Typhoon Fury (Oregon Files 12)

hackled to them.

The man looked up at Locsin with false hope. It was Stanley Alonzo. The bureaucrat had grown a conscience and betrayed Locsin to the police.

Just a week ago, Alonzo had looked like a bodybuilder, the epitome of health. Now he was little more than skin and bones.

Alonzo had made the mistake of thinking that when his supply of Typhoon ran out, he would simply revert to his previous tubby form. But as with many other drugs, Typhoon’s addictive properties meant that the lows were even worse than the highs. A week after taking the first pill, the user was addicted for life. Locsin had found that out when one of his men was arrested and couldn’t get his supply of Typhoon in jail. Racked by the agony and severe muscle deterioration caused by withdrawal, he died within a week. The perplexed medical examiner, noting that the man’s body literally consumed itself, chalked his death up to a non-contagious autoimmune disease. Locsin himself had avoided a similar fate when his men made the bold rescue from the prison ship.

He leaned down to Alonzo. “I told you that traitors would be dealt with severely. I lost six men in my prison escape because of you.”

Alonzo grabbed his pant leg. “Please,” he rasped, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m begging you. I need Typhoon. Just one pill. I’ll do anything you want.”

Locsin yanked his leg away. “You’re already doing it.”

As he and Tagaan walked away from Alonzo’s pitiful cries, Locsin vowed that he would not go out that way if they couldn’t regenerate their supply of Typhoon. He’d rather eat a bullet.

15

GUAM

With the NSA supercomputer removed from the Oregon and loaded back onto the C-5 for its return trip to Fort Meade, Juan finally had time to meet with Beth Anders and Raven Malloy. He chose one of his favorite bars on the island, a dim little pub called Abandon Ship. Most of the evening’s patrons were American sailors and airmen from the military bases that dominated the U.S. territory’s economy. A live band pounded out covers of classic rock songs by Lynyrd Skynyrd and The Eagles, so their conversation would stay private.

As they waited for the two women to arrive, Max Hanley dug into a plate of nachos while Juan nursed a tumbler of scotch.

“Do not tell Doc Huxley that I am eating this,” Max said as he crammed a chip laden with guacamole and cheese into his mouth. He chased it with a bottle of Budweiser. “You wouldn’t believe how few calories I’m allowed to have on the diet she put me on. She’s even got Chef in on it. This is the only chance I’ve had for some real food in two weeks.”

“I don’t think Julia will believe the bar sells wheatgrass smoothies and low-salt quinoa.”

“If she asks, tell her I had a glass of club soda and some carrot sticks.”

“It’s the scale you better be worried about tattling, not me.”

Max patted his stomach, which strained against his belt. “Hey, this isn’t bad for a guy my age. I’d like to see what you look like in another thirty years.” Max may have put on ten or fifteen pounds since his days in the Navy and wasn’t going to qualify for a 5K run anytime soon, but he could still handle himself in a fight and was reasonably fit for a guy in his sixties. Though Hux hounded Max about his nutrition, Juan figured his friend deserved a pipe and a bowl of ice cream when he felt like it.

“Julia just wants to make sure you’re around when you’re eighty,” Juan said.

Max snorted. “Maybe my ex is paying her off, so she can keep those alimony payments coming.”

On several occasions, Mark Murphy had accused Max and Juan of bantering like an old married couple. The two of them had been together since the Corporation was formed, even before the Oregon was purchased and refitted to its current state. Juan not only counted on his number two to keep the company and ship running smoothly but also confided in him more than anyone else.

Both of them were single and considered the Oregon their permanent home, and they shared an easy friendship because of it. Most of the crew knew about Max’s ex-wife, primarily because of his frequent comments about her, but few besides Max had heard about how Juan had become a widower, that his alcoholic wife had died in a single-car crash while intoxicated, despite his repeated attempts to get her help. The guilt for not being able to save her from herself ached more than the phantom pain where his right leg ended.

The stinging memory brought to mind the thought of another more recent loss to the Oregon family.

“Mike Trono sure would have enjoyed that operation in Vietnam, don’t you think?”

Max nodded with a melancholy smile at the mention of the shore operations gundog and former Air Force pararescue jumper who’d died on a mission not long ago. “He was always a sucker for the adrenaline rush. I miss the guy.”

“Me too.”

They were both quiet for a moment as they remembered their lost crewmate and friend.

“I know it’s tough to move on,” Max said, “but have you thought any more about bringing in a new crew member? I can send out feelers to the special forces community whenever we’re ready.”

Juan took another sip of his scotch. He always hated the process of replacing a lost crew member, but he supposed it was time.

“Sure,” he sighed. “Why don’t you get started. And I’ll see if there are any candidates coming out of the CIA.”

The bar door opened, and Beth’s scarlet hair glowed from the setting sun behind it. She spotted Juan immediately and came over to the table, giving Juan and Max hugs before she took a seat.