No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(101)

She tentatively nodded, and I went into team-leader mode. “Jennifer, it’s not your fault. We were forced to execute. Forced to pull this out of our ass, and we did damn good. Nobody got killed, and we got one. We’ll get the others.”

At the mention of others, she perked up and said, “Where’s Kylie? Why isn’t she here?”

“I have no idea. This guy is out like he’s been boozing on Bourbon Street. We probably won’t get any answers until he wakes up.”

“What now?”

“Shit. I don’t know. I’d like to get some sleep, but I’ll be willing to bet that Blaine and Kurt won’t let that happen. You want to call them?”

She smiled. “Uh . . . no. That’s team-leader department.”

While Retro went through the terminal, I called Blaine. After I told him what I had, where we were, and the risks to the hostage we held, he ordered me to remain in place, feeling a medical team would have more freedom here than at our B&B. Less chance of compromise, which, given that I hadn’t heard any sirens, was probably a good bet. If we were compromised here, we’d already know it.

He called in the docs and a cleaning team, who were really getting a workout on this op, then said Kurt wanted to talk to me directly.

I knew why. I rang off and dialed. Kurt answered, saying he’d heard we’d rescued Travis Deleon, the husband of the governor of Texas. I told him, yeah, I thought so, but the guy was drugged out of his mind. I had no idea who he was. I gave him the rundown of what had happened.

He said, “Good work,” then got around to it. “Kylie?”

“Boss, she’s not here. I’m sorry.”

He said nothing. The silence grew, and I said, “But we came close. We’re on them now. They’re on the run. They had to run out of here without a plan. They had no time to figure anything out.”

“You said there was only one other hostage.”

“Yeah. The one in the car.”

“You think that was her? Or Nick?”

I gave him the truth that Jennifer had relayed. “Sir, the body that went into the car was a male. Almost positive. But it might have been her.”

He said, “I’m not sure what to wish for.”

“They’re both out there. We’ll get them both.”

“What’s your next move? Where from here?”

And that was the part of the conversation I didn’t want to broach. I had nothing. This lead was so thin it was a miracle it had worked out. Retro might get something from the Inmarsat, but it wasn’t likely. Whatever he had was historical, and these guys would be too smart to run to anything that they’d ever touched before.

I said, “Sir, we’re at a dead end. I’ve used up my magic. They’re on the road, and I have no idea where.”

“Shit. This hit might just get them to kill ’em. Dump them in a ditch somewhere.”

That took me aback. “Sir, you’re not suggesting—”

“No, no. No way. You got back one. Hell, you got back three. I’m just projecting.”

I said, “All I need is a thread. Just one lead.”

He said, “What’s that?”

“I said, all I need is a thread.”

“Not you. Hang on. Your pal Knuckles is talking.”

The phone went down, and I could hear murmured conversation.

He came back. “I gotta go. Get that place cleaned up. Get back to the bird in Shannon. Clear out of there and stand by.”

The urgency in his voice was unmistakable. I said, “What’s going on?”

“I might have your thread.”






72




Kurt hung up, and George Wolffe said, “So they got Travis Deleon? Clean? No compromise?”

“Looks that way.”

George picked up a phone and said, “That’s great news. Palmer will want to kiss you. Of course, he’d want to hang you if it had gone bad.” He started to dial and said, “You want me to tell him about the unilateral decision to assault, or wait until you brief?”

Kurt said, “Don’t call just yet.” George held the phone, a question on his face. Kurt turned to Knuckles. “What do you have?”

Knuckles held out a transcript. “A guy initiated contact with our bait. Wants to talk about the Breedlove story. Claims to have inside information that can be used to leverage the secretary of Homeland Security during his ‘interview.’”

From behind his desk, George hung up the phone and said, “Man, that was quick.”

Four hours earlier, Kurt had enlisted the help of Bartholomew Creedwater, the Taskforce computer specialist, to spoof the number of the secretary’s direct office line, then pretend to be his personal assistant, asking for Kincaid. The reporter had eaten it up, setting a meeting later on in the evening. Kurt had intended to reschedule at the last minute, rolling the meeting to the next night, and continue doing so until it became apparent his plan wasn’t going to work, or the terrorist made contact. He never expected it to happen so soon.

Kurt said, “Creed’s still confident his little intrusion is hidden?”

“Yeah,” Knuckles said. “That stuff is all black magic to me, but he seems to think he can get away with anything.”