No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(110)

“Why? And what do you mean, ‘him’? Where are the others? You promised more than that. You told us we’d have many people to leverage.”

His hands still behind his head, Seamus carefully said, “We had some problems. I lost the others, but I still have the prize. The vice president’s son.”

Hassan stood, waving the pistol about. “And now you want to pay me half of what you promised? After my risk?”

“There’s nothing I could do! You know how this works.”

Hassan laughed, a mirthless tone, and said, “Yes. I do. Ismail, how does this work? When you were a pirate? What did you do when you were double-crossed on payment?”

From across the room, holding another pistol, Ismail said, “I killed the hostages. Payment is payment.”

“And since we don’t actually have the hostages, what do you suggest?”

“We exact a different payment.”

Seamus saw Kevin’s face crumble in fear at the words. He went on the offensive. “You talk about payment, but you’ve done nothing as far as I can see. Why the f*ck should I pay you anything?”

Ismail looked at his watch and said, “One hour and twenty minutes.”

“Okay, then. We understand each other. The attack goes off, and you get the prize.”

Hassan said, “Lay down. On your belly.”

Seamus did so, right next to Kevin. He heard Hassan say something in Somali, and the man who answered the door went into the bedroom. Seamus saw the man return, carrying two black pillowcases, and he didn’t understand what was occurring.

Until the light disappeared from the hood slammed over his head.






78




Kylie felt the car engine shut off, but she continued to feign sleep. Through slitted eyes she saw they were in a shopping district, a mass of people boiling out of a London Underground stop called Camden Town. She exhaled in relief. There was no way the bearded man would try to stuff her back into the trunk in front of all of these people, and the ride locked up was more horrible than she remembered, every bump jarring through her body, the darkness mixed with the smell of exhaust. With Nick gone, her courage was sliding away, replaced by a sense of helplessness.

Last night, she’d felt the car rumble onto another ferry, the air horn blaring in the dark. Once on the far side, they’d driven for about thirty minutes, then had stopped. She’d waited for the man to release her, but he did not. She’d lain in the trunk for hours, hearing the man shift inside the car, and realized he had pulled over somewhere to sleep. Eventually, she’d drifted off herself, lost in her despair.

She was awakened by the trunk opening and daylight spilling in. Squinting her eyes, she’d been allowed to get inside the vehicle with him, but he had left her hands bound. They’d begun driving again, and she’d leaned her head against the window and pretended to sleep, afraid to ask the man where they were going. Afraid to find out. Postponing the inevitable, but it had arrived all the same.

He shook her knee, saying, “We’re here.”

She sat up and said, “Where?”

“London. Look, I didn’t like what was going on back there. Taking soldiers is one thing, but taking you crossed the line. I’m going to pass you to some people who will get you home. Okay?”

The words alarmed her, making her want to turn back the clock. To climb back into the trunk. She didn’t believe him for a second. He didn’t know it, but she’d heard the conversation he’d had on the phone and knew that whatever this was, it wasn’t about helping her. In a quavering voice, she said, “Why don’t you just let me go?”

“You’ll run to the cops. I can’t have that. These people will hold you until Seamus is done, but they won’t hurt you.”

She began to tremble but nodded tentatively, pretending to believe.

He pulled out a knife, and she recoiled against the window. He said, “I’m going to cut your hands free. Please do not attempt to escape. You won’t make it.”

He sliced the flex ties on her wrists and said, “See that pub over there? We’re going inside, and I’m going to get you some food. The men I’m talking about will meet us there in a couple of hours.”

At his words, she realized she was ravenous. She glanced out the window and saw a two-story establishment called the World’s End.

He said, “Anybody asks about your bruises, make something up. I don’t think anyone will, though. It’s early, but that bar has people who look like you in it all the time.”

She nodded, waiting on him to tell her what to do. He exited the vehicle, circled around, and opened her door. He said, “Remember, no tricks. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

She got out and they crossed the street, threading through the traffic. He held the door for her, and she entered a giant pub that seemed to go on forever, put together with what looked like spare parts and salvage, with no two tables alike and heavy metal music blaring. He pointed to the back, saying, “That way.”

She walked past one bar and entered a large back room with a huge skylight. In the center was another bar, with a balcony seating area above it. She saw a sign for the bathrooms on the right and said, “I really need to go.”

He considered, then said, “Okay, but no tricks.”