Kurt nodded. “A situation that’s been building for several days has reached the breaking point. If I don’t go now, it could be disastrous.”
She reached out and grabbed his hand. She looked crestfallen. “But you’re missing the best part of the presentation.”
Kurt made a grim face. “It’s the price I have to pay.”
Bidding the Muldoons good-bye, Kurt stood and strolled down the aisle to the waiting doors. He pushed through them and jogged up the steps into the foyer. Fearing he might get trapped in a conversation if he ran into other attendees, he took a left, sneaking down a curving hallway toward an unmarked side door.
He pushed it open and stepped out into the humid air of the Australian evening. To his surprise, he wasn’t alone.
A young woman sat on the step in front of him, fiddling with the heel of a strappy shoe. She wore a white cocktail dress with a matching white flower in her strawberry blond hair. Kurt thought it might be an orchid.
She looked up, startled by his sudden appearance.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.
For a second, she looked apoplectic, like he’d caught her stealing the Crown Jewels or something. Then she glanced around and went back to work on her shoe, wiggling the offending heel back and forth until the delicate little spike snapped off in her hand.
“That’s probably not going to help,” Kurt guessed.
“My favorite shoes,” she said in a melodic Australian accent. “Always seem to be the ones you break.”
Dejected but exhibiting admirable common sense, she slipped off the other shoe and broke off its heel, then compared the two.
“At least they match,” he said, offering a hand. “Kurt Austin.”
“Hayley Anderson,” she replied. “Proud owner of the most expensive flats in all of Oz.”
Kurt had to laugh.
“I suppose you’re escaping the keynote,” she said.
“Guilty as charged,” he admitted. “Can you really blame me?”
“Not in the least,” she replied. “If I didn’t need to be here, I’d be off to the beach myself.”
She stood up and stepped toward the door from which Kurt had emerged. It seemed a shame to have the encounter end so soon.
“Flat shoes work well on the sand,” Kurt offered. “Almost as well as bare feet.”
“Sorry,” she said, “can’t miss this or someone will have my guts for garters. You could come back in with me, I promise to keep you entertained.”
“Tempting,” Kurt said. “But my hard-won freedom is worth too much at this point. If you get bored in there, you’ll find me on Bondi Beach. I’ll be the one who’s slightly overdressed.”
She laughed lightly and grabbed quickly for the door. She seemed to be rushing. She pulled the door open and then stopped. Her gaze drifted past Kurt. She was looking across Sydney Harbour.
Kurt turned. In the fading light, he spotted the curving wake of a powerboat. It cut across the harbor, coming dangerously close to the front of a ferry. A scolding blast from the ship’s horn followed, but the boat never slowed.
An instant later, Kurt saw why. A dark-colored helicopter raced over the top of the ferry, flashing across the crowded vessel in the blink of an eye and dropping back toward the water in hot pursuit.
The speeding boat turned left and then right, carving an S in the water and intentionally skirting the edges of a slow-moving sailboat. It was a madman’s path across the harbor.
“He must be insane,” Hayley said, gawking at the boat.
Kurt took a good look at the helicopter, a dark blue Eurocopter EC145. A stubby, bulbous cabin that jutted forward gave its nose an odd compact look, something like the snout of a great white shark. A four-bladed rotor whirled overhead, leaving a white blur, while its short, boomlike tail ended in three small vertical stabilizers something like a trident.
Kurt saw no markings or navigation lights, but he noticed flashes coming from the open cargo door: muzzle flashes.
He grabbed his phone and dialed 911. Nothing happened.
Hayley took a step forward. “They’re shooting. They’re trying to kill those people.”
“What’s the emergency number here?”
“Zero zero zero,” she said.
Kurt typed it in and hit CALL. By the time he was connected, the speedboat had turned head-on toward the Opera House. It raced at them at full throttle, aiming for the rounded promenade that stuck out into Sydney Harbour like a great pier.
Most of the promenade was a wall of solid concrete, but a single flight of stairs on the left-hand side led down to the water. The speeding boat was drawing a line right to them. The helicopter was following, trying to set up a kill shot for the sniper.
More flashes lit out from the door.
The boat jerked to the left as the popping sound of gunfire reached the shore. It swerved a bit, then came back on course and hit the stairwell at high speed. It flew up into the air at an angle like a stunt car launching off a jump ramp in catty-corner fashion. It traveled fifty feet and rolled halfway over before it slammed down on its side.
From there, the boat skidded across the concrete deck, hit a lightpost, and came apart. Shattered fiberglass fluttered in all directions as the post bent over and its bulbs exploded with a flash.
“Emergency Service,” a voice said over the phone.
Kurt was too mesmerized by the accident to respond.
“Hello? This is Emergency Service.”
As the shattered boat settled, the Eurocopter thundered overhead, barely missing the pointed top of the Opera House.
Kurt handed the phone to Hayley. “Get help,” he shouted, taking off down the stairs. “Police, ambulance, national guard. Anything they’ve got.”
Kurt had no idea what was going on, but even from up on the platform he could see two people trapped in the boat’s wreckage and smell leaking fuel.
He reached the bottom of the stairs, ran a short distance, and hopped over a wall onto the promenade. As he raced up to the mangled craft, the still-spinning prop touched the concrete walkway. A shower of sparks lit out from it. They flew into the gasoline vapors, and a flashover roared outward.
In the wake of this small explosion, a sea of flames rose from where the ruptured fuel had spilled.
Despite the conflagration, Kurt rushed forward.
Four hundred feet above and a mile away, the Eurocopter made a steep turn above the outskirts of Sydney.
Even though he was strapped in, the sniper put a hand out and held on.
“Take it easy,” he shouted.
He was already wrestling with the long-barreled Heckler & Koch sniper rifle, trying to attach a high- capacity fifty-round drum. The last thing he needed was to be dumped out the side.
“We have to make another pass,” the pilot called back. “We have to make sure they’re dead.”
The sniper doubted anyone could have survived the crash, but it wasn’t his call. As the helicopter leveled out, he gave up trying to attach the drum and jammed a standard ten-round magazine in the weapon.
“Keep it steady this time,” he demanded. “I need a stable platform to shoot from.”
“Will do,” the pilot replied.
The sniper eased toward the open door, folding one leg underneath him and stretching the other leg down to brace himself on the step that was just above the copter’s skid.
They’d come around now and were approaching the sails of the Opera House more slowly. He racked the slide and readied himself to fire.
By the time Kurt reached the shattered boat, fire had engulfed its stern. A hunched-over figure in the
