Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

Forrester stepped between the two men. “I said no more questions.”

Forrester made the mistake of putting his hands on Austin and soon found himself spun around, his arm bent backward and his face shoved into the wall. The impact was so abrupt it cracked the drywall.

Pinned against the wall, Forrester shouted for security. A pair of guards at the end of the hall turned slowly and then began to run down the passageway toward them.

The second intruder, a man with dark hair and deep-brown eyes, tried to keep the peace. He was flashing some kind of badge. “We’re with the government,” he said. “Kurt Austin, Joe Zavala. We’re with NUMA.”

It didn’t work. Even as Austin released Forrester, the plainclothes officers pounced. Austin didn’t resist, and they took him down without a fight. He seemed only focused on Westgate.

Through a tangle of bodies he shouted at Westgate. “Where were you when the Ethernet went down?”

“This isn’t necessary,” Westgate said, trying to intervene.

“The hell it isn’t!” Forrester bellowed. “Arrest this son of a—”

“You were nineteen miles away,” Austin shouted. “Nineteen miles!”

“Shut up,” Forrester demanded.

A man appeared at the end of the hall, pulled out a camera phone, and aimed it their way. “Turn that camera off!”

A third officer entered the fray, pulling out a pair of cuffs and slapping them over Austin’s wrists, which were now behind his back. Austin wasn’t struggling a bit, he seemed to know better, but was still straining to see past all the men and look Westgate in the eye.

“Let him go,” Westgate shouted, putting a hand to his temple. “For God’s sake, there’s no need for this!”

The cops yanked Kurt up, hauling him to his feet.

“We have to take him in,” one of the officers explained. “Anything like this happens, we have to run them in.”

“Him too,” Forrester insisted, pointing to the dark-haired man.

“What did I do?” Zavala asked.

“You came with him,” one of the cops said. “Now, turn around!”

“You’re hiding something,” Austin insisted as they began to drag him off.

Forrester had had enough. He couldn’t get the police to gag this madman, but he could get his own guy out of there. He grabbed Westgate by the arm and hustled him into the office.

“Get that camera!” he yelled to an assistant. “I don’t care how you do it.”

Westgate was too stunned to do anything but go with Forrester. As he was pulled into the waiting room, he caught sight of Austin shouting at him one more time.

“What happened on that yacht, Westgate? What the hell happened out there?”

The door slammed, the intrusion ended, and Forrester sat Westgate on the couch. “Are you all right?”

Westgate blinked. “Of course I’m all right. Did you see someone hit me?”

“You may not feel like you were hit,” Forrester growled. “But if that tape gets out, you, me, and the entire company are going to have a problem.”

Westgate could hardly think. The pounding in his skull was relentless. “What are you talking about?”

Forrester didn’t explain but instead moved to a makeshift bar, poured a drink, and shoved it into Westgate’s hand.

“Here.”

Westgate took a few sips. He felt confused and dizzy.