The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

O’Connor checked his wind gauge and the binoculars’ laser range finder. “Wind is three knots due east. Distance to target is 1,085 meters.”

Sirkal adjusted the scope to compensate for the conditions and distance. “Ready.”

“Starting the timer.” O’Connor’s phone beeped.

Sirkal let out his breath, waited for the lull between his heartbeats, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle butt slammed against his shoulder, and the gun fired with an ear-shattering roar. His earplugs were the only thing preventing permanent hearing impairment.

“Dead on target,” O’Connor said. “Oil is spewing from the transformer.”

Sirkal adjusted the Barrett to the next transformer and fired again. He got into a rhythm, stopping only to slap in another magazine. By the time he was done, all twenty-five transformers were leaking critical coolant. Eventually, they’d overheat and have to be shut down.

He wasn’t going to wait for that to happen.

“Time?” Sirkal asked.

“Five minutes left.”

“Then let’s give the oil time to pool,” Sirkal said, his voice betraying some of the enjoyment he felt at a job well done.

“That’s some good shooting,” O’Connor said. “The farthest shot I’ve ever made is a thousand yards. It was a moving target, but still . . . Looks like you’ve got some experience with this.”

“Fifteen kills on special operations in Kashmir.”

“Nice.” O’Connor raised the binoculars again. “We’ve got a long pool from one end of the substation to the other, and oil is still flowing.”

“Now you will see a real roman candle,” Sirkal said.

This time, he targeted the junction box on the centermost transformer.

He fired. Instead of simply putting another hole in the equipment, the .50 caliber round tore through the transformer’s main hub

and shorted it out instantaneously. The sudden overload caused a detonation, sending sparks shooting across the facility.

The pooled oil went up in flames. As soon as the fire hit the tanks in the other transformers, they blew apart in a chain reaction like exploding dominos.

In seconds, the entire substation was a fireball visible for miles.

O’Connor checked the timer. “We need to go.”

Sirkal stood and picked up the rifle. He and O’Connor collected the shell casings and covered up their impressions in the ground to clear the scene of any evidence.

O’Connor made a move to go back to the car, but Sirkal held up his hand to wait. It took only a few more seconds to see what he was waiting for.

The high-powered lights surrounding the substation winked out, followed in close succession by the streetlights, and then the lights of the houses and towns in the distance. In a matter of moments, the glow in the sky above Frankfurt was virtually extinguished. Except for the fire and the headlights on the autobahn, the night was pitch-black, likely for the first time since World War II.

One additional light source intruded on the perfect darkness. Blue and red lights flashed as police cars and fire engines raced to the substation.

“Now it’s time to go,” Sirkal said, and they disappeared into the forest.

TWENTY-EIGHT

MALTA

In the waiting area outside the harbormaster’s office, Linda Ross watched the bustling activity of cranes off-loading containers from three giant ships. Even at six in the morning, Manwel Alessi made her and Eric Stone cool their heels while he took care of port matters.

Under the guise of the fake IDs they’d used in Monaco, she had explained that they were insurance investigators looking into the theft at the museum warehouse. Alessi had readily agreed to meet with them, as curious about the normally tranquil island’s unusual events as he was eager to assist the investigation.

He swung the door open and waved them inside. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” He was a trim man in his fifties, wearing horn-rimmed glasses.