Piranha (Oregon Files 10)

“What in the world . . . ?”

“I don’t know. Let me check the phone.”

It was a disposable, probably purchased this morning and meant to be thrown in the ocean after the assignment. Its user hadn’t even bothered to password-protect it. The contact list had only five numbers and no names.

“We were lucky to survive this,” Linda said. “Those guys were pros.” There was nothing to lead back to anyone. If the assassin had thought there was even a chance he wouldn’t succeed, he would have entered a password.

She checked the text messages. Only one was still in memory. It had been sent to all of the contact numbers and was written in French.

Tous ont été aperçus. Attaquer dès que vous voyez une opportunité.

“Do you know French?” she asked Julia.

“I took French literature in college, but it’s been awhile.” She peered at the message, whispering the words as she read. After a moment, her eyes became as big as saucers.

“What does it say?”

Julia swallowed hard. “‘All of them have been sighted. Attack as soon as you see an opportunity.’”

Not the two of them. All of them.

“We have to warn the others. Somebody’s going after the whole crew.”

She and Julia sprinted toward the locker room to get Linda’s phone, nearly knocking over their approaching masseuses in their scramble to save the entire Oregon crew from being murdered.

The steel deck of the Oregon baked under the cloudless sky where it was moored against the dock of Montego Bay’s Freeport terminal. Eric’s shirt was already soaked with perspiration from helping Murph construct the portable ramps, grind rails, and eight-foot-tall half-pipe that Juan reluctantly allowed him to install, turning the ship into a makeshift skateboard park. Eric lowered his sunglasses so they wouldn’t steam up as he peered at the screen of his brand-new video camera. He was kneeling to get the best angle for the shot, an enormous cruise ship providing the backdrop.

The lens was trained on Murph as he hurtled across the obstacles, bobbing his head to the beat of heavy metal music only he could hear in his headphones. Every time he whipped around in a turn, sweat flew from hair that poked from the edge of his helmet. Eric had caught some good tumbles already, but Murph, who was dressed in baggy shorts and a black T-shirt that said “Welcome to Nuketown” and was protected by kneepads and elbow pads, popped back up every time. Only a true face-plant would slow him down.

Eric’s phone rang, and he kept the video recording as he answered it.

“This is Eric.”

“Eric, it’s Linda,” she said, her voice breathy and urgent. “We’re in trouble.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Julia and I were attacked.”

“My God! Are you all right?”

“We’re okay, but we have reason to believe the rest of the crew might be targeted as well.”

“Targeted? By whom?”

She described her attackers, including her assessment that they were either French or Haitian, neither of which made sense to Eric. But the danger implied in the message was undeniable: All of them have been sighted. Attack as soon as you see an opportunity.

The hairs on the back of Eric’s neck stood on end. He suddenly felt exposed on the deck.

“Contact everyone who’s on leave and tell them to get back to the ship,” Linda said. “When that’s done, get the Oregon ready for departure. She’s a sitting duck. Julia and I are on our way back now. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Got it.”

Eric hung up. He couldn’t help looking around to see if he was being watched, realizing someone could be observing them from any of a hundred spots in the crowded port area.

He yelled for Murph to stop, but the headphones were pumped to the same earsplitting volume that Murph blasted in his isolated cabin. Eric tried moving over and waving his arms, but Murph was so absorbed in his tricks that he paid no attention.

Eric felt more than heard a disturbance in the air. A hole appeared in the half-pipe above the spot where Murph had performed a particularly difficult twisting move. There was no accompanying rifle crack, but Eric knew a bullet hole when he saw one.