No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7) by Brad Taylor
I’ve helped to wind up the clock—I might as well hear it strike.
The O’Rahilly, Easter Sunday, Dublin, Ireland, 1916
DAY ONE
The Misfire
1
The woman caught Aiden’s eye a second time and he realized she was stalking him. Which he found ironic, given he was in the process of hunting another, although he was fairly sure her idea of success was much different than his. Older than the average female at the bar, she projected an air of quiet desperation, with a sultry smile covering her misery like a cheap coat of paint, the pain clearly evident underneath.
Surrounded on all sides by soldiers barely over drinking age, most having recently returned from a combat deployment with the 82nd Airborne, she longed to get away from the smell of stale beer and testosterone. She was searching for someone to take her from the bravado of arms. Someone who didn’t have the stench of combat surrounding his every move. A civilized man who didn’t believe that training to kill was a decent way to make a living.
She could be forgiven in her assessment, as Aiden Kelleher was much older than most of the men in the bar. His haircut, clothes, and demeanor did not mark him as a soldier. At least not a US one, with Tapout T-shirts, shaved heads, and skull tattoos. If asked, he certainly considered himself no less a soldier than the rowdy men in the bar. He had taken lives in the name of a cause, and he most certainly knew that killing was a noble way to make a living.
Maybe I’ll come back here later. Taste a little American sweetness.
He smiled to himself, knowing that wasn’t going to happen. He’d already raised his signature simply by opening his mouth, his accent causing the bartender to comment. He might be remembered, which wasn’t good, considering what he had planned.
He felt his phone vibrate and checked the number. He held the cell up in the air, letting his partner see it at a table across from the bar, then exited so he could talk in private.
“I have him in the bar, but I’ve raised my signature. The police will retrace his steps, and I might be mentioned.”
“Can you still get him?”
“I think so, if you want to push it. I would prefer to wait.”
“We don’t have time. He’s set to go on a military exercise tomorrow, and we only have three days. You miss him tonight, and we lose him.”
“We still have the others, right?”
“Maybe. All will have the same issues as you, so we might miss more than just this one. Once they connect who we’re after, they will lock them all down tight. All six will be protected. It might even take less than three days for that to happen.”
“Then tonight it is.”
He hung up, texting the numbers 11111 to his partner’s phone, letting him know the mission was being forced, then reentered the bar, looking instinctively at the target’s table. He was gone, and so was Aiden’s partner. He felt his phone vibrate and read the text.
In the cigar bar. Paying his tab.
The establishment their target had chosen was called Itz Entertainment City, a large building with a multitude of different venues, including a standard sports bar with the usual chain of flat-screen televisions, a comedy club, a dance club, and a cigar bar. It was a place frequented by soldiers from the sprawling Fort Bragg in Fayetteville, North Carolina. For the most part, their target had spent his time in the sports bar, drinking sparingly and talking with friends. He’d come alone, and, given his field time tomorrow, Aiden was sure he’d leave alone.
Aiden turned to exit, staging for the follow, and bumped into the woman. He saw she was considerably more intoxicated than he’d thought before, swaying slightly and using the bar for support.
“Hey, I’d thought you’d left.” She gave a crooked smile. “Did you come back looking for something?”
“I’m sorry, no. I’m actually leaving now.”
Her eyes clouded in confusion, his accent struggling to find a foothold in her soaked brain. He moved past her, hearing, “Hey, are you British?”
The comment drove a needle of anger deep between his eyes, causing him to squeeze them shut harshly. He whirled around and said, “No, you stupid American cow. Irish. Irish.”
She stumbled back at his ferocity, and he knew he’d made a mistake. Knew he’d let his hatred overcome his discipline for the mission. She would remember him for sure now. He smiled and said, “You going to be here when I get back?”
Caught off guard, the liquor clouding her judgment, she said nothing, a confused grin on her face. She hesitantly nodded. He smiled again and brushed her shoulder, saying, “See you soon.”
The touch made her beam, but Aiden didn’t notice. Behind her he saw his target leaving the establishment. She said something he didn’t catch, and he walked to the exit, waiting a beat to let the target get some distance. He dialed his partner.
“Dermot, it’s Aiden. Where are you?”
“Already in the car. I got him in sight. You’re clear to leave.”
Aiden speed-walked to the driver’s side of their rental, sliding behind the wheel. Fiddling with a laptop, Dermot said, “Backup is on station. Waiting on the beacon to lock. What did Seamus say?”
“It’s now or never. We miss him tonight, we pull out.”