The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

Lars took another swallow of his akvavit and leaned his head back. “We’re sinking a lot of money into this venture. And you should be more worried about our necks than you seem to be.”

“I have seven men on our security force waiting for us when we arrive.”

“Good. Because if certain people found out what we’re looking for, they’d kill us in an instant.”

“The reward is worth the risk,” Oskar said, though there was a hint of doubt in his voice.

“I hope you’re right,” Lars said, and finished his drink.

The pilot announced over the intercom that they were ten minutes from landing.

—

Come on, David!” the coach yelled. “You can kick the ball better than that.”

David Kincaid, whose father had recently been transferred with his family to Gibraltar, knew he wasn’t making a good impression on his new teammates. David liked to blame his lack of focus on the distraction of having the secondary school football field abutting not only the bustling Gibraltar marina but also the runway for the territory’s international airport. But he knew putting his poor play on the blast of the jet engines and sounding of yacht horns was merely a

n excuse.

He moved to the back of the line to wait his turn for the next shot at the goal, determined to prove his worth and make striker on the team. He focused on the sky and imagined himself kicking the winning score.

Almost immediately, his concentration was broken by yet another plane coming in for a landing. All of his teammates were so used to the din that they paid it no attention. This was a small jet, one of those private planes that celebrities and rich people used. But there was something different about it.

One of its wings was glowing red. It grew brighter by the second, like an electric burner on a stove heating up.

To no one in particular, David said, “Hey, does that—” He stopped speaking when he saw what happened next.

The plane was a quarter mile from the end of the runway when its right wing burst into flames. Fire streamed from fuel gushing out of the tank. The plane yawed to its right, no longer aimed at the runway, and began to tumble out of control.

It was headed straight for them.

“Run!” David yelled, and pointed at the onrushing plane.

Curses and screams were drowned out as the jet’s twin engines were boosted to full throttle in a vain attempt by the pilot to regain altitude.

In a panic, David dashed toward the marina, running out onto the short dock and jumping into the water, as the plane passed overhead and exploded in a fireball, raining flaming debris all over the field where they had just been practicing. Fragments of white-hot metal fell into the water around David.

He surfaced to see blazing wreckage strewn across the football pitch. Certainly no one aboard could have survived such a horrific crash.

David swirled around in the water to see if any of his teammates had gotten the same idea. But he must have been the only one to seek refuge in the harbor. He couldn’t spot anyone else.

The only movement he could see was the smooth motion of an unusual-looking yacht cruising out of the harbor.

The name on its side read Achilles.

THIRTEEN

“Where are you from, Gretchen?” Linda asked over lunch.

“All over, actually,” Gretchen replied as she grazed on a grilled chicken salad. “Both my parents were in the foreign service, my mother as an interpreter and my father as a diplomat. I spent my childhood in Paris, Berlin, Moscow, Tel Aviv, and about a dozen other places.”

“One reason she’s fluent in so many foreign languages,” Juan said. “What are you up to, five?”

“Seven. French, Russian, German, Spanish, Italian, Greek, and Arabic.”

“Impressive,” Linda said. “The Chairman knows only three.”

“Except her Russian accent sounds like she was taught by Chekov on Star Trek,” Juan said.