Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

“See to him,” Sebastian said, tossing the severed hand at the wounded man.

The servants dropped down beside Kovack and wrapped his arm quickly. A tourniquet was applied, and he was dragged out.

Sebastian glanced around, studying the blood that soaked his desk and suit. “Look at this mess,” he said as if a drink had been spilled.

More servants came in and immediately began cleaning. Sebastian took off his coat and walked through a double French door out onto a balcony. Calista followed.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as the latest storm prepared to soak western Madagascar. He was thinking he’d made a mistake. Anger had caused that. “Rene will not trust you after this,” he said to his sister.

“Rene has never trusted me,” she corrected. “But he lusts for me, and he thinks I’m playing both sides.”

“Then you will go to his auction.”

“To bid on the woman?”

“To steal her back,” Sebastian said unequivocally. “Rene would never accept our bid, even before all this. He’s gone into business for himself. He knows if he delivered her to us, we would keep her. She’s our property after all. And he would be passing up too much money. The way he spends it, he needs all he can get.”

As her brother spoke, Calista nodded, though she seemed preoccupied with Kovack’s blood on the back of her hand. She dipped her finger in it and drew lines up along her forearm as if it were body paint.

“Are you listening to me?”

“You know I am.”

“Then tell me if you’re up to it.”

“Of course,” she said, looking up. “But Rene is no fool. He will be watching. And if I steal what others bid for—the Russians, the Chinese—they will become a problem too.”

Brèvard was not worried about enemies. When he was done with the con, he would disappear like a ghost, like smoke in the wind. And it would be as if he’d never existed in the first place.

“Figure it out,” he said bluntly. “You’re smarter than him. Smarter than all of them. Put that devious little mind of yours to work and get her back before everything we’ve planned goes up in flames.”

Kurt Austin arrived at the NUMA building in downtown Washington under an impossibly blue sky. He parked in the garage, made his way to the lobby, and took the elevator to the ninth floor. The receptionist was surprised to see him.

“Good morning,” he said to her, smiling and heading down the hall.

He arrived at the bull pen near his office where several others were gathered about, sipping coffee and getting ready to put in a good day’s work.

They caught sight of him and stopped.

“If even one of you claps or says, ‘Welcome back,’ I’ll assign you to McMurdo station in Antarctica for the winter and you won’t see daylight for six months.”

Knowing smiles crept across their faces, and a few nods came his way, but the response was limited to his secretary squeezing his arm and someone else offering him a cup of coffee.

Joe Zavala arrived, filled with energy and smiling as he almost always did. “Hey,” he called out loudly, “look who finally made it back to work.”

He seemed surprised by the limited reaction from the others.

“Good luck, Joe,” someone said. “Dress warm.”

“Don’t pack the sunblock,” another coworker advised.

As they passed him, Joe turned to Kurt. “What was that all about?”

“Long story,” Kurt said, surprised at how good it felt to be surrounded by friends again. “How are you on the geography of Antarctica?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I have to send you there now or lose all credibility with the staff.”