No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(17)

Travis hissed, “Be quiet. They’ll come beat us.”

Nick said, “They just did. And I can take it. The scare’s over. They’ll only kill who can’t help them, and you can. Why?”

Kylie whispered, “Nick. Maybe he’s right. Maybe we should just wait to see what’s going to happen.”

“Bullshit. I’m not waiting. Nobody is coming for us. If we want to get out, we’ll do it ourselves. We need to start thinking about escape. Get ready for an opportunity.”

His voice strident, Travis said, “No. No, no, no! We will do nothing. Nothing, do you hear? Let the US government sort this out.”

Kylie heard Nick exhale, then say, “The US government won’t come for us in time. These f*cks intend to use us to leverage our government. To alter some policy. They will use our lives to harm the United States. We have to plan an escape. You’re in the Army, for Christ’s sakes.”

The steel in his voice was new. Something different from the soft man who had talked her out of her shirt. Something like her uncle’s friend. She debated whether he was putting them in jeopardy, and whose side she would take. Her uncle’s friend came to her mind’s eye, all hard edges and predatory skill. She decided.

Better to fight.

She said, “Travis, he’s right. We need to plan for a way out. Sitting here waiting on the police isn’t going to work.”

Travis said, “I am a lieutenant colonel in the US Army. I am the senior officer here. I’m giving you an order to not do anything. Nothing. Do you understand?”

Kylie had no idea what any of that meant, but got a clue from Nick’s response.

“Jesus Christ. They put a * in here with us.”






11




Standing behind a man working a laptop, Seamus McKee saw Colin return. He said, “What were they talking about?”

“Nothing. Trying to figure out why they have bags on their heads.”

“They’ll know that soon enough.”

He returned to the man on the computer. “Christ, Kevin, you said this Reddit thread would catch their attention. They still haven’t responded. Are they that stupid?”

“The ragheads don’t send riddles. This isn’t Belfast. They aren’t used to your signature.”

“Well, maybe we’ll have to acquaint them.”

Colin said, “We don’t have a drone strike yet, and even if we do, I still don’t think this will work.”

Seamus smiled. “A little late for that.”

“They won’t deal. And there will be no end to the search.”

“As long as the press is in the dark, they’ll deal. Remember the US Iran-Contra scandal? When President Reagan tried to exchange arms for hostages? After all of his tough talk about smashing terrorists? Just like Whitehall when they handed out those secret immunity deals to the Irish traitors in ’98. Doesn’t matter which government. They’re always willing to deal.”

Seamus McKee was a dying breed. A leader of a splinter group of the fading Irish Republican Army, he was one of the last who still believed Irish unity could be achieved through violence. In his eyes, Northern Ireland was an affront to every person of Celtic blood, and he was determined to see the final six counties under it returned to Irish control. Or at least punish those who disagreed.

Calling themselves the Real IRA, they’d been fighting since the Provisional IRA had called a cease-fire in 1998. When the cowards in the PIRA put down their arms, preferring to grovel for a half-step political solution, the RIRA split off and continued the campaign of violence. Car bombs, land mines, mortar attacks, and assassinations were all in its repertoire. Its goal: a unified Ireland—just like Michael Collins had envisioned so many years ago. Others could quit under the strain, but Seamus McKee never would.

The fight had been going on for decades—centuries, really—but Seamus and his brother Braden had been at it just under ten years. In that time Seamus had carved out a leadership niche and had proven his dedication to the cause. There was no shortage of will to attack, but operations cost money, and the cash flow had become harder and harder to maintain. Gone were the days of passing the hat in the pub, with even Americans of Irish descent supporting the cause.

For the most part, the younger generation didn’t really think about Northern Ireland, and the older generation had grown complacent, satisfied with a country of twenty-six counties instead of the total island of thirty-two. Because of it, the RIRA’s primary source of income was from crime. Gaining small-scale payoffs from extorting drug dealers and businesses, they spent more effort trying to collect operational funds than on the operations themselves.

In order to increase the flow of money, Seamus had had some of his men migrate to the continent, working with a team of Serbian jewel thieves who were experts in their chosen field. Called the Pink Panthers by Interpol, they’d pulled off some spectacular heists. While their nickname implied buffoonery, the operations were anything but. In less than a decade they’d netted over five hundred million dollars in places as far flung as Dubai and Tokyo, conducting hits that looked more fit for a Hollywood movie than real life.

Even with that, the Serbs were the undisputed leaders of the team. They used Seamus’s men for their specific skills but took most of the profits, leaving him little to show for the risk. But through it he’d learned that there was money to be made if one found something valuable enough to steal. He’d decided to graduate from material things. After all, at the root, what was more valuable than life?