Typhoon Fury (Oregon Files 12)

Beth felt a charge of fear race down her spine, nearly causing her to shiver in disgust. She remembered now that the pills she’d taken had a cyclone symbol on them. They weren’t given to calm her down. It was the Typhoon drug that Dr. Ocampo had told them about.

Beth normally avoided pharmaceuticals whenever possible, even taking aspirin only when she absolutely had to. And now she was their lab rat. She was terrified about what continued use of the drug might do to her, but what was her alternative? She believed the guard when he said he’d kill her if she didn’t take it. Tagaan wouldn’t be any more lenient.

She had to escape somehow.

“I have to go to the manufacturing building,” Tagaan said. “But I’ll be back later to take her to the paintings. Make sure she’s fed again before then.”

Fed. Like an animal.

Then the word paintings hit her. Plural. Now she felt a thrill at the implication. Was she going to see the missing Gardner paintings? That was definitely a reason to stay alive.

The door closed. She opened her eyes and saw that the tray was gone.

She stood and found her legs to be a bit wobbly. Escape would have to come later. For now, she could at least get a peek at what her surroundings were outside to help plan how she might get away.

She went to the window, and her jaw dropped now that she had a better view outside.

From her vantage point, she could make out only a few squat buildings around a central plaza. But what caused her to gape was the view high above.

Water streamed down from a circular hole at least five hundred feet in the air, where the midday sun was shining through. Her heart sank as the idea of escape was snuffed out with the realization that there were several huge stalactites hanging from the limestone roof that extended so far that she could see no walls.

There was no outside for her to flee into. She was being held captive in a gigantic cavern.

43

BANTAYAN ISLAND ARCHIPELAGO

FIFTEEN MILES NORTHEAST OF NEGROS ISLAND

Gerhard Brekker sat in the driver’s seat of the yacht, one hand resting lazily on the wheel as he massaged his neck with the other. It still ached from the SUV wreck in Manila when he’d hit the air bag. Luckily, all of his men had made it out of the fire truck chase alive, but each of them was recovering from an array of cuts, sprains, and bruises.

The busy ferry and shipping lanes between Manila and Cebu were now five miles behind them, and a low uninhabited island lay dead ahead, far from the normal tourist dive sites. No wonder that the Pearsall hadn’t been discovered until now.

The sea was calm, but the weather reports forecast that Typhoon Hidalgo had a fifty percent chance of passing over this very spot in two days, so they’d have to make short work of their recovery and demolition operation. Since their negotiations with Locsin had fallen apart, Brekker had decided to investigate the wreck himself. If there was more of the drug on board, he’d take it and sell it to the highest bidder. If he couldn’t find any in the time he had, he’d wire the sunken destroyer to blow up and hold it for ransom after he reconnected with Locsin and told him where it was.

One of Brekker’s men rushed into the cockpit and said, “We’ve lost Alastair Lynch.”

Brekker whipped a

round and glared at the man who was supposed to be guarding Lynch’s door. He’d kept the Interpol official around in case he provided any other info about Locsin’s operations. So far, the only thing he’d given them was headaches from his periodic bouts of caterwauling during moments of consciousness.

“He escaped?” Brekker demanded.

“He’s dead.”

Brekker eased the throttle back to idle and went down to find the door wide open and two men milling around the cabin, looking at the body sprawled on the blood-soaked bed.

Brekker said, “What happened?”

The closer man shrugged. “Looks like his hand became so skinny that he was able to pull it out of the cuff. He found a pair of scissors in the drawer and slit his wrists with them. Guess we’re not getting our damage deposit back.”

Lynch’s corpse was a mere shadow of the brawny man they’d captured in Bangkok. His ropey muscles had atrophied, and his shirtless torso was so gaunt that Brekker could count the ribs. Lynch’s body had literally consumed itself. Even if he hadn’t committed suicide, he would have been dead in a day or two anyway. The pain must have been unbearable.

“Wrap him up in the sheet,” Brekker said.

“Same treatment we gave Polten and his friend?”

Brekker nodded. They’d disposed of the two American chemists’ bodies by weighting them down and dumping them overboard during the trip from Manila.