Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

As he’d hurtled over the railing, he’d held on for a split second longer than necessary, converting his outward and downward motion into a turning arc. The trajectory had slammed him into the side of the yacht just as he’d activated the magnetic pads once again.

It had been an awkward, jarring crash, but the magnets didn’t care. Once again they’d done the trick, locking him to the steel hull and holding him in place.

From there, Kurt had crabbed his way forward and parked himself in a spot below the Massif ’s four-ton anchor.

After tearing off the white coveralls and throwing them into the sea, he waited patiently as the yacht reversed course and slowed to a crawl. Aside from some strain on his arms and legs, Kurt was quite comfortable. Assuming the battery packs held out, he could hang in there for quite some time. And he intended to do just that.

Sooner or later, Acosta would give up, douse the lights, and turn back onto his original course. At that point Kurt would slip off the side and into the darkness, treading water until the yacht was far enough away for Joe and El Din to come get him.

After three runs back and forth, Kurt figured the towel was close to being thrown in. He grinned in the dark at his own tactical brilliance, all but ready to pat himself on the back, when he noticed something he hadn’t expected.

Speeding toward them, just barely visible in the moonlight, was the silhouette of a long-nosed fishing boat.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Kurt whispered. “What can they possibly be thinking?”

And then it dawned on him. He glanced at his right arm where the key pocket was. It had been torn open, perhaps in the scuffle with the woman or even with Acosta’s thug.

With nothing to keep it secure, the transmitter had either been caught in the coveralls when Kurt pulled them off or had simply fallen into the sea as he climbed around on the side of the hull. No doubt it was now bobbing in the water somewhere, broadcasting a message to his friends and luring them unwittingly toward the monstrous yacht bristling with gun-toting thugs.

As they raced toward the beeping transmitter, Joe divided his attention between the yacht and the section of water where he expected to find Kurt. There was no more than a quarter mile separating the two.

“They must have missed him,” Joe said. “We need to hurry.” “What if they spot us?” El Din asked.

“I’d be surprised if they haven’t seen us already,” Joe said.

“But we’re not leaving Kurt out there to be run down or shot.” “They’re lit up like your a proverbial Christmas tree,” El Din said. “Maybe they’re not able to see us out here in the dark.” “Let’s hope so.”

El Din kept the throttles open, and Joe dug into one of the boat’s lockers.

“What are you looking for?”

“I’m thinking this is going to be one of those high-speed operations. We need something for Kurt to grab on to.” He pulled out a cargo net. “This should do.”

El Din nodded. “Three hundred meters,” he said, glancing at the scanner.

“Slow her down a bit,” Joe said.

“Two hundred.”

Joe grabbed an infrared scope and scanned the water. The surface of the gulf remained dark. But the heat from Kurt’s body should have stood out plainly. He saw nothing. “Are we headed for the target?” he asked.

“Dead ahead,” El Din said.

“Let’s not use the word dead.”

“One hundred meters,” El Din said. “Three hundred twenty-eight feet, if you don’t like the metric system.” Joe lowered the scope and squinted, looking for any sign from Kurt alerting them to his location.

“Fifty meters,” El Din said, backing off the throttles. They were soon coasting, El Din correcting their heading to port. The nose of the boat slewed around. “We should be right on top of him.”

Joe felt his nerves tingling. As the fishing boat settled and its wake dissipated, the night became awfully quiet.

He glanced nervously at the yacht. It too was sitting idle, its nose pointed thirty degrees off line from them.

With their small boat in a similar condition, it felt like a stalemate between predator and prey. The yacht, a big cat crouching on its haunches; the small fishing boat, a gazelle ready to bolt at the cat’s slightest twitch. For now, both held still as stone, waiting for the other to make the first move.

“They know we’re looking for him,” Joe said, whispering.

“They’re waiting for us to find him. Be ready to go.” “As soon as we have him, I’ll head straight for the shore.” Joe raised the infrared scope and studied the yacht. He could clearly see the heat plume emanating from its angled stacks.