Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

As she turned from position to position, the ink on her skin seemed to change color with the light. On one shoulder blade, she wore the Chinese symbol for love; on the other, the symbol for punishment. In the middle, centered on her spine, a pair of black and white forms swirled together—a stylized version of the famous symbol for yin and yang.

In Chinese mythology, yin and yang were supposed to be complementary forces, each providing what the other cannot. But Daiyu rejected the notion. In her mind, they were antagonists. Yin would destroy yang, if it could; and yang would murder yin, if ever they met—for that’s what opposites did. Because of this, she’d directed that an almost invisible line be left between the two curving symbols. A sliver of her own natural skin color remained there as if she was the buffer between the two warring forces, the only thing preventing the great destruction.

As the moves progressed in speed and intensity, the sweat began to trickle from her skin. A kick, a turn, an upward thrust of the hand that could break a neck. After a time, her hair, body and clothing were soaked. Her last move was a turn and sudden punch with an open palm that could kill any opponent it caught. She held it for several seconds, realizing she was staring directly at herself in the mirror, and then turned away.

The dance was over. She stripped off the rest of her clothes, threw them in the corner and stepped into the shower, blasting the water at its most icy cold.

10

Ecuador

The sleepy airport on the coast of Ecuador appeared abandoned in the middle of the night. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire and a few perimeter lights were the only efforts at security. Occasionally, a guard in a white pickup truck with a yellow rotating beacon on top would drive the taxiway and runway, but more out of boredom than anything else.

“Not exactly Fort Knox,” Emma noted from the driver’s seat of a car she’d rented under an assumed name.

“Why do you think I chose it?” Kurt said, stepping out and walking to the gate. “Under normal circumstances, there’s nothing here worth stealing.”

Kurt found the gat

e unlocked and eased it back. He waved Emma through, closed the gate behind her and hopped back in the car. “Over that way,” he said, pointing to the left.

Emma drove carefully, navigating by the moonlight and sticking to one side of the crumbling taxiway. They passed a few small planes tied down at the edge of the ramp: single-engine Cessnas and Pipers. Judging by the weeds growing up between them, few of the planes had moved in weeks, if not months.

“How did you even know about this place?” Emma asked.

Kurt pointed across the runway. “On the other side of that fence, the waves of the Pacific are pounding the beach with rhythmic precision. This is one of the better surf spots in all of South America. I was going to come here when the season begins in a few months.”

They continued on, passing a small hangar and pulling up beside a mammoth orange helicopter that looked more like a giant mutant insect looming in the dark than a machine made by human hands.

The helicopter stood on spindly, outstretched legs, its long rotors drooping like a dragonfly’s wings. A thin, pointed tail stretched out into the dark behind it, while its large, bulbous head bent near to the ground, giving the appearance of a locust gnawing the grass.

The Erickson Air-Crane was a modernized version of the famous Sikorsky Skycrane. It was seventy feet long, sported a huge, six-bladed rotor and was powered by two Pratt & Whitney turboshaft engines. It could carry a crew of five and a ten-ton payload. Most of the working models were used to haul heavy loads to places no truck could possibly reach or to battle forest fires. Its heavy-lifting capacity and precise maneuverability allowed it to drop tons of water or flame-retardant on hilltops, in box canyons and other tight spots normal firefighting planes could not target.

Since Erickson had taken over the design, each newly built helicopter was christened with a distinct name of its own. One named Elvis fought fires in Australia. Another named Jaws ferried parts to oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. The craft sitting on the tarmac in front of them was named Merlin and had a small caricature of a wizard painted on the nose.

As Emma parked beside it, a light came on inside the cockpit and a figure stepped out through the door.

“About time you got here,” Joe Zavala said. “This must be Hurricane Emma.”

Emma shot Kurt a suspicious look and then shook Joe’s hand. “I’ve been downgraded to a tropical storm. But don’t make me angry.”

“Duly noted,” Joe said. “Care to step on board?”

“I thought we’d have some loading to do,” Kurt said. “Did you get all the equipment on the list?”

“Of course,” Joe said. “It’s stored away in the aft cargo container. We also have a drop tank filled with extra fuel.”

He pointed at two pods attached near the tail: the cargo container was black and had the aerodynamics of a brick; the drop tank was sleek and tapered, with the appearance of an orange bomb.

“Did you run into the security guard?”

“Of course,” Joe said. “Who do you think helped me load this stuff?”

Kurt laughed. “Joe has a way with people,” he explained to Emma. “He was once pulled over for speeding and instead of getting a ticket, he wound up with a police escort to the Boston Pops.”

“I was late for a date,” Joe explained. “The officer was very understanding.”

Kurt checked his watch. “Getting late here, too. If we’re ready, let’s go.”