The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

Juan peeked into the tiny gatehouse and confirmed that it was empty.

“Odd that it’s unmanned,” Gretchen said.

They tried the door the Indian used, but it was locked tight.

“Come on,” Juan said. “Let’s see if there’s another way in.”

They went around the side of the warehouse and found the loading dock door open. Next to it was a truck that had been backed up to it. No one was in sight.

Juan glanced at Gretchen. “We should have seen some guards by now.”

They crept through the opening and took a moment to let their eyes adjust to the darkened interior of the warehouse. Deep shadows ruled where the few active lights couldn’t reach in the cavernous space.

“This place is huge,” Gretchen whispered. “How are we going to find them?”

“We find the diary, we find them.”

The warehouse was packed with rows of crates, items covered with canvas, and exposed pieces. The row they were in seemed to hold items dating from the sixteenth to nineteenth century, including an iron anchor from a galleon that had sailed with the Spanish Armada and a ship’s bell from Captain Cook’s Endeavour. Most of the items were marked with serial numbers, but Juan couldn’t make sense of the cataloging layout. He motioned for them to keep looking.

Gretchen stopped him when they were halfway down the aisle. She pointed at a silver placard mounted on a gray metal case. It read Lot LXXII. The placard listed it as a scimitar taken by Napoleon during his Egyptian campaign.

“At least the auction items are marked,” Juan said.

“Yes, but they don’t seem to be stored in any particular order.” She pointed farther down the row. “See? There’s another one.”

They walked down the aisle and saw it was marked as Lot XLI.

“Any hunches where they put Lot Sixteen?” Juan asked.

“No. Maybe we should split up and—”

Voices ahead of them interrupted her. They crouched down behind a crate and peered over it. Flashlights bobbed as the voices approached, accompanied by the sound of wheels rolling along the concrete floor. When the group passed through the beam of an overhead light, Juan could see a man being propelled forward by four heavily armed thugs who reminded him of Nazari’s terrorist cell. One of them was pushing a dolly.

“Now, who are these people?” Gretchen whispered. “Are they with Golov, too?”

“Can’t tell,” Juan replied. “They definitely aren’t museum guards. Whoever’s in charge of security here should be fired. It’s like we’re attending a convention for bad guys.”

“Let’s hope they don’t check for our invitations.”

Juan drew his Glock. Gretchen took hers out as well. They threaded the sound suppressors onto them.

The group turned the corner, and Juan and Gretchen followed behind them. At the next intersection, Juan peered around a crate, careful to stay in the shadows. The gunmen and their hostage turned down an aisle and out of sight. There was no sign of the Indian or the redhead.

“Here’s another one,” Gretchen said behind him. “But I can’t read the placard. It’s too dark.”

Juan checked around them. “We’re clear for the moment. Shade your cell phone light.”

Twenty feet away, a pair of glass-walled water tanks reflected her light. Each of the tanks was the size of a small truck. One held various treasures on porcelain racks like a giant dishwasher. In the second tank, suspended by slings, were two large iron cannons that looked like they were in the process of being treated with distilled water to remove corrosion after centuries on the ocean floor.

“Not what we’re looking for,” Gretchen said in frustration.

“Let’s move quickly. I’m not a fan of crowds.”

With their pistols at the ready, they moved to the next aisle.

“Can you see where those men went?”

“Down and to the right. So we’ll keep left.”