The Emperor's Revenge

TWENTY-TWO

Flashing lights of an ambulance passed them as they sped off from the museum. Trono did a masterful job staying back at a discreet distance while keeping Golov’s car in sight.

Golov traveled only a few blocks before his car came to a stop next to a black SUV. He unrolled his window and handed the white card to someone.

“Who do I follow now?” Trono asked.

“The SUV,” Juan said. “We need to know why they stole that card.”

The SUV drove on and separated from Golov’s car. It arrived at a gate outside a modern warehouse surrounded by a chain-link fence.

Trono turned the corner and pulled over so that the SUV was still in view.

The gate’s barrier was already raised and the SUV drove through and stopped next to a door. After a minute, two large men, an Indian and a redhead, got out, clad in black pants and sweaters, and pulled ski masks over their faces. The Indian swiped the card at the reader and they slipped through the door, which closed behind them.

“That’s the museum’s warehouse,” Trono said.

“Now we know why they drugged Talavera,” Gretchen said. “Do you think all these people are working with ShadowFoe? Or that this woman is ShadowFoe?”

“Only one way to find out,” Juan said.

“Are we going to wait for them out here?”

“We can’t. If they’re after the diary and ShadowFoe realizes that Erion Kula was compromised, they may destroy it inside the warehouse after they get the info they need. Mike, we’ll take those weapons now.”

Trono reached under the front seat and removed two Glock 9mm semiautomatics, a pair of sound suppressors, and four spare magazines. Juan and Gretchen each took a pistol and spare ammo. Juan tucked his into his waistband and Gretchen put hers into her purse.

“MacD, do you read me?” Juan said.

“Five by five.”

“Come pick up Mike. We may need you two for a quick evac from the warehouse, depending on what we find in there.”

“Ah’ll be there in fifteen seconds.”

“We’ll leave the car here,” Juan told Trono. “Keys?”

Trono handed them over and they all got out of the car. “Radio the Oregon and tell Gomez to bring the chopper back now. I’m guessing we’ll be needing to get off the island soon.”

“Chairman, you sure you don’t want me and MacD to go into the warehouse with you?” Trono asked.

“I’d rather have you watching our backs out here. But I’ll push the panic button if I want you to come running.”

A blue and white police car rounded the corner and came to a stop next to them. The driver rolled down the window.

“Am Ah going to have to arrest y’all for loitering?” MacD drawled. His uniform was an impeccable copy of Malta Police Force issue, thanks to Kevin Nixon’s handiwork. His Maltese accent, however, needed a lot of work.

“You better worry about yourself,” Juan said. “You’ll get thrown in the pokey for grand theft auto.”

“Nah. It was in the maintenance depot. They don’t even know it’s missing.” He looked at Trono. “Ah’ve got your uniform in the backseat.”

“We’ll keep our ears open,” Trono said before getting in the boosted police car. They drove away, and Juan and Gretchen walked toward the warehouse gate.

Juan peeked into the tiny gatehouse and confirmed that it was empty.

“Odd that it’s unmanned,” Gretchen said.

They tried the door the Indian used, but it was locked tight.

“Come on,” Juan said. “Let’s see if there’s another way in.”

They went around the side of the warehouse and found the loading dock door open. Next to it was a truck that had been backed up to it. No one was in sight.

Juan glanced at Gretchen. “We should have seen some guards by now.”

They crept through the opening and took a moment to let their eyes adjust to the darkened interior of the warehouse. Deep shadows ruled where the few active lights couldn’t reach in the cavernous space.

“This place is huge,” Gretchen whispered. “How are we going to find them?”

“We find the diary, we find them.”

The warehouse was packed with rows of crates, items covered with canvas, and exposed pieces. The row they were in seemed to hold items dating from the sixteenth to nineteenth century, including an iron anchor from a galleon that had sailed with the Spanish Armada and a ship’s bell from Captain Cook’s Endeavour. Most of the items were marked with serial numbers, but Juan couldn’t make sense of the cataloging layout. He motioned for them to keep looking.

Gretchen stopped him when they were halfway down the aisle. She pointed at a silver placard mounted on a gray metal case. It read Lot LXXII. The placard listed it as a scimitar taken by Napoleon during his Egyptian campaign.

“At least the auction items are marked,” Juan said.

“Yes, but they don’t seem to be stored in any particular order.” She pointed farther down the row. “See? There’s another one.”

They walked down the aisle and saw it was marked as Lot XLI.

“Any hunches where they put Lot Sixteen?” Juan asked.

“No. Maybe we should split up and—”

Voices ahead of them interrupted her. They crouched down behind a crate and peered over it. Flashlights bobbed as the voices approached, accompanied by the sound of wheels rolling along the concrete floor. When the group passed through the beam of an overhead light, Juan could see a man being propelled forward by four heavily armed thugs who reminded him of Nazari’s terrorist cell. One of them was pushing a dolly.

“Now, who are these people?” Gretchen whispered. “Are they with Golov, too?”

“Can’t tell,” Juan replied. “They definitely aren’t museum guards. Whoever’s in charge of security here should be fired. It’s like we’re attending a convention for bad guys.”

“Let’s hope they don’t check for our invitations.”

Juan drew his Glock. Gretchen took hers out as well. They threaded the sound suppressors onto them.

The group turned the corner, and Juan and Gretchen followed behind them. At the next intersection, Juan peered around a crate, careful to stay in the shadows. The gunmen and their hostage turned down an aisle and out of sight. There was no sign of the Indian or the redhead.

“Here’s another one,” Gretchen said behind him. “But I can’t read the placard. It’s too dark.”

Juan checked around them. “We’re clear for the moment. Shade your cell phone light.”

Twenty feet away, a pair of glass-walled water tanks reflected her light. Each of the tanks was the size of a small truck. One held various treasures on porcelain racks like a giant dishwasher. In the second tank, suspended by slings, were two large iron cannons that looked like they were in the process of being treated with distilled water to remove corrosion after centuries on the ocean floor.

“Not what we’re looking for,” Gretchen said in frustration.

“Let’s move quickly. I’m not a fan of crowds.”

With their pistols at the ready, they moved to the next aisle.

“Can you see where those men went?”

“Down and to the right. So we’ll keep left.”

While Gretchen checked every placard they found along the way, Juan kept watch. At one point, he saw two black-clad forms that he thought were the Indian and redhead, but they disappeared into the darkness before he could be sure.

Soon after, two of the gunmen who’d been escorting the hostage crept into view. Juan motioned for Gretchen to get down, but the gunmen weren’t paying attention to them. Their eyes were focused on something above Juan and they raised their weapons.

He followed their gaze up until he saw a man crawling along the scaffolding above. When the light caught him briefly, Juan was shocked to realize he recognized him. He’d met the man only once, but he never forgot a face, particularly one who worked for NUMA.

It was Joe Zavala, a colleague of Special Projects Director Kurt Austin.

And he was about to get killed.

Juan leaped up and fired four quick shots at the gunmen, taking them down before they could get a bead on Zavala.

That’s when all hell broke loose.