The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

Juan started to correct her, to say it had just been a close shave, when he realized Linda wasn’t looking at him.

Juan whipped around and saw that the water had turned crimson with Trono’s blood. Trono gasped as he tried to stay afloat with only one good arm. His left arm was rendered useless by the gunshot wound in his chest.

Juan swam over and wrapped his arm around Trono to keep him from sinking.

“I dropped the line,” Trono sputtered.

“Don’t worry about that,” Juan said as he dragged Trono to the bank of the river so that Linda could grab his hand. “Hold on to him.”

“You’re going to be okay, Mike,” Linda said.

Juan scrambled out of the water and then pulled Trono out by his shoulders. The motion should have been agonizing, but the former pararescue jumper did little more than grunt.

Juan lay Trono down on the concrete, and Linda put pressure on the wound.

“We need to get him to a hospital,” she said. “I mean, right now.”

“I know,” Juan replied. “He’s losing blood fast. We can’t wait for an ambulance. We need to get him up to the police car.”

He was about to pick up Trono and carry him up the stairs when he saw the police car nose over the hill and skate down the slick grass. Gretchen expertly guided the car onto the concrete, stopping before it could tumble into the river. She jumped out and ran over to them.

“There’s a sloping cement pathway about a quarter mile from here where I can drive out,” she said. “I’ve already mapped the route to the hospital on my phone.”

They put Trono in the backseat with his head on Linda’s lap so she could keep applying pressure. Gretchen handed Juan her phone with the map instructions on it and put the car in gear. As she accelerated along the river, Juan hit the sirens and lights before twisting around to see Trono. His face was bone-white, but he was still conscious.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes, Mike,” Juan said. “Hang on.”

Trono looked up at Linda, who stroked his hair with one hand while the other stayed firmly against his chest. Despite the pressure, blood continued to ooze between her fingers.

“No hurry,” he croaked with a faint, lopsided grin. “This isn’t so bad.”

—

Is that all of them?” MacD asked Jablonski, the catacomb vault echoing with his words.

He kept his pistol trained on his captive and picked up the last of twenty blocks of plastic explosives that Jablonski and his friend had scattered throughout the vast Russian treasure. The countdown timer had less than two minutes left. The rest of the blocks were piled near the entrance, their detonators removed and timers disengaged.

“That’s it,” Jablonski said.

“Good,” MacD said, walking toward the entrance to the chamber and motioning for Jablonski to follow him. “Because if you’re lying, Ah will not appreciate it.”

“I guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”

“No, Ah won’t. We’re going back to the front to turn off all the lights. If Ah see the glow of another timer in the darkness, your pants will be on fire in more ways than one.”

When MacD got close to the entrance, his phone began to buzz insistently. It was only this close to the stairs that his phone could get a signal.

He put up a hand to Jablonski for him to stop. He pulled the detonator out of the explosive and set it down on one of the antique cannons, keeping his eye on the timer as it continued to count down.

The phone showed the Chairman’s number.

“MacD here.”

“Get out of there as soon as you can,” the Chairman said in a clipped voice, the tension in it palpable.

“What happened?”

“Mike’s been shot. We’re heading to the hospital. The police are going to be swarming around the church any minute now, so you need to leave.”