The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

MacD had never heard that amount of tension in the Chairman’s voice. It had to mean Trono was in bad shape. MacD’s grip tightened on the phone.

“Meet Tiny at the airport,” the Chairman said. “We’ll join you there if and when we can.”

“But I have—”

MacD had become distracted by the Chairman’s news and didn’t notice that Jablonski had edged over to the cache of weapons beside him and put his hand on the hilt of an antique sword. He had only a fraction of a second to react to Jablonski’s lightning-quick slash. The blade barely missed chopping MacD’s arm off, but it struck the SIG Sauer he was carrying, sending the pistol skidding along the floor.

He tumbled backward to avoid a lethal thrust aimed at his chest. He didn’t stand much of a chance in the small space of the vault without a weapon. He plucked the plastic explosive from atop the cannon, jabbing the detonator back into the block.

The timer was down to thirty seconds and he waved it in front of him so Jablonski could see. The mercenary halted his advance but stayed balanced on the balls of his feet.

“Drop that sword or we both die,” MacD said.

Jablonski sneered. “You don’t have the guts, man.”

“You’re wrong about that. What about you?”

Fifteen seconds left.

“After this, I’m dead anyway. So, I think I’ll call your bluff.”

Ten seconds.

“Fine,” MacD said. “Here you go.” He held out the block of explosives as if he were handing it over.

Five seconds.

Jablonski reached out to yank the detonator from the explosive, but MacD pulled the block of C-4 away at the last moment. He crammed it down the barrel of the ancient cannon, dropped to the floor, and covered his ears.

Jablonski was standing right in front of the cannon. The thick iron barrel focused the massive detonation just like the gunpowder that used to fire its shells.

The shock wave hurled Jablonski across the chamber. His smoking corpse came to rest atop the gilded Ivan the Great cross.

The concussion knocked the wind from MacD’s lungs. The ringing in his ears muffled the sound of his own footsteps as he got to his feet.

He retrieved his gun and phone. The cell’s screen had been shattered by the explosion.

MacD staggered up the stairs, still dazed not only by the blast but also by the news of Trono’s serious injury. And now he had no way to contact the Chairman for an update until he returned to the airport.

He eased open the cathedral’s side door to the approaching wail of police sirens. He stepped out and walked away as casually as he could past the police cars pulling up to the front of the cathedral. He tried to look like a curious tourist giving them space.

It was only by force of will that he made himself wait two blocks before taking off at a sprint to look for a cab that could get him back to the airport.

—

Gretchen had her full concentration on the road as she weaved around cars in the race against time toward Vilnius University Hospital. The siren and lights were doing their job getting people out of her way as she ran every red light, but several times she had to slow down for a semi that was too slow to get out of the way, unleashing a string of curses from her as she blasted the horn for them to move.

“We’re a mile out,” Juan said, trying to keep his voice calm. Trono’s breathing had become ragged. “How are you doing, Mike?”

“Getting . . . cold,” he rasped. “Got a blanket?”

“We’ll get you patched up in no time,” Linda said in her most soothing tone, but a quick glance at Juan betrayed her fear for Trono’s condition. Despite the pressure she was putting on his chest, she hadn’t been able to completely stop the flow of blood pouring from him.

“Not sure . . . I’ll make it . . . there.”

“Sure you will.”

“You better, mister,” Juan said. “We need you back at work.”