Final Option (Oregon Files 14)

“Jack Perry. Can I see the cargo?”

“You don’t waste time on chitchat, do you?” Knight asked with a laugh. “Come on, then.”

He led Perry to four shipping containers lined up on the Portland’s deck. Knight nodded to a crewman, who opened the first container. It was full of crates marked STELLENBOSCH PRECISION FLANGES.

“It’s all here just like you ordered,” Knight said, and handed Perry a crowbar. “See for yourself.”

“I will,” Perry replied. He climbed up and pried the top off one of the crates.

Inside, carefully packed in Styrofoam, were a dozen South African–made Vektor R5 assault rifles. He checked another crate and confirmed that it also held rifles.

He climbed down and had them open the next container. This one held Denel Y3 AGLs, Automatic Grenade Launchers.

The last two containers contained the other weapons that were promised.

“You got enough in there to start your own little war,” Knight said.

In fact, they were destined for Nicaraguan rebels who were going to use them in fighting the corrupt socialist government that was allowing the drug cartels to run wild.

“What they’ll be used for doesn’t concern you,” Perry said.

“Not at all. Not as long as we get paid what we’re owed.”

“Do you have somewhere we can complete the purchase?”

“My office should do nicely,” Knight said. He waved for Perry to follow

him into the superstructure.

The interior was even worse than the exterior. Cracked linoleum covered the floor, the walls were covered in grime, and the flickering fluorescent lights gave the corridor a sickly glow.

Knight limped slightly while he walked, and he coughed from exertion as they climbed a flight of stairs. Perry wondered who would be the first to go under, Knight or the Portland.

They walked into the captain’s office, and Perry was assaulted by a putrid stench that nearly knocked him over.

Knight noticed his expression and closed the door to the bathroom. “Gotta get that toilet fixed.” He gestured to the teetering metal chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

Perry perched on the edge of the chair. He’d have to toss his clothes overboard after he returned to the Mantícora.

Knight plopped himself into his seat and heaved his right leg up on the desk. He pulled the pant leg up to reveal a scuffed prosthetic limb grasping his leg just below the knee. He scratched at the edge of it and said with a grin, “I’ll find that white whale one of these days.”

“Captain Knight, can we conclude this transaction?” Perry asked. “We have a schedule to keep.”

“Of course. I’m only too happy to get paid.”

Perry took out his phone. “Please tell me the account number and I’ll have the money transferred.”

“We don’t have WiFi on board the Portland.”

“I’m connected to the Mantícora’s router.”

“Someday we got to get one of those.” Knight picked up a scrap of paper and read off a string of numbers.

For a moment, Perry wondered if he could get away with simply faking the transfer of ten million dollars, but he thought better of it and keyed in the instructions. When the transfer was complete, he told Knight. The grizzled captain picked up the battered phone sitting on his desk and called the radio room to confirm.

After a lengthy delay, he smiled and nodded before hanging up the phone.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a sale,” Knight said. Perry was relieved that he didn’t offer to shake hands again.