Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“There’s an unmarked police car with a portable light on the roof proceeding along Avenida Republica. He’s three hundred and fifty yards distant.”

“Can you hit at that distance?” Hanley asked.

“Oh ye of little faith,” King said. “It’s a car, not a bug. I doubt I can hit the driver’s nose, but you never know.”

“Just a tire, Larry,” Hanley said.

“Hold on,” King said.

Supporting the rifle on a branch, he regulated his breathing, then waited until the police car was in his field of fire. He was in an almost Zen state of concentration. When the target appeared, it was as if it were in slow motion. King squeezed the trigger, then willed the bullet to run true. Inside the rifle, the firing pin hit the shell primer and sparked, the gunpowder burned and propelled the shell out of the cartridge and sent it spinning through the rifling inside the barrel. Leaving the end of the barrel and passing through the noise suppressor, the slug started down the hill in a straight line toward the target.

“Shit,” Po said as his front tire shredded. He slowed down and climbed out of the squad car, leaving the door open. Looking back onto the sidewalk, he tried to see what he had hit. There was nothing visible, but that didn’t mean anything. He stared up the hill to his intended destination, then decided the hill was too steep to climb. Po slid back into the driver’s seat and reached for the radio.

“Target has stopped and he’s calling for help,” King said.

“Good job,” Hanley said.

Hanley was watching the monitors, but without lights there was little to see. He stared at his watch, then glanced at the schedule of actions. Thirty seconds passed. King continued to scan the grounds. A few of the kitchen workers had popped out from inside and were clustered around the rear door. He swiveled his scope to the front of the house and noticed that the front gate to the driveway had opened automatically when the power was cut. Ten seconds.

“Have you sighted the charge on the fireworks display?” Hanley asked.

“Got it,” King said.

“Protect your eyes after the shot,” Hanley said.

“I’ll switch back to regular sights,” King agreed.

“We go in five, four, three, two, one.”

King squeezed the trigger and hit the explosive packet Murphy had laid in place hours earlier. The fireworks exploded with a roar. Roman candles streaked skyward and the large mortarlike devices began to spew forth in belches. There was shrieking and thumping sounds as the fireworks began to discharge. King rubbed his eyes and stared at the now-lit-up scene.

Three flickers from a flashlight at the front of the tent caught his attention.

“I have a signal the switch has been made,” King noted.

“Signal the helicopter,” Hanley said to one of the operators.

“She’s having a seizure,” Ho shouted.

Monica Crabtree hung on to Ho’s neck and rolled her eyes back in her head. A doctor Ho knew was dancing on one of the tables nearby, but he didn’t respond to Ho’s request to come over. At just that instant, Barrett walked over.

“This woman is sick,” Ho said.

The guard grabbed Crabtree and slid her to the ground. The inside of the tent was chaos, the music was blaring, but in the dim light no one noticed the band had left the stage. Ho’s head was spinning and he was having trouble concentrating. The guard placed his lips over Crabtree’s.

“No tongue, please,” Crabtree whispered.

Faking CPR, the guard turned to Ho. “This woman is dying.”

“Call for help,” Ho said.

The guard reached for the radio on his belt and called for an ambulance.

“Juan,” Hanley said, “the bird is inbound.”

“Time to pull out,” Cabrillo said to his team. “Round everyone up.”

Reinholt and Pryor were rolling the cart containing the false-bottomed speakers over the lawn to the far side of the heliport. Once the cart was positioned, they removed green light bars from their pockets and bent them in half. The chemical reaction made the tubes glow and they spread them in a crude circle so the helicopter pilot would know where to land.