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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 passenger seat was trying to get free. Kurt pulled him loose and dragged him over the side, ignoring the cries of pain.
Fifty feet from the boat, Kurt laid the injured man down, noticing the strange way his hands and fingers curled up. It was an odd enough sight to stick in Kurt’s mind even as he raced back to help the driver.
Fighting through the acrid smoke, Kurt clambered onto the boat. By now, flames were licking at the driver’s back.
Kurt tried to pull the man upward, but he was held in place by the crushed-in section of the control panel.
“Leave me,” the man shouted. “Help Panos.”
“If that’s your passenger, he’s already safe,” Kurt shouted. “Now, help me get you free.”
The man pushed and Kurt pulled, but the crushed panel held him tight. Kurt knew they needed leverage. He grabbed a harpoonlike boat hook that lay in what remained of the bow and wedged it in between the trapped driver and the mangled wreckage.
Leaning on it with all his weight, Kurt forced some space between the driver and the panel. “Now!” he shouted.
The man shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t feel my—”
In a sudden recoil, the driver’s head snapped back, and blood spattered across the dashboard. The smoke swirled with new abandon and the rising flames danced in odd directions as gusting wind from the helicopter’s downwash swept over them.
Realizing the driver was dead and that he was probably next, Kurt dove over the side of the boat and tumbled out.
Shells hit left and right as he scrambled for cover.
