The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

Zakharin’s stomach rumbled. Perhaps a midnight snack was what he needed to get back to sleep. That and a couple of shots of vodka.

He threw off the damp sheets and pushed himself out of bed. After donning a silk robe, he padded barefoot down the moonlit hall on the newly installed marble tile.

He was halfway to the kitchen when his foot slipped on a dark puddle. He backed up, wiping his sole on the tile to dry it. He thought his remodeled villa had already sprung a leak until he realized that the liquid was warm and sticky. Then the coppery tang hit his nostrils.

It was a puddle of blood.

Terror gripped him. He squinted to see in the faint light and could barely make out the body of a dead guard, lying in the front foyer of the house. His throat was slit.

Zakharin’s heart raced at the realization that he had an intruder. The perspiration that had awakened him came back even stronger.

He stopped himself from yelling for help or from turning on any lights. If the intruder—possibly, several of them—had already gotten past the guards outside, the rest of Zakharin’s men might also be dead. He’d only be telling his enemy where he was. The intruder might think he was still asleep in bed. His nightmare possibly saved his life.

Without him knowing what was going on outside, making a run for it was risky. The police were his best option in this situation.

He made his way cautiously to the nearest landline phone in his den and picked it up. No dial tone. The intruders must have cut the wires.

Zakharin’s mobile phone was back in the bedroom, but that would be the last place he could go now. He needed another one. He crept back to the foyer, avoiding the spreading pool of blood, and searched the dead guard’s pockets.

He found the guard’s phone in his coat pocket. With trembling fingers, he pressed the button to unlock it, but the passcode was set. However, there was an emergency dial feature. He swiped, brought up the numeric keypad, and dialed 112, the European emergency number.

Instead of connecting Zakharin with the police, the phone displayed a screen that read No signal. The mobile service had always been so reliable in this area that Zakharin hadn’t even thought to check. But there it was. No bars.

The intruders had to be using a cell phone jamming device, which confirmed that he wasn’t dealing with an ordinary burglar.

Two doors down was the security room. Zakharin pressed himself against the wall and inched toward it, paying attention for any sound that would indicate he was being stalked. He made it safely to the room and ducked inside, closing the door behind him.

The guard here was dead, too. He was still in his chair, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

Zakharin rolled the chair aside and peered at the six monitors that showed the exterior of the house.

Two more guards were dead on the lawn at the front of the house. The front gate was closed. There was no sign of anyone guarding the lone exit. Situated on a peninsula, the estate was protected on three sides by high cliffs.

There was only one way to escape. If he could make it to the garage, he could take the Mercedes G-Wagen and ram through the gate even if the electronics had been disabled. He knew exactly where he’d left the keys in the kitchen.

The security guard’s pistol was still in its shoulder holster. Zakharin took it.

With a little more courage that the firearm gave him, he went back out into the hall and continued on the path toward the kitchen, keeping the gun in front of him.

He had reached the living room when a voice to his left startled him.

“Where are you going, Admiral?” the man asked in Russian.

Zakharin whipped around to fire, but an arm behind him came down on his wrist with immense force and knocked the pistol from his hand. Zakharin collapsed to his knees and held his wrist in agony. He tried to move his fingers, but all that did was send a shock of pain up his arm.

“Bring him over here,” the voice said.

The same hand that shattered his wrist squeezed his biceps and pulled him to his feet. The living room lights snapped on. The man holding him up was a huge Indian man, who dragged him to one of his handpicked antique Rococo chairs and tossed him into it as easily as a child would a stuffed toy.

Zakharin looked up at the man sitting on his sofa. He was much shorter than the Indian, with thinning, close-cropped hair and a scar on the left side of his neck. A red-haired man with the hardened eyes of a soldier stood behind him with an amused grin. A submachine gun with an attached sound suppressor hung from the soldier’s shoulder.

“Who are you?” Zakharin asked through gritted teeth.

“I’m a navy man, just like you,” the seated man said.

He recognized the Ukrainian accent. “Kiev?”

“Very good. Of course, you know that your navy has decimated my country’s navy.”