The Silent Sea (Oregon Files 7)

“I do. And it’s none of your business.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched for several seconds. This was not the feel-good moment Juan had been hoping for. There was nothing about James Ronish’s reaction that was going to cosmically balance what had happened to Jerry Pulaski.

“Well, Mr. Ronish”—Juan held out the bundle they’d taken from the downed blimp—“we found this in the wreckage and thought it may be important. We just wanted to give it to you and maybe bring you a little closure over your brothers’ fate.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Ronish said, anger tightened the wrinkles around his eyes. “If it weren’t for those three, Don would still be alive, and I wouldn’t have had damned-fool ideas about romance and adventure when I volunteered for Korea. Do you know what it’s like to have the Chinese blow your leg off?”

“Actually—”

“Get out!” he snapped.

“No. Seriously.” Juan stooped to raise his jeans’ cuff and lower his sock. This prosthetic leg was covered with flesh-colored plastic that still looked artificial under the uncertain light.

James Ronish lost some of his anger. “Well, I’ll be. A fellow peg leg. What happened?”

“Blown off by a Chinese gunboat during the reckless days of my youth.”

“You don’t say. Well, there’s irony for you. Can I get you boys a beer?”

Before they could reply, the screen door outside squeaked open and someone knocked.

Cabrillo looked over to Max, concern etched on his face. He hadn’t heard anyone drive up, but with the rain thundering against the house it was possible he missed it. And what were the odds an old curmudgeon like Jim Ronish getting two visitors on the same evening?

Then he told himself to relax. This wasn’t a mission. They were just giving some information to a harmless old man living out in the middle of nowhere. Max had been right. Juan did need a little time off.

“Damn. Now what?” Ronish grumbled. He reached for the doorknob.

Juan’s instincts went into overdrive. Something was very wrong. Before he could stop him, Ronish had the door open. A man stood out in the rain, his wet face shining in the light over the front door.

Both the man and Cabrillo recognized each other instantly, and while one spent a critical microsecond considering the implications, the other reacted.

Juan was grateful he was carrying a Glock. They didn’t have safeties to slow him down. He whipped the pistol from the holster under his windbreaker and fired around Jim Ronish’s shoulder. The bullet hit the frame, gouging out a sizable chunk of wood.

The Argentine Major who Cabrillo had talked his way past at the logging camp jumped from view. The automatic’s report had been concussive in the foyer, but Juan could hear voices outside. The Major wasn’t alone.

Cabrillo ignored his mind’s desire to understand what had just happened. He leapt forward and slammed the door closed. The lock was about the cheapest made and yet he threw it anyway. Every second could count.

Max tackled a stunned James Ronish so that they hit the floor together, Hanley’s arm over the older man’s back. Cabrillo ducked through into the kitchen, found the light switch, and flicked it off. He then padded into the living room and simply knocked the floor lamp onto its side. The dim bulb went out with a pop. Next, he snapped off the television, plunging the old house into complete darkness.

“What’s going on?” Ronish wailed.

“More of my reckless youth coming back to haunt me,” Cabrillo muttered, and flipped over a moth-eaten couch for additional cover.

Seconds ticked by. Max helped Ronish over to Juan’s makeshift redoubt.

“How many?”

“At least two,” Juan said. “The one at the door is an officer of the Ninth Brigade.”

“I figured since you shot at him that he wasn’t selling Avon.” The front picture window exploded under a murderous onslaught of gunfire. Glass rained on the men as they cowered behind the sofa. The house’s thin walls didn’t slow the high-powered rounds, so smoking holes appeared in the wallboard. The bullets passed through the living room, and probably didn’t stop until they hit trees in Ronish’s backyard.

“Those are rifles,” Max said. He had his pistol out now but looked at it dubiously. Judging by the rate of fire screaming overhead, they weren’t just outgunned, they were outmanned as well.

“Do you have any weapons?” Juan asked.

To his credit, the old man answered quickly, “Yeah. I got a .357 in my bedside table and a 30.06 in the closet. The rifle’s empty, but the ammo’s on the top shelf under a bunch of baseball caps. Last door on the left.”

Before Cabrillo could retrieve the guns, an Argentine round slammed into one of the oxygen tanks Ronish kept for when he ran errands. The bullet blew through the tough steel skin and fortunately the oxygen didn’t explode, but the twenty-pound bottle took off like a rocket. It crashed into the dining-room table, snapping a leg and sending it crashing under the weight of old magazines.