Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

“I had my reasons,” Kurt said.

“How do those reasons sound now?”

“Not as good as they did back then,” he admitted. With little cover beyond an old wooden credenza, Kurt had to keep up a steady rate of fire to keep their enemies back. A blue digital counter on the top of the gun told him the status of his ammo. It hit zero rather quickly and he changed clips.

Realizing they had to get out of this battle before he used up the second clip, he began shooting out the lights one by one until the central section of the hall was bathed in shadows. In response, their attackers hit the main switch and doused the rest of the hall in darkness, which only helped his plan.

Kurt retreated along the wall, found a door, and kicked it open.

“Get inside,” he said.

Calista did as ordered as more bullets skipped off the marble floor. Hoping to trick the two groups into shooting each other, Kurt fired a half dozen shots along one length of the hall and then loosed a few more back the other way.

As soon as he’d finished, he stepped backward and shut the door. As it closed, he heard volleys being fired from both sides. For a little while at least they would have trouble distinguishing between their own shots and Kurt’s, but he knew all he’d done was buy him and Calista some time.

As Kurt plotted their next move, Calista was busy shoving a large couch up against the door and wedging the arm under the handle.

“Not a bad idea,” he said.

“How long do you think we have?” she asked, pulling a dresser against the couch.

“They’ll figure out pretty quickly that I’m no longer firing at them,” he said. “But it’ll take a minute or two before they get up the courage to rush down the hall.”

“And then what?”

Before Kurt could answer, the scream of a rocket sounded outside the building. As Kurt turned, he saw the white flare of another missile ripping its way into the night.

“Sebastian,” Calista said. “Always another trick up his sleeve. Those are Acosta’s. He was the arms dealer.”

Kurt made a quick but grim assessment. “We have to stop this. Or none of us will leave here alive.”

“We have to get to the control room,” she said. “It’s all operated from there.”

They would never make it by charging down the hall, not even with the railgun blazing and the Kevlar armor to protect the most vital parts of Kurt’s body. There had to be another way.

“What else is on this floor?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, “just more rooms like this. As if we were going to hold court someday.”

An idea came to him. “It just might work,” he said to hi

mself.

He moved up to the wall, felt along it, and then began to punch holes in the plasterboard with his fist. It was fairly standard, a wood-and-drywall construction. He found the studs and then stepped back and with measured precision pointed the railgun at a section of wall, blasting a vertical line of eight shots from top to bottom.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I prefer to stay in adjoining rooms,” he said. With a run of several steps, he crashed into the perforated section of the wall, smashing through it with his shoulder and plowing into the space next door.

Calista followed. And, in quick succession, they had done the same to the next three rooms.

Had he been using a standard rifle, Kurt might have expected the teams of men outside to hear him, but the railgun made no sound. The only noise was the projectiles flying through the plaster, a sound that reminded Kurt of an overzealous librarian energetically using a three-hole punch.

“This is the last room,” Calista said.

Kurt checked the railgun. The counter on the top told him he had ten shells left. Ten shells. Just in case, he unzipped the diagonal pocket across his chest that held the old Colt revolver.

Hoping there would be no more resistance, he moved to the door, pulled it open a crack, and looked back down the hall. Their enemies had converged on the door to the room he and Calista had entered and were trying to break it down.