Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

“Can you tell what’s happened?” El Din asked, craning his head around for a better look.

“No,” Joe said. “But I’d bet Kurt had something to do with it.”

The yacht was going off course, no longer following them. The spotlights seemed to be shining down on the foredeck.

“Now it’s our turn,” Joe said. “Bring us around wide and come at them from behind.”

“Hold on,” El Din said.

Joe grabbed the transom and held tight as the fishing boat made one more sharp turn.

On the foredeck, Kurt could tell his plan had worked. Now came the hard part: getting out alive. Each time he poked his head out from behind the bulkhead, a sniper up near the bridge took a potshot at him.

What he really needed was a way to take out the spotlights. But the Beretta was long gone, and the Colt he’d wrestled away from Caleb with the help of the magnets had been dislodged and tumbled into the sea when he’d crashed back into the side of the hull. After two more shots rang out, he saw the handle on the hatchway begin to turn. At the same moment, he noticed the fishing boat coming alongside. It was now or never.

He took off running, staying as close to the shelter of the bulkhead as possible. He raced past the hatch, slamming his shoulder into it just as it began to swing open. The heavy door closed on someone’s arm with a sickening crunch.

Kurt only heard a fragment of an agonizing scream as he launched himself over the rail for a second time. This time he went headfirst, diving as far from the vessel as possible.

With perfect form, he knifed through the surface and went deep. Thin lines of bubbles probed the darkness like arrows as Acosta’s men shot at him. The shots missed. Kicking hard, Kurt angled away from the yacht and down.

The yacht rumbled past, the anchor chain still fouled around the bent propeller shaft.

When the noise passed, Kurt began to swim horizontally. He kept swimming until his lungs felt as if they might burst, then surfaced in the dark and looked back.

The yacht was already turning. Out ahead of it he could see his friends coming around.

He didn’t bother to yell—all that would get him was a mouthful of water—but he made every effort to kick hard, swimming at an angle that would make it easier for them to get him.

As the small boat raced in, Kurt rose up and waved. They changed course and bore down on him, slowing at the very last second.

“Grab this!” Joe shouted, throwing out a cargo net.

Kurt grasped it and began to pull himself forward. He was almost at the transom when the spotlights from the yacht swung across the water and found them.

Joe hauled him in, and El Din wasted no time in gunning the throttles.

The small craft took off again as a ribbon of shells skipped across the water, fired by Caleb and his mates from the bow of the yacht.

Splinters of wood flew in all directions. Kurt felt a bullet scrape his arm. But in seconds they’d passed out of the fire zone and were hightailing it into the dark.

The wounded yacht could not keep up. The gap widened by the moment, and after a few minutes the yacht began to turn away.

“We made it,” El Din said.

Lying on the deck, exhausted and half surprised to be alive, Kurt looked around at his rescuers. “Is everyone okay?”

El Din nodded. Joe flashed a thumbs-up. “We’re fine,” Joe said. “What about you?”

“Never better,” Kurt said.

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“You’re bleeding,” El Din pointed out.

Kurt checked the wound. It was superficial. Another crease in the sheet metal. “Cut myself shaving,” he joked. “Have to be more careful.”

Joe laughed. He was glad to see Kurt’s sense of humor had returned. It had been missing during his three months of recovery. “How’d it go on the yacht? Did you enjoy the party?”