No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(113)

Nung nodded, as bored as ever.

I said, “Sir, status on the men in the room?”

Blaine knew what I was asking. He said, “Hostile force ROE.”

Which meant we could kill them whether they posed a direct threat or not. I said, “Roger that,” and Blaine started screwing a suppressor to his Glock.

I said, “What are you doing?”

“Don’t start, Pike. I’m coming.” He pointed at the two communications guys we’d been dragging along. “They can handle the radio.”

They both had wide eyes, sitting behind a makeshift console of computers and SATCOM antennae. Not wanting to leave the safety of the van for anything.

I thought about my numbers and said, “Okay. But my show. You come in behind me.”

He grinned and said, “No issues.”

I said, “Blood, you got radar scope. Retro, you got bump key. You open, and we flow in. Blaine, you come in last.”

I got a thumbs-up from all and said, “We need to do this silently. Don’t let them get off a round. We don’t know where this is going.” They nodded and I said, “Pure violence. Kill anyone not wearing a hood.”

We slid out of the van, and I called, “Koko, moving now. Anything?”

“No. Same story.”

Leading the way, Brett threaded down the hallway between the stores and entered the apartment area. We reached a row of mailboxes, and he veered to the stairs on the right side. We took them two at a time, reaching the third floor in seconds.

I alerted Jennifer. “At last covered and concealed. About to make breach.”

“Roger. The black man is slapping one of the hostages through his hood, shouting something.”

“On the way.”

We raced down the hallway, me taking the far side of the door, Retro on the near side. Brett placed a radar scope against the wall next to the door and studied it. He turned and held out his hand. Five.

With the two hostages, that left three to deal with.

I nodded at Retro and rotated out, facing the door at an angle and putting my barrel in play. He jammed a baseball-size device with a universal key into the doorknob, then looked at me. I nodded, and he hit the switch.

The mechanized bump key seemed to rattle enormously loud, sounding like fingernails scraping on a chalkboard. He jerked it out, turned the knob, and flung the door open, allowing a world of hurt to flow into the room.

I cleared the funnel of death, turning right and seeing a tall, skinny man with a pistol. I cracked a double-tap and saw his head snap back. I rotated left before his body had even hit the floor and saw another man standing in shock, a weapon held limply in his hands, not even raising it. His head exploded from someone’s round and I raced to the bedroom, holding up until I felt a body behind me. I exploded in, seeing a fat man with an open mouth jamming his hands in the air. My finger dragged the trigger to the rear.

I halted.

By the rules of engagement he could be killed outright, but ROE was nothing but a piece of paper. It wouldn’t help me sleep at night.

I closed the distance to him and hammered his temple with the butt of my pistol, dropping him in his tracks.

I turned back out and ran to the final room, sweeping my weapon left and right. Before I could enter, Retro came out, saying, “Clear.”

I went to the bathroom, Brett right behind me. It was empty. I opened the window, helping Jennifer get inside, me holding her waist and Brett dragging in her legs. Halfway in, Blaine called out, “Got them. But it’s not our guys. This thing is bigger than we thought.”

What the hell is he talking about?

Still pulling Jennifer, I said, “No Nick? No Kylie?”

“No. A couple of Irishmen. They’re saying they were kidnapped.”

Jennifer fell into the bathroom and I felt the failure hit me. I sat on the toilet, disgusted.

We should have never gotten on that plane.

Jennifer stood up, brushed herself off, and said, “What’s the status? Is it Kylie?”

I said, “No,” and began moving lethargically to the den. I saw two men on the floor, still bound. Both looking extremely grateful.

Blaine said, “I don’t know what to do about this. They aren’t Americans. Not a Taskforce problem.”

I looked at the one on the right, and saw a tattoo of a harp below his ear. Something I’d seen before, when a man walked away from me in a bar in Cork City.

The rage blossomed and I stalked over to him, slapping him full in the face and knocking him to the ground. Blaine stood up, shouting, “Pike! What are you doing?”

I jammed my pistol into his neck and said, “Seamus McKee. We finally meet. You have ten seconds to tell me what I want to know, or I’ll slaughter you just like your friends here.”

Seamus looked at me like I was crazy and said, “What are you talking about? I’ve been kidnapped!” He turned to Blaine and said, “Get him off me! I’m the hostage, damn it. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

The man to the left grew rigid at my mentioning Seamus’s name, the truth evident on his face. I tossed Seamus to the floor and held my pistol in front of the nose of the other “hostage.”

“I only need one, you f*ck. And Seamus is the winner. You’re collateral damage. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”

Blaine jumped up, shouting, “Pike, stop it, right now!”