No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(123)

And she saw salvation.

It was the predator. Her uncle’s friend. An apex killer holding a smoking gun.

He’d come at last.

She wondered if she was hallucinating, then realized the shooting had stopped.

The woman said, “Guess you got the picture I sent.”

“Yeah. Sorry we took so long to get here.” The predator strode to Kylie and squatted down. He gently cupped her chin, staring into her eyes with concern. He said, “You’re a hard woman to find. You dropped something in Ireland and I wanted to give it back.”

He held out his hand, and hanging from it was her pendant.

The depth of his search sank in, and she began to cry, huge sobs rolling out of her and filling the room.

He wrapped her in his arms, absorbing all the fear she had left.






88




It was an unusually warm day for a winter in Charleston, much different than the icebox it had been when I’d left a scant few days before, and I had convinced everyone to go to an outdoor bar and grill called the Shelter, right across from the Grolier Recovery Services office on Shem Creek. It was still colder than I would have liked, with the mercury hovering at a barely tolerable sixty degrees, but Shelter had outdoor heaters as well and picnic tables that were perfect for all six of us.

The heat from the sun beating down on my back, I felt the stress of the last week wash away in a cleansing warmth, the other bar patrons near us laughing and joking, reminding me of what life should be. The outing seemed to be helping Kylie as well, and for the first time she held a smile longer than a split second.

Her face had started to heal, but you could still see a hint of the bruising. Her mental state was the same way, outwardly okay, but I was sure she had yet to sleep peacefully. She was staying in our guest bedroom, and I could hear her whimper in the night.

All the “official” hostages were going through a Bergdahl-type reintegration, with a team of psychologists monitoring their every move, but Kylie, being a nobody, didn’t rate. Even with Kurt as an uncle. The best she’d gotten was an outpatient session with a grief counselor. She’d opted to come to us in Charleston, and Kurt had told her mother he thought it was best. There was more to reintegration than talking to some lab rat.

I’d been treating her with kid gloves, but Jennifer had taken to her like a long-lost sister. For her part, Kylie seemed to think Jennifer was the second coming of Joan of Arc and had glommed on to her like a barnacle. Which I was sure was bad.

Any time women get together, it’s bad.

The waitress appeared, carrying a tray of shot glasses full of some college crap called Fireball—Kylie’s choice—and Knuckles raised his glass.

“To another year in the big leagues with Grolier Recovery Services.”

We’d been reinstated in good standing with the Taskforce, which, given what the hell we’d done, should have been a foregone conclusion, but some on the Oversight Council had still balked. I had the names, and they’d better pray they never needed my help.

We clinked our plastic glasses, and I downed the cinnamon abomination, winking at Kylie.

We’d managed to escape Camden Lock before the police had arrived and locked it down, running to the sedan and hauling ass to the US embassy. I’d given thought to fleeing completely, riding straight back to the Taskforce bird and flying home, but I knew the mess I’d left behind would need attention, not the least of which was finding out what the hell Nung had done with the vice president’s son. I’d opted for the embassy and sucking up the punishment.

Humorously enough, the only men who were arrested were Blaine and his communications section. We walked free and flew home after forty-eight hours. They stayed in jail for a week.

The president had brought enormous pressure to bear, using the full might of the United States and our unique relationship with England. Something I was learning to appreciate very much.

The entire affair was coated as an Interpol undercover sting operation against the Pink Panthers. We had the jewels from the Bulgari heist, and most of the dead guys were already on an Interpol hit list as members of the crew, so it fit. We let the respective police forces take credit, crowing about their exhaustive investigation and holding the Bulgari jewels up to the TV cameras. The unwashed masses watching the news bought it, cheering the action, but Kurt let me know some of the Brits were more than a little pissed. They didn’t like our operations in their country and were out for—if not blood—at least some egg on the face.

Unfortunately for those who felt that way, we’d also saved their biggest tourist destination from absolute disaster. And that meant something to the cooler heads at Whitehall, especially since we threw the bone of credit for stopping the attack to Scotland Yard. Only a select few knew about American involvement.

The one real contention I’d had was when they’d tried to take Kylie from me. She’d been clinging to my waist since the rescue, never getting more than an arm’s length away. Two men had burst into our holding room in the embassy, telling her she was going to another location. She’d recoiled, cowering into me, and the men had insisted.

I’d let them take Jennifer earlier and had no idea where they’d shoved Brett and Retro, but they could all take care of themselves. Taking Kylie was a bridge too far.

I stood up and said, “She’s going nowhere.”