Shadow Tyrants (Oregon Files 13)

Gupta hung up, and Wakefield tossed his phone on the seat. He had barely slept since getting the news about the damaged Colossus. Luckily, the ship hadn’t been completely destroyed or they’d be years away from completing their journey to a better tomorrow. Now all they could do was race to repair the ship and get it operational.

He closed his eyes and tried to relax before he arrived at his next appointment. He must have nodded off, because he jolted awake when he was thrown against the back of the front seat. He always refused to wear a seat belt because it wrinkled his suit, but this was one time he wished he’d had it on. His nose crunched as it hit the partition, and blood cascaded down his chin.

The Maybach screeched to a halt.

“Get down!” his bodyguard yelled.

Hazy, confused, and covered with his own blood, Wakefield didn’t do as he was instructed. Instead, he watched the driver’s head get blown apart by a bullet that smashed through the supposedly bulletproof windshield. The man slumped over the steering wheel, pressing against the horn, which now blared nonstop.

His bodyguard dodged several of the armor-piercing rounds that neatly penetrated the windshield, but the bullets didn’t get through to Wakefield. They were stopped by the partition. The bodyguard got out and returned fire, but he was taken down immediately by three bullets that tore into his chest, tossing him around like a rag doll before he collapsed to the pavement.

Three men in black balaclavas approached the car. One of them was carrying a huge drill, the other two automatic weapons.

Panicked, Wakefield made sure the door was locked. He wasn’t a fighter and didn’t carry a gun, so he grabbed for his phone. However, it was no longer on the seat where he’d left it, and he dropped to the floor frantically searching for it.

By the time he found it, the man with the drill was grinding away at the door lock.

Wakefield dialed 000, Australia’s emergency number. “Come on, come on,” he muttered while it rang.

Outside, he could hear the men shouting at one another in some kind of Hindi dialect.

The phone clicked, and Wakefield heard someone say, “Ambulance Emergency. What town or suburb are we coming to?”

“I don’t know,” Wakefield said, trying to keep his voice calm. He knew this call would become public record at some point. “I’m in downtown Sydney somewhere. Men have shot my driver and bodyguard and are trying to break into my car.”

Wakefield could hear typing on a keyboard. “We have triangulated your location, sir, and police have been dispatched. What is your name?”

“It’s Jason—”

The door was wrenched open, and a powerful hand reached in and latched onto his arm. He was dragged out, and the phone was yanked from his hand. The masked gunman threw it to the street and stomped on it.

He looked like the man in charge because he tilted his head toward a white panel van and spoke in a commanding voice to the two men who were holding Wakefield.

Wakefield tried struggling against them, but the man in charge slapped him across the face. The impact hit his broken nose, and a shock of pain exploded through his head. He went limp as they dragged him down the street.

The masked leader pulled the van’s sliding door open. Wakefield knew he had to fight to stay out of there, having been trained in anti-kidnapping techniques, but he was spent and in agony. He could barely resist.

He was about to be thrown in when Wakefield heard a loud crack, and blood splashed across the van’s white exterior. At first, he thought they had shot him and he just couldn’t feel it because of shock.

Then he saw the wide eyes of the masked men’s leader. He had a huge hole in his chest.

As the gunman slumped to the ground, two more shots rang out, and his companions let go of their prisoner and fell.

Wakefield slowly rolled over, fully expecting to be shot as well. He saw another man coming toward him, this one in a suit almost as nice as his, with a pistol pointed at the ground. He bent down to check the three masked men.

When he stood back up, he said, “They’re dead.”

“Who are you?” Wakefield asked.

“Asad Torkan,” his savior said. “Romir Mallik asked me to keep an eye on you. For good reason, it turns out.”

“Mallik sent you?”

“He thinks there is a traitor amongst the Nine Unknown. Come with me. We need to get out of here in case they have backup.”

Torkan gave him a hand and a handkerchief, then guided Wakefield to a silver BMW. He helped Wakefield into the passenger seat. As soon as Torkan got in, he threw the car into gear and tore away as they heard sirens approaching.

Wakefield leaned his head back with the handkerchief against his aching nose. “Do you know who ordered my kidnapping?”