Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

“And your parents?”

Zavala was not the hostile sort; his confidence came from within and he appeared less than threatened even in this situation. “Why would you want to know?”

“Call it hereditary curiosity,” Urco said. “I find many people in this world don’t know who they really are. Just by looking at you, I can tell you have European blood in your veins—like I do—and while you’re at ease here, your soul is of the Americas. We are cousins. I would suspect to find that much of your blood is from the Olmec and the Maya.”

Zavala did not look away or argue. He was a master of his own emotions. “My blood is red,” he replied. “Like everyone else’s.”

Urco pursed his lips and stood. “We shall see.”

By now, the Zodiac had reached the shore. Emma was marched up through the weeds and out into the clearing. She still wore her wet suit. Her mouth was taped.

“Remove that,” Urco said.

“She spits,” Vargas said angrily.

Urco expected she would be trouble. He knew how fiery she could be. He looked her up and down. She was . . . different. Age and time had changed her, of course, but there was something more. The weight of knowledge; the invisible burden? He bore it, too. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage, but first he needed her to understand how truly powerless she was.

He turned to Vargas. “Go get the other boat and begin phase two.”

As Vargas left, Urco reached out and gently removed the tape from her mouth. “My apologies for such harsh treatment.”

She stood, defiant, casting a challenge at him with her eyes, not seeing but posturing. He accepted that. It was to his benefit that she be blind with rage. At least a little while longer.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Emma demanded. “Who are you working for? The Russians? The Chinese?”

“Of course you’re confused,” Urco told her. “Why wouldn’t you be? Right now you’re wondering which of your great enemies has corrupted the little servant you found at La Jalca? It must be one of them, musn’t it? Since the rest of the world is filled only with pawns to be moved by the players of the great game. Isn’t that what your time at the NSA has taught you?”

She pulled back, no doubt because none of them had ever mentioned the National Security Agency.

“To answer your question,” he continued, “I work for neither the Russians nor the Chinese but for all of humanity.”

Her gaze tightened and the fine lines around her eyes deepened, enough to suggest he had her thinking. That was good.

“And at this juncture,” he added, “humanity requires your help.”

“I won’t help you do anything.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, waving an indifferent hand. “You’re required to say that. Duly noted, but I assure you, you will help me. In fact, you’ll literally spring to your feet to do it.”

Without waiting for a reply, he walked over to the Nighthawk. The craft was still dripping muddy water from the landing gear. It appeared larger in the clearing but low to the ground, thanks to those stubby legs.

Arriving beside the nose, Urco found the touch screen panel he was looking for. He tapped it until it came to life and then entered an alphanumeric code. A green indicator flickered and a small door opened just aft of the touch screen panel.

Reaching in, he grasped a recessed handle.

“Don’t,” Emma said.

He ignored her and pulled the handle, first to the side and then down. As he released it, the sound of hydraulic actuators powering up became audible. A pressure seal between the cargo bay doors released with a hiss and they slowly began to open.

As the doors locked in place, Urco stepped up on the wing and gazed into the interior. In contrast to the black outer hull, the cargo bay was done in a gleaming, sterile white.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Emma insisted. “If you’re not careful, you’ll kill us all.”

“Perhaps you’d like to show me, then? Prevent me from tinkering?”

Emma was led up beside him. They stood together gazing down into the interior of the payload bay. A maze of power packs, wires and cylindrical tubes were lined up front to back. The arrangement was per

fectly symmetrical.