Final Option (Oregon Files 14)

“López and his friend are coming in,” Raven said over the molar mic. “López is in the lead.”

“Got it,” Linc replied.

He acted like he was zipping up and headed toward the sinks, which were across from the stalls. In his hand was a small spring-loaded syringe filled with a fast-acting barbiturate formulated to knock out the assassin in a few seconds.

Linc caught López’s eye as the CIA agent rounded the corner. López nodded back, and Linc went back into sloshed mode.

“Hey! There’s my friends again!” he cried out sloppily.

He stumbled forward, and López neatly sidestepped him so that Linc fell into the Mexican’s arms.

“Aye!” the assassin yelled, but that’s all he got out as Linc sunk the needle into his shoulder.

The man, distracted by the knee Linc sent into his groin, doubled over and went limp before he could recover.

López and Linc took him by either arm and carried him to one of the stalls.

“You’re not feeling so good, huh?” Linc announced for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. “Throw up in here.”

López took the cue and said something similar in Spanish.

They shoved him into the stall, and Linc put him head down on the toilet seat. By the time anyone checked on him and found him unconscious, Linc and López would be long gone.

Linc turned and saw López backing away to give him enough room to get out of the stall and close its door. What the CIA agent didn’t see was another man lunging toward him with a knife.

Linc shouted, “Look out!” It probably saved López’s life.

López spotted the attacker at the last moment and swiped at the man’s wrist, which had been aiming at his heart. The fast reaction kept him from being murdered, but López wasn’t quick enough to dodge the knife altogether.

The switchblade plunged into the side of his abdomen. By this time, Linc was able to extricate himself from the stall and grab the stranger by the neck. Linc towered over the man and outweighed him by a good forty pounds, so it took no effort to pick him up and slam his head into the granite countertop of the nearest sink.

The knife-wielding assailant instantly became a lifeless rag doll and fell to the floor, the blade dropping from his hand and bouncing under a stall door nearby.

Linc whipped around and saw López clutching his stomach. Blood was oozing from between his fingers.

“How bad is it?” Linc asked.

“Bad,” López said through gritted teeth. “But not bad enough to wait for the cops to show up.”

Not only would an investigation cause a diplomatic incident but they didn’t know who in the Rio Police Department was on Ferreira’s payroll. If they wound up in custody, they could easily be dead by morning.

A crowd of men was gathering to look at the prone man on the floor with the caved-in head.

“He slipped,” Linc said to no one in particular. “Someone call an ambulance!”

He didn’t know if anyone saw the fight or spoke English, but casting doubt on what happened might give them a few seconds.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said to López. “Raven, López got knifed in the side. He’s on his feet but bleeding.”

“On it,” she replied curtly.

As they were leaving the men’s room, Linc had his head on swivel looking for any more assassins in the crowd. Nobody caught his eye, but he did see Raven bartering with a female fan wearing a baseball cap and a scarf with the Mexican flag on it. Raven handed over a wad of bills and got the scarf and cap in return.

She joined them as they made their way through the spectators toward the exit. She put the cap on López’s head as a simple disguise and wrapped the scarf around his midsection. He winced as she cinched it into a tight knot.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Someone was following López,” Linc said. “They must have gotten word from Ferreira that he was a possible spy.”