Piranha (Oregon Files 10)

The sniper must have been waiting for Murph to pause but was prodded to act early because of Eric’s waving. He had to be using a sound suppressor.

Murph was oblivious to the threat. He would be up the other side of the half-pipe and back into the sniper’s view in moments.

Eric sprinted across the floor of the half-pipe. Murph was already curling up the opposite side, preparing to go into his next spin. Eric launched himself at Murph, who gaped in surprise when he saw his friend barreling toward him.

Eric tackled Murph around the torso and Murph’s momentum took his legs up into the air over the lip of the half-pipe. The two of them flipped around and crashed to the floor. Murph’s headphones were ripped from his ears.

“What the hell?” Murph yelled, grabbing his leg. “I think my ankle’s twisted, you goober!”

Eric looked down and saw blood oozing between Murph’s fingers. The sniper hadn’t missed completely.

“Let me see,” Eric said, lifting Murph’s hand away. A bullet had punched all the way through his calf. Murph blanched at the sight.

“I’ve been shot?”

Eric tore off his shirt and wrapped it around Murph’s leg, tightening it as much as he could to keep pressure on the wounds.

“Linda called,” Eric said. “She and Julia were assaulted at the spa by two attackers. A text on one of their phones implied that the rest of us were also targeted.”

“Why?” Murph asked, wincing as Eric tied off the bandage.

“Good question. We may be stuck here unless we can get that sniper off our backs.”

“Where is he?”

Since the half-pipe was built on the flattest section of the deck, the nearest hatch to the interior was a hundred feet away, so running for it would make them easy targets. More holes drilled through the polyurethane half-pipe material. The frustrated sniper was firing blindly to flush them out or kill them where they sat. Eric guessed he was somewhere in the direction of the terminal’s oil storage facility. He couldn’t stick his head out without getting it blown off.

His video camera, however, was state-of-the-art, with a 100× optical/digital zoom built in. Eric edged it around the end of the half-pipe and watched the screen as he panned around, looking for the most likely place for a sniper to hide within range of the Oregon. The assassin would want to be high enough to have a good vantage point.

Eric zoomed in on the fifty-foot-tall oil tanks until he could see every detail. The first two tanks were barren, but when he got to the third, he could spot the faint outline of a man lying atop the tank. He still had the rifle aimed at the Oregon, waiting for them to show their faces.

“Got him,” Eric said, showing the image to Murph.

“He planned that well,” Murph said through clenched teeth. “No way we can take him out with the Gatling gun when he’s on a tank full of oil.”

“Not that we could open fire here in port anyway.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Eric nodded. “I think it’s time to call the police.” He routed the call through an anonymous server so that it couldn’t be traced back to them and reported that shots had been fired at the oil facility.

Moments later, police sirens wailed in the distance. The camera showed the gunman scrambling across the tower toward the sta

irs. He would be gone before the police could arrive, but that didn’t matter to Eric anymore.

He needed to alert the others. He preferred to call Juan first, but since he and Max were at sea and out of cell phone range, the Oregon’s radio would be the only way to reach him. As he helped Murph limp to the medical bay, Eric used his free hand to dial Franklin Lincoln.

When Linc got the call from Eric, he and Eddie were approaching Ian Fleming International Airport, named to honor northeastern Jamaica’s most famous resident. They were only a few miles away from the GoldenEye resort, Linc on his custom-built Harley and Eddie on a top-of-the-line model rented from Montego Bay’s new dealer. The plan was to get a prime spot at the pool bar, consume a burger and a martini, shaken not stirred, and take in the view of both the oceanographic and bikini-clad varieties. Instead, they’d have to turn around and head straight back to the Oregon. But they first had to contend with the tail they’d picked up.

During the winding trip along the coast, they’d tested the limits of their bikes, dodging other drivers who paid only minimal attention to the rules of the road. It was a laid-back ride until they reached Ocho Rios, where two guys on a pair of Suzuki crotch rockets had fallen in behind them, careful to maintain a respectful distance. Instead of a T-shirt and shorts, each of them was wearing a black leather jacket that was far too heavy in this heat.

Linc and Eddie had spotted them almost immediately. It was certainly possible that they were simply motorcycle enthusiasts out for a nice jaunt like they were, but a little variation of speed confirmed that the Suzuki riders were mirroring their pace. Eric’s call about the two run-ins with attackers made it clear that these tails would attempt to succeed where their colleagues had failed.

In this case, Linc thought the best defense was a good offense.

He voice-dialed Eddie. Both of them were equipped with cell phone earbuds under their helmets. Linc related the situation from Eric.

“That’s what they get for underestimating Linda,” Eddie said.