No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(12)

“Who’re you calling?”

“Pike. I need someone to stumble onto some bad things.”






8




Kylie Hale felt shame wash through her as her bladder released, leaking through her jeans and staining the concrete floor. She tried to prevent it, but she had been tied up for so long, and she was afraid to shout out. Afraid of drawing attention to herself. She could see nothing in the darkness and probably couldn’t even if there was light because of the cloth bag on her head. She began to weep, small hitches that she willed herself to contain. She failed. Lost in the fear of what had occurred, wondering where her date had been taken, she lay and shook, the urine dribbling on the floor.

Twenty-four hours ago she’d been worried about college finals. Now she feared for her very life. She could barely comprehend the turnabout. On the dirt road the men had flex-tied and hooded both of them, showing little compassion before shoving them both in the trunk of a car. They’d been told not to say a word, then tapped in the head with the barrel of a pistol to seal the threat. Driven for roughly an hour, they’d stopped, and she’d spent the night in the trunk, the claustrophobic hood preventing her from seeing anything. When the engine had fired up hours later, it had snapped her eyes open, the panic returning. She heard a multitude of other engines, then felt the vehicle drive up a ramp. She heard a bellowing foghorn and knew they were on a boat. Which meant they’d left England.

Eventually, they’d begun moving again, the engine lulling her and the exhaustion taking over. By the time they’d stopped again, she’d lost track of how long they’d been driving. She’d been ripped out of the trunk, hearing her date shouting behind her. She was thrown into a dank basement smelling of loam and mold, the cold seeping through her clothes. For the longest time, she’d lain completely still, afraid to move. She remembered what the men had said when they’d originally captured her and knew she was in serious jeopardy. The only thing unknown was the time.

She rolled over onto her back, worming her way out of the urine puddle. She sagged into a ball and began weeping again, then heard a shuffle in the darkness. She froze, the sound shooting fear through her body. A groan, then scraping. She remained mute. She heard a whisper.

“Kylie? Kylie, are you in here?”

It took a moment for the words to penetrate, then the relief flowed through her. “Yes. Yes, I’m here. Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride. I’m okay.”

Before she’d been crammed in the trunk, she’d heard him fighting, and heard the punishment delivered. She was fairly sure he was downplaying how hard they’d treated him.

She said, “What do they want? Why did they take us?”

“It’s me. I won’t let them hurt you. I promise.”

“You? Why? What did you do?”

“Nothing. But it’s me.”

She heard a squeak, and then footfalls on wooden steps, each one ratcheting up her anxiety. They reached the concrete and stopped next to her. She strained her eyes through the bag, seeing a dim shadow.

“You pissed on my floor? Jesus, Mother Mary, and Joseph.”

The Irish accent was pronounced, so much so she had trouble following it. She was jerked upright into a sitting position, causing her to tremble. She felt hands on her skull and she began to scuttle backward. The voice said, “Calm down. I’m removing your hood.”

It slid off her head and she saw two men, one over her and one over her date, both with rough clothes. The man above her was tall and thin, with an ascetic, hatchet face, the veins on his neck standing out like a marble sculpture. Behind his left ear was a tattoo of a harp. The man over her date was younger, with a thick beard, like a lumberjack.

The man with the tattoo squatted down to her level. “Why would you piss on my floor?”

The view of him was disconcerting. Scary. “I . . . I didn’t want to.”

He studied her. He said, “You may call me Seamus. I am a soldier and work with a soldier’s creed. I do not kill civilians if I can prevent it, but you’ve presented me with a problem.”

Her date said, “Leave her alone. You have me. That’s enough.”

Seamus stood up and walked to him. He removed the hood and said, “Nicholas Hannister. Yes, we do have you, and unlike the lady, you are not a civilian. And don’t think your name will protect you.”

Nick said, “Look, everyone will know soon enough that you have me. Letting her go won’t matter. You can take her back where you found us and just let her walk away.”

“No, everyone will not know. The last thing the United States wants is this to become a circus in the press. And there will be enormous pressure from your government to find you. I cannot risk that your floozie has some clue in her head.”

The back-and-forth between them confused Kylie, making her wonder who Nick really was. She knew his last name as Seacrest, not Hannister, and he hadn’t told her anything to indicate his family was rich or well connected. If that were the case, why was he enlisted in the US Air Force?

Seamus walked back to Kylie and said, “What is your name? I know his, but not yours.”

“Kylie. Kylie Hale.”

“Well, Kylie, do you have any reason I should keep you alive? Are you valuable to anyone?”

She began to weep, saying nothing, the tears running down her face.