Typhoon Fury (Oregon Files 12)

“Painful but not serious,” Raven replied. “He’ll need stitches at a hospital, but it can wait until we get back to Manila.”

“I’m fine,” Ocampo said, his voice thin from fatigue. “I’m just glad the rest of my people are uninjured. Thank you for saving us.”

“Glad we could help, Dr. Ocampo,” Juan said. “Now, we’ve got a long ride back to Manila and plenty of time on our hands. When Raven finishes dressing your wound, I think it’s time you told us a story.”

22

THAILAND

Call me now!

Alastair Lynch, who was on his way home from work at Interpol’s Bangkok duty station, glanced at the text message in confusion as he steered his Mercedes S-Class through the dense traffic. The phone number prefix was familiar, but the texter wasn’t on his contact list. Then his stomach went ice cold when he realized why the number wasn’t stored in his phone. It was coming from his mole at Bangkok police headquarters.

Normally, they communicated through an untraceable Internet email app. Lynch told the mole his phone number was only to be used in case of an emergency.

Lynch hated emergencies. He liked boring routine. After studying statistics at a university in London, the Brit had joined Interpol and was sent to the Bangkok office to analyze the routes and organization of drug smuggling networks. Usually, he spent most of his time in air-conditioned offices, poring over data related to the drug trade and generally leading an existence as straitlaced as a single man could in Southeast Asia. It was only in the last few months that his life had taken a turn toward the darkness that he’d joined Interpol to thwart.

He clicked the number to call back and it was answered on the first ring.

The mole, a staff member at the police headquarters evidence locker, spoke in a low voice, his English mangled by urgency. “Why you send someone to take the pill?”

“What are you talking about?” Lynch responded.

“Interpol came and took it. You not warn me.”

Lynch’s heart raced, and he sat up straighter in his seat. The Typhoon pill that had been confiscated after the firefight at the Nightcrawlers club was supposed to remain in the evidence locker. Lynch was planning to remove it the next day when he was already scheduled to visit police headquarters so that he had a reason for being there. That way he would not be a suspect when the pill disappeared.

Now his mole was telling him that the pill was already gone. If it got away, there would be no telling what Salvador Locsin would do to him.

“I didn’t authorize any Interpol officials to take custody of it!” Lynch yelled. Since he’d started taking Typhoon, his mood could transform from calm and logical to uncontrollable rage in an instant. Even some of his colleagues had commented on it recently.

“They had correct papers,” the mole said in broken English. “What else can I do?”

“Who took it?”

“He said he from Interpol headquarters in France, but he not French. Baxter is the name. Big white guy with dark brown hair, mustache, and expensive gray suit.”

Lync

h racked his brain for anyone in the organization named Baxter, but he was drawing a blank. He certainly wasn’t informed about anyone coming from France to consult on the case.

“When was this?”

“He finish signing for it just now.”

“You mean he’s still there?”

“He leaving the building any minute.”

That was a stroke of luck for Lynch. For obvious reasons, the Interpol duty station was located only a few blocks from Bangkok police headquarters. He wrenched the wheel around in the middle of the street and headed back the way he’d come, causing even more honking horns to be added to the city din.

A minute later, he reached the massive compound housing the huge headquarters building of the Royal Thai Police. It was likely that the unknown Interpol official had gone through the main entrance, so Lynch flashed his credentials at the guard at the gate.

He pulled in just in time to see a dark-haired man emerge from the building. It had to be Baxter. He walked with the purpose and alertness of a soldier, not like the bureaucrats and analysts that made up most of Interpol’s employment. Baxter strode over to a waiting Jaguar XJR sedan and got in. It took off as soon as the door was closed.

Lynch couldn’t let them out of his sight. He was certain Baxter wasn’t with Interpol. Lynch had been the one consulting on the case, and if someone was coming halfway across the world to assist him or even take over the case, he would have known about it.

Which meant this guy was an impostor. An impostor with the capability to pass himself off convincingly as an Interpol official. But why did Baxter want to get his hands on a single Typhoon pill?