Shadow Tyrants (Oregon Files 13)

The reply came quickly. I suspected something was wrong. I noticed that you’ve stopped. I was about to contact you to find out why.

Rasul’s boss was monitoring their position using GPS. The Global Positioning System could pinpoint the location of any ship equipped with a transponder.

A ship intercepted and boarded us.

Military?

Civilian. Freighter called the Goreno.

They might know the nerve agent is on board.

Should we launch now?

There was a pause. Only when you’re out of range.

Then the mission is aborted? He already knew that his brother had succeeded in his mission, but Rasul’s operation was just as important to the cause.

After another pause, No. I may be able to change the target and still accomplish our goals.

What are my orders? Rasul texted.

Can you still use the nerve agent to carry out the mission as designed?

There was only one device. He looked at the cylinder. To contaminate both ships, he’d need to shower them with the toxic nerve agent instead of planting the dispersal unit next to the Triton Star’s air handling intake as he’d been planning to do to wipe out the crew.

But there was no way to get the dispersal unit high enough . . .

Then Rasul remembered his sea rescue training. The Triton Star had a means for him to shoot the nerve agent into the air.

There is a way, Rasul replied.

Good. I’ll know in an hour whether we need to proceed as planned. If we do, you’ll activate the launch sequence. Let me know when you have completed the mission and I’ll send the yacht to rendezvous with you.

Understood.

Remember, we can’t let them see you get away, came the response. You have what you need to kill them all.

FIVE

Juan Cabrillo emerged onto the Triton Star’s bridge from the captain’s office a new man. Gone were the baggy clothes disguising his athletic frame and the makeup giving him the gaunt appearance of a shipwreck survivor. He was now freshly shaved and wearing a light polo shirt and black cargo pants that had been stowed in the lifeboat. The

only features he still had in common with his pirate alter ego, Eduardo Barbanegra, were the blond hair, blue eyes, and prosthetic right leg, a replacement required after he lost his real one below the knee in a battle with a Chinese destroyer years ago.

Juan was proud of how smoothly his team had pulled off the operation to take the Triton Star, especially because the CIA had given them the assignment just two days before. Though she was temporarily called the Goreno for this mission, his ship’s real name was the Oregon. They had been resupplying in the Maldives when they got the call and raced across the Indian Ocean to get into position to intercept the Triton Star. Not only were they in the right place at the right time to get the job, they were the only elite team in the world who could have done it.

As a native Californian who’d practically grown up on the beach, Juan had always been fascinated by the ocean, and his brainchild was the Oregon, a spy ship that could go unnoticed, ignored, even actively shunned, anywhere in the world. In his former position as a top CIA field operative, he had seen the need for an organization that could function outside the stifling U.S. government bureaucracy. He left to form the Corporation, a private firm that took on missions the agency couldn’t carry out itself, either because of the lack of capability or to provide plausible deniability should an operation go badly. Although his crew of elite military veterans and former CIA agents were well compensated for their work, the jobs were highly risky, and the Oregon had lost people along the way. The Corporation also did jobs for companies and foreign governments, from protecting oil platforms in dangerous waters to recovering kidnapped VIPs, but they weren’t mercenaries in the traditional sense. Everyone on the Oregon was an American patriot, and, as the Corporation’s Chairman, Juan made sure they restricted themselves to missions that were in the interests of the United States. The hijacking of the Triton Star definitely qualified.

The only other person on the bridge was Eric Stone, the Oregon’s skilled helmsman. A former Navy officer and certified genius who’d served in technology development during his service, he was one of the ship’s youngest crew members. With soft brown eyes and a gentle demeanor, he was a consummate computer nerd: an avid gamer who was notoriously shy with women. Buttoned-down and meticulous in his work, he would normally be dressed in his usual black-framed glasses, a blue oxford shirt, and chinos. But as one of the crew “rescued” by the Triton Star, he was still dressed in torn jeans and a soiled T-shirt.

Juan smiled at him. “You planning to stick with the hobo look?”

“Sorry, Chairman,” Eric replied as he adjusted his glasses and looked down at his clothes with a grimace. “I haven’t had time to change.”

“Don’t wait too long. You might get used to the look.”

“I seriously doubt that. But I wanted to get a look at their manifest first.”

Juan joined him at the bridge’s computer terminal. The screen was filled with rows of data. “Anything useful?”