Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

“The Russian asset.”

“Our asset,” Wu insisted, “though the Russians think he belongs to them. Falconer was on the second Russian bomber, in charge of overriding the American commands from the Vandenberg. He was supposed to abort the capture of the Nighthawk and direct it back toward our fleet. Where we would grab it once it hit the water.”

“Obviously, he failed,” she said.

“Partially,” Wu replied. “Whether that was by design or happenstance, we cannot say. But as it turns out, the man lives. He contacted us, told us where to find you and where to find the Nighthawk.”

“But the Americans are already there,” she said. “With the man from this camp.”

“Yes,” Wu said. “The Falconer. They are one and the same.”

As she put it all together, she began to laugh. “And to think, I almost killed him.”

“You couldn’t know,” Wu said. “The man has been operating as a triple agent. But the final act is now upon us. General Zhang secured your release with gold. And now, for a pittance in rough-cut diamonds, we will take possession of the cargo.”

A pittance might be fifty million dollars, in Zhang’s terms. But it was truly nothing compared to what they were receiving.

They arrived at the helicopter. The side door was pulled back. A body covered in plastic lay on the floor.

“Jian,” she said. Her brother among the children who had never been born.

“A casualty of the operation.”

She and Wu climbed in, the armed commandos followed and the pilot began the start procedure. A heavy pack was tossed out to one of the Peruvian men who followed them. It clinked like a bag of loose change.

“Krugerrands,” Wu said.

The Peruvians opened it. One was satisfied, but another was frustrated. An argument broke out, in their native language. It was hard to follow with all of them speaking at once, but she understood enough.

She killed them. We should not be letting her go.

It’s been arranged.

I don’t like it . . . deserves to die . . .

The sound of the helicopter starting drowned out the rest. But Daiyu could read lips. She focused on the leader of the Peruvian men.

Of course they deserve to die.

Don’t worry. They will.

44

Kurt’s face was bathed in yellow light. The strange hue and intensity was all he could see no matter where he looked, but it wasn’t the afterlife.

After being dragged to the bottom of the lake, Kurt had been on the verge of blacking out when his furious counterattack coincided with the assailant’s attempt to plunge the diving knife into his ribs.

The sudden cloud of the red that erupted seemed to leave no doubt who’d gotten the worse end of the deal. As Vargas had pushed off the bottom with both legs and soared up toward the surface, both he and Kurt had every reason to believe that the blade had plunged home.

Kurt’s initial thought was that his blood was surprisingly bright. Still, with his main airline ripped out, getting the secondary line attached to the valve on his helmet took precedence over finding a wound and stopping the bleeding.

He’d grabbed his backup line, brought it up to the quick connect port on the side of the helmet and snapped it into place.

A slight hiss told him gas was flowing and he immediately started breathing rapidly, trying to expel the carbon dioxide that had built up in his lungs.

With air flowing, he searched for his wound. By the time he found it, the swirl of red color around him had begun to thin. The water turned pink and then went clear once again.

Either he was out of blood or . . .