No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(114)

The man screamed, “He’s in the car! In the trunk! Downstairs.”

I leaned back and exhaled. Blaine flicked his head between the two men, unsure of what to do. I said, “Blood, Retro, go get him. The car is in the alley. Jennifer and I saw it on the way to the rear.”

They left, Blaine going with them, and I sat down, waiting, my barrel aimed at Seamus’s head. I said, “Search that piece of shit.”

Nung rolled him onto his belly, expertly going through every nook and cranny. He emptied his pockets, throwing keys and a wallet to the floor. He found a piece of paper and studied it. He held it up to me.

“Can I take this?”

I looked at it, a small computer printout that he unfolded like some origami thing. I said, “What is it?”

“Payment.”

I had no idea what it was, but if that was enough to clear me with Nung, I had no issues with it. “Yeah. It’s yours.”

He nodded, tucking the paper into his pocket. As calm as ever.

I returned to Seamus. “Where is Kylie?”

He glared at me, remaining quiet.

I stood up, towering over him. Jennifer saw my anger and stepped between us. She said, “Don’t do it. Killing him won’t get her back.”

At that moment, I realized she thought Kylie was dead. Gone. I said, “Jennifer, she’s coming home. She is.”

Jennifer nodded, saying nothing.

I leaned down and said, “You have until they return to tell me where she is. When I hear the footsteps outside, I’ll f*cking kill you.”

“She’s in the trunk! Damn it, that’s who they’re getting. Let them get back.”

I whipped the barrel of my Glock, ripping open his cheek and slamming his head into the floor.

I said, “Bullshit. Dickless here just said ‘he’s downstairs.’ No plural. I know who they’re going to find, and she’s not in that package. Where is she?”

The other man said, “We don’t have her! Don’t kill us! It’s not our fault!”

I heard the words and felt the rage grow. A blackness that I knew all too well. Seamus glared at me, his anger attempting to compete with my own. But there was no contest.

Jennifer saw the change and said, “Pike . . . don’t . . .”

I leaned into Seamus’s face and said, “You have one chance to save yourself. And I don’t mean stay out of jail. You call yourself a soldier, but you have no knowledge of the true fight. I have seen what people like you do to captured soldiers. Flayed alive, screaming for mercy. I’ve seen the videos. And I’m about to do the same to you.”

I saw his face falter, realizing there was something evil in the room. I pulled out my folding blade, the edge razor-sharp. I slid it across his arm, causing the blood to flow.

“I will carve you up, piece by piece. My daughter will enjoy every minute of it as payback.”

The words came unbidden, but they hit Seamus and his partner like a sledgehammer. They were convinced I was unhinged. And maybe I was.

Seamus blurted out, “I know where she is. I separated them on purpose. She’s still in Ireland. I can get her back. I can give her to you.”

I said, “Where?”

“I have to call them. Get them to bring her to me. I don’t know where they are right now. But I can bring her to you.”

“Call them. Do it. She dies, and you do too.”

Nung came out of the bedroom. “Pike, you need to see this.”

Aggravated, I said, “What?”

“The dead guy on the floor has a stopwatch going. A timer. It’s got thirty minutes left, give or take. Inside the bedroom are pictures and attack planning.”

“For what?”

“For the Eye of London. They’re planning on bringing it down.”






81




Emily Botswanger danced in the line, weaving in and out of the ribbon barriers that were supposed to keep her in check and ignoring her mother’s stern warnings about behaving. At eight years old, she could be forgiven for her exuberance. Especially since she’d spent the last three days on a “holiday” that consisted of her parents dragging her all over England seeing a bunch of musty old things that meant as much to her as a dead mole on her doorstep. At least then she knew her tabby had done the deed, and while yucky, it was new. Why her parents thought she’d care about someone’s death a hundred years ago was beyond her.

The Tower of London, the royal Palace, the Wartime Bunker, it was one boring thing after another, but they were finally doing something she would enjoy. Riding the Eye.

Her mother admonished her again, saying they wouldn’t go forward if she didn’t behave. She calmed down. Enough to give her parents the leeway to continue. They advanced forward in the line, seeing the capsules being filled one after the other in a relentless march.

She said, “How fast does it go? Will we feel like we’re on a roller coaster?”

Her mother smiled and said, “No. It’s slow. Like an escalator. Not like a roller coaster.”

Disappointed, Emily said, “Can they make it speed up? If we ask?”

Her mother ushered her to the platform, lining up into the queue for the next capsule. She said, “We don’t want it to speed up. That would be dangerous.”