The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

Juan had his MP5 up to his shoulder as soon as he crossed the threshold. The four of them entered so fast that the three men sitting at a card table barely had time to look up and stare into the deadly end of three submachine guns and a crossbow. The guards were confused momentarily, perhaps thinking it was a joke by their fellow mafiosi. All three were lanky, sported greasy slicked-back hair and five o’clock shadows, and wore dark T-shirts under leather jackets. They didn’t move.

Gretchen closed the door behind them. The sparsely furnished room held little more than the table, four wooden chairs, and a coffeepot on an end table. Two

bare bulbs hung overhead. The table was littered with coffee cups, playing cards, and euro bills.

“You speak English?” Juan asked.

Two of them looked at the third guard, who had a dusting of gray in his stubble. That had to be the senior guard. He shook his head slowly, a glint of malice in his eyes.

“No English,” he replied.

“That’s okay,” Juan said. “We’ll use Albanian.”

Murph took out a mini-tablet and spoke into it. “Raise your hands.” The tablet instantly interpreted and spoke in a mechanical Albanian dialect. The three guards obviously understood because their hands went up in the air.

Juan pointed at the leader. “Tell him to very slowly remove that Glock under his left armpit with his left hand, butt first. Keep an eye on him, MacD.”

“Ah ain’t blinkin’,” MacD replied.

The tablet translated and the lead guard nodded. He moved his left hand as ordered and reached into his jacket. He withdrew the Glock with two fingers.

Then he did something stupid.

He flipped the semiautomatic pistol around in his hand in a lightning-quick maneuver. Too bad for him, MacD was faster.

The crossbow bolt went through the guard’s eye before he could bring the pistol all the way around to fire. His brain snapped off so suddenly that the pistol flew out of his hand as it was coming around and smacked into the wall. The guard teetered forward and slammed into the table, where he lay motionless. The end of the crossbow bolt protruding from his skull knocked a few of the bills off the table and they fluttered to the floor.

His companions hadn’t taken his cue and still had their hands in the air. They gawked at the dead man until Murph repeated the command to remove their guns slowly.

MacD nonchalantly reloaded his crossbow while the other guards followed the translated commands to the letter and offered no resistance. In three minutes, they were gagged and hog-tied on the floor. A search of the guards produced a ring of keys from the dead one’s pocket.

The drone surveillance hadn’t shown any more guards enter or leave the building, but they couldn’t be sure, so Juan took up the same stance at the only other door in the room. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He quietly inserted keys until he found one that fit.

Juan pushed the door open and saw a dank, empty hallway running the length of the building. Doors, each with a small barred opening set into it at eye level, were spaced at regular intervals on either side.

It looked like a prison.

While MacD stayed in the anteroom to guard the front door, Juan, Gretchen, and Murph checked the rooms. Juan went to the first door and peered through its barred portal. Sitting on a cot was Erion Kula—Whyvern—staring back at him. The room was bare except for a cot, a bucket, and a tray with a plate licked clean. No computer equipment at all. Kula stood and backed up when he realized it wasn’t the guard he’d been expecting.

He said something in Albanian.

“I know you speak English,” Juan said.

Kula gave him a confused look. “Who are you?” His accent was thick, but his diction was perfect.

“I’m here to find out what you did with our money.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think you do.”

Juan found the key for Kula’s door and was about to open it when Murph, who was two doors down, said, “I found the computer room. Two of the latest Lenovo desktops. Four twenty-five-inch monitors. High-speed Ethernet cables. A couple of printers. Another chair behind the workstation. Looks like he was observed while he worked.”

“This is about Credit Condamine, isn’t it?” Kula said.

“I knew you could help us,” Juan said with a sardonic grin.

“No, no! You have to get me out of here. Simaku knows you’re coming!”