No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(104)

“Shit, sir, that’ll depend on him. I’m coming.”

Damn it. This was stupid.

Kurt broke out of the row of vehicles and saw the target jamming a pistol in the face of Kincaid, the reporter screaming, his hands in the air. The pistol came down hard, the barrel hammering Kincaid in the temple, and he sagged.

It’s not a killing. It’s a kidnapping.

Kurt ran in a crouch, trying to get a shot that was debilitating but not lethal. Which was seriously stupid, and he knew it. Any shot would potentially be a killing one, both to the target and to Kincaid. Shooting into a thigh was Hollywood crap.

He saw Kincaid dragged into the other car and abandoned the plan, running back to his vehicle.

He reached it and dove into the backseat. He saw the white lights of the target car flare and rolled out into the access lane, raising the Stiletto. The car screamed forward, sliding parallel to him, and he hit the trigger.

The engine coughed, then bucked in a halting, jerky manner. He squeezed again, and it went dead. The man behind the wheel turned the key, pumping the gas, then saw Kurt. The terrorist exited, pistol held high, and started shooting, using the door for protection. Kurt dove behind his own car, the rounds puncturing the steel. He slid low, calling Knuckles.

“He’s out. I’m compromised. Damn it, where are you?”

Through a wince, he heard, “Hell, sir, I told you I couldn’t run. I’m coming.”

Kurt slid out behind the front tire, almost prone, and fired two rounds into the windshield, over the unconscious reporter and past the shooter’s body, causing him to duck.

The target huddled behind the door, identified where the firing was coming from, and drew a bead, popping rounds Kurt’s way, the noise from his unsuppressed pistol banging harshly between the garage walls.

Kurt rolled backward, one round so close the chipped concrete cut his face. He crawled to the rear of his vehicle and saw a flash of light from the stairwell door opening. Kurt stood, putting himself in the man’s crosshairs to get him to focus, then dove to the ground. He heard two rounds snap past his head, then a rattled scream, like someone was being flayed alive.

He stood, seeing Knuckles standing above the target, juicing a Taser with a grin on his face.

Kurt walked over to him, watching the twitching of the body, knowing his mental faculties were fine. He leaned down.

“Hey, I’ve got a few questions for you. And you’re going to answer them.”






74




George Wolffe stood at the head of the table, fending off any questions that came his way, stating that Kurt would provide a complete briefing as soon as he arrived. Which he prayed would be pretty damn soon.

The Oversight Council had agreed to his demand of an emergency meeting, and since he’d specifically asked for the president, they all had come. Every one. Some of the most powerful people in the world, they didn’t have a lot of patience, but luckily, the president hadn’t arrived, so Wolffe had some breathing room.

Although not much.

Kerry Bostwick, the head of the CIA, said, “I’ve got work to do. I can’t sit here all night—and I don’t want to direct my assets looking for people that have been recovered. Did you or did you not get Travis Deleon?”

Alexander Palmer spoke up, raising his hand. “Okay, people, not to steal Kurt’s thunder, but we have recovered Deleon. And Kurt’s apparently on another thread. Calm down, damn it. Let him get here.”

Bostwick leaned back, saying, “I could have used that information about two hours ago. I’ve got guys running amok on different threads to him. Putting themselves in danger.”

Wolffe, a CIA man himself, said, “Sir, sorry about that, but this is fast-breaking, and very close-hold. We couldn’t put out a press release. The recovery is intimately tied into the further hunt. You know how that works.”

Bostwick glared but said nothing, turning to the man to his left. For the first time, Wolffe recognized Easton Beau Clute, the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Now apparently read onto Taskforce activities from the recovery of his twins. The first man from the legislative branch of government to do so. Wolffe was unsure if that was good or bad.

The light above the door flashed, and the president of the United States entered, leaving his Secret Service detail outside. Wolffe inwardly groaned. Time’s up.

President Warren took his seat at the head of the table and said, “Okay, so what’s going on? You got Deleon but not Seacrest?”

“Sir, yes, that’s correct. We now have three of the four hostages, and a good lead on the fourth. Nick Seacrest.”

“So what’s the story? You called this rodeo, start the briefing.”

Wolffe said, “Sir, I think we should wait for Kurt Hale. He has the latest.”

“Latest? From the SITREPs I read, it happened over four hours ago.”

Wolffe started to respond when the light above the door went red. Meaning someone wanted in.

Palmer keyed the access panel, and Kurt Hale entered. Wolffe sagged in relief.

Kurt walked straight to the front of the conference table, ignoring the computer and everyone in the room but the president. He nodded at Wolffe, letting him escape to the back of the room.

He turned to the president and said, “I have the ability to recover Nicholas Seacrest. Right now. But I need to get let off the chain. No more reporting to the Oversight Council until it’s done. I need blanket Omega authority to conduct operations.”