoculars.

He lowered them, revealing dark eyes and little else. A filtered mask covered his nose and mouth, the kind some athletes wore while training in high pollution areas. His voice was muffled as he spoke through it. “When did they arrive?”

“Within six hours of the Nighthawk disappearing,” the man beside him said. “They’re already gathering equipment and chartering vessels to help them search.”

The masked man stared at the activity below him, like a chess master looking over the board. A slight wheezing could be heard in his lungs even with the filtered air to protect them. “The Americans reacted faster than even I expected.”

“But you wanted them here,” the second man said. “Didn’t you?”

“Of course, but it’ll do us no good if they learn too much too soon.”

“We could slow them down,” the second man suggested. “Damage some of their equipment, scare off the charters, so they have to find new boats.”

The masked man pondered this and then shook his head. “Not the kind of delay we need. In fact, I think giving them a push rather than holding them back would better serve our plans. Are you still in contact with the Chinese?”

“Yes.”

“Alert them to the presence of these Americans, suggest that they know something vital. Point out the array of equipment they’ve gathered. The Chinese agent’s imagination will take it from there.”

“And if the Chinese kill them? What then?”

“The American government will send replacements and the race will begin anew.”

7

Emma Townsend sat in a cozy booth in the recesses of El Caracol, the four-star restaurant Kurt Austin had suggested as a meeting place.

Despite Joe’s assessment, there was little about her that suggested ice or frost. In fact, warmth was the first thought her appearance brought to mind. Her auburn hair fell straight to her shoulders and shimmered with a copper hue in the subdued lighting. Her eyes were a soft, hazel color, flecked with green, her lips full and her skin just sun-kissed enough to bring out a smattering of freckles that made her look younger than her thirty-three years.

Entering the restaurant early and waiting for Kurt, she’d already garnered her fair share of second glances and lingering stares. She noticed the gazes but ignored them. It was no worse than Washington.

The restaurant itself was an architectural delight. Its design brought together several styles much the same way the menu did, and the clientele was a mix of hip, bohemian customers, obvious tourists and refined Ecuadorian couples. Perhaps that was due to its location in the hills of Las Peñas, a four-hundred-year-old section of Guayaquil, where brightly painted houses had been turned into art galleries, restaurants and wine bars.

Tourists and locals alike flocked there on warm evenings. They strolled the boulevards and galleries and enjoyed the views, which overlooked the city and the coastline. As night fell, the lights of the Malecón, a restored promenade on the waterfront that had once been the historic Simón Bolívar Pier, came into view.

With only a glass of water in front of her, Emma waited for Kurt and reread the NSA bio that had been sent to her phone.

A quick look told her Austin was a man of action. He and his second-in-command, Joe Zavala, were listed as the principal figures in a series of high-profile missions. They’d averted several international catastrophes, including the recent events in Egypt, where they’d prevented former members of the Mubarak regime from co-opting the sub-Saharan aquifer and establishing authority across all of North Africa.

Further reading made it clear that despite this record, both Austin and Zavala had rubbed plenty of officials the wrong way. It seemed they were not fond of authority, chains of command or doing things by the book. Perhaps that explained his position with NUMA, she thought. NUMA had always preferred to shoot from the hip, right from the day James Sandecker had founded it. Men like Kurt thrived there, while in other agencies they were shackled and held back.