Typhoon Fury (Oregon Files 12)

MANILA

Locsin writhed in agony, chained to a bed in a prison infirmary. He begged for death that wouldn’t come.

The doctors tried to pump him full of morphine and sedatives to ease his suffering, but nothing worked on his now skeletal body, his muscles atrophied beyond recognition. The medical staff didn’t know how long he’d survive, but they told him it wouldn’t be long. His body was literally consuming itself.

The dozen Special Action Force soldiers outside his room in full riot gear were woefully unnecessary. Locsin was in no condition to get out of bed, let alone make an escape, and this time no one was coming to spring him from captivity.

The pain was so unbearable that he went in and out of hallucinations. One minute he was thrashing against his shackles and screaming in a sweat-soaked bed, the next he was back in the cavern switching out the cardboard pieces holding the dried orchid with a fake using a flower he made Dolap acquire for him in Bacolod.

He could picture Tagaan’s face when he realized he’d been duped, that Locsin had hidden away the real name of the flower in a safe place so that only he knew where it was. Locsin had been right to do it, too. His right-hand man had betrayed him.

He’d heard that Tagaan had been killed in a mysterious explosion that consumed the entire supply of Typhoon. But he felt no satisfaction in that knowledge. He felt only envy at Tagaan’s quick death.

As his mind returned to the horror of the hospital bed, he realized there was something else besides the excruciating pain and overwhelming envy. There was hatred of Juan Cabrillo for putting him here. No, not hatred.

Fury.

GUAM

Beth’s jaw dropped open as Juan wheeled her into the Oregon’s dining room. Virtually every table had been transformed into a display with a painting lying atop it. Even the eagle finial that had started the whole thing was there.

“This is the last time all of these paintings will be in one place,” Juan said, “so I thought you’d want to take one last look at them before we return them to their rightful owners. Sorry we couldn’t bring the Manet you recovered in Bangkok. The Gardner Museum has it under lock and key in Thailand until it goes back to the U.S. They’re ecstatic that you found their stolen art, as are the other museums. The discovery has made worldwide news.”

Beth wiped the tears streaming down her cheeks. All of these magnificent masterworks had been thought to be gone forever and now they’d be preserved for future generations. She felt an enormous sense of pride for having a part in their retrieval.

She took her time appreciating each and every one until she got to the last. Then she realized there were only fifteen.

“Where’s the Picasso?”

Juan went over to a rectangular object draped with a cloth. He carried it to her and removed the cloth with a flourish.

It was the Picasso, set into an elegant gold frame.

“This belongs to the Corporation now,” Juan said. “We made a generous offer to the insurance company that paid off the owner and they gladly accepted. Maurice thought it would look good in here. Would you like to hang it?”

“I’d be honored.”

He gave her the small oil painting and she checked out the stellar framing job. She turned it over and gasped when she saw that the back had been marred by writing that looked like it had been done with a Sharpie.

It was a crude drawing of a flower along with the words Cephalantheropsis inviolabilem. Beth recognized it as scientific plant name. The first word was the Latin for the flower genus. The second was the species. The word meant invulnerable.

“This wasn’t here when I first inspected the painting,” she said. “Believe me, I would have seen it.”

Juan nodded. “I think Locsin wrote it there for safekeeping. Can it be removed?”

“Not without risking damage to the canvas.”

“That’s what I thought. Since it’s not visible from the front, we’ll leave it as is.”

He helped her secure it to the wall fasteners that had already been installed. She had to admit it did look beautiful there.

Juan put his hand on her shoulder and said, “It’s done.”

Beth knew what he really meant. The hateful drug was finally gone for good. As long as the Picasso stayed on that wall, no one would ever again see the name of the flower used to make Typhoon.

And she believed him. From what Beth had seen, there was no better place on earth to keep a secret than the Oregon.