Sacred Stone (Oregon Files 2)

“Got it, boss,” the pilot said.

Scribbling the extra line on the note with a felt-tip pen, he angled down between the power lines and passed directly over Cabrillo in the MG at a height of ten feet.

“WHAT THE…” CABRILLO said as the rear of the amphibious plane appeared in his windshield.

The pilot wagged the wings then accelerated ahead and made a sweeping turn to make another pass. As soon as Cabrillo saw the side of the plane in the turn he recognized it as the Corporation’s and pulled to the side of the road.

Lowering the convertible top, Cabrillo craned his neck around and stared up at the sky. The amphibian was back down the road and coming in low and slow. Once it had almost reached him, Cabrillo saw a tube fly out of the window and bounce on the pavement.

The thermos cartwheeled along until it came to a stop ten feet in front of the MG.

Cabrillo jumped out and raced forward.

“SEAPLANE 8746,” EDINBURGH air control reported, “be alert for a helicopter in your immediate area.”

The pilot of the Corporation’s amphibian was pulling out of his steep climbing turn and took a second to answer.

“Tower, seaplane 8746, helicopter in area,” the pilot said, “please report make.”

“Seaplane 8746, make is a Robinson R-44.”

“Seaplane 8746, I have a visual.”

“THE BRITS HAVE the van surrounded,” Overholt said to Hanley.

“I think they switched the meteorite onto the train to London,” Hanley reported.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Overholt said in exasperation. “I’ll need to call the head of MI5 and report. What train?”

“We’re not positive yet, but the next train leaving is for London,” Hanley said.

“I’ll call you back,” Overholt said, slamming down the phone.

But a few seconds later another call reached Overholt—and this one was from the president.

THE PILOT OF the amphibian raised Adams on the radio. “Follow me and I’ll lead you right to him.”

“Fly on,” Adams said.

Angling around in a turn, the amphibian lined up over the road and started another pass. The Robinson came in on his tail.

“There,” Shea shouted as his MG came into view.

Adams glanced down. Cabrillo was in front of the old car, walking back.

Adams set the Robinson down in a field across the street, leaving the engine idling. Cabrillo raced over with a thermos and his satellite telephone tucked under his arms. Opening the passenger door, he placed the two items in the back. Shea was fumbling with the seat belt. Cabrillo unfastened it and helped him out.

“The keys are in your car,” he shouted over the noise from the engine and rotor blade, “we’ll be in contact soon to pay you for the rental.”

Then he slid into the passenger seat of the Robinson and closed the door. Shea ducked down and walked out from under the helicopter blade. Once he was clear he crossed the road and approached his treasured MG. He started inspecting the vehicle as Adams lifted off. Other than a nearly empty tank the car appeared fine.

Adams was 150 feet in the air before Cabrillo spoke.

“My phone is dead,” he said over the headset.

“So we gathered,” Adams said. “We think they moved the meteorite onto the train.”

“So this message is unnecessary,” Cabrillo said, ripping off the paper taped to the thermos.