No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(2)

Dermot’s computer flashed and he said, “Then let’s get him tonight.”

“Where’s he headed?”

“That road called Skeebo or Skibo or whatever.”

Aiden took a right on Legend Avenue, saying, “We keep following until he gives up for the night. Same plan. We take him at the apartment.”

They traveled through the heart of Fayetteville, passing malls and hotels, until eventually they were on a road called Morganton, the target seven cars up in the right-hand turn lane.

Aiden said, “Is that Reilly Road?”

“Yes.” Dermot’s teeth flashed in the dark. “Good omen.”

“He’s headed home. Get the backup ready.”

Dermot began dialing as the light turned green. Aiden crowded the car in front of him, pushing to get into the turn lane. Unconcerned before about maintaining a close distance to the target—in fact preferring to let the beacon do the work—he now needed to be in a position to assault. He heard one horn blare, saw the light go yellow, and blasted through the turn, now two cars back.

Aiden saw a sign for Stewarts Creek Condominiums and felt the excitement of the hunt rise. He said, “Get ready. Get backup ready. Remember, no shooting. No harm.”

The target’s turn signal began to blink, and Aiden’s mind flashed to Belfast and the hunting of men. He felt his lip curl involuntarily, his hands crimping the steering wheel in an effort to release the adrenaline. He had to consciously remind himself that there would be no killing here. A death would be worse than counterproductive.

The target pulled into the entrance for the complex and Aiden goosed the pedal to catch up. His headlights splashed the back window, and he saw the brake lights too late. He skidded forward, punching the bumper hard enough to slam Dermot against the dash.

The world stopped for a moment, the only sound the ticking of the engine under the crumpled hood. This was not what Aiden had intended at all.

Dermot said, “Abort.”

Aiden saw the door open in front of him and said, “Call the backup. We take him here. Right now, before someone else shows up.”

“He’s completely alert. What if he comes out shooting?”

“God damn it, all he knows is he was hit from behind. Why would he come out shooting?”

“Because this is America. Everyone has a gun.”

Aiden snorted and said, “Bullshit. That’s Hollywood.” He opened the door and swung out, seeing his target in the glare of a streetlight, standing next to the car with his hands on his hips. He said, “Hey, sorry. My fault.”

He took two steps forward, not realizing his mistake. While Aiden was correct in his assessment of the average American civilian, it fell woefully short for his given target. He knew Staff Sergeant Bryan Cransfield had recently returned from Afghanistan but did not realize that the man’s hard-fought sense of survival had not yet returned to civilization. This soldier was still living in a world where green-on-blue attacks dominated his psyche. Where he’d seen a friend killed by the very men he was training. And unlike the majority of America, Sergeant Cransfield now traveled armed.

He’d survived a year in Afghanistan, but the experience had killed him without him even knowing. Had he been less aware, less attuned to potential threats, he would have lived to see the sunrise. He would have only been captured. But he couldn’t be faulted for that. He couldn’t know that the car behind him wasn’t armed. Or about the car in front that was.

Sergeant Cransfield said, “Why are you following me?”

Aiden saw the blunt glare of a semiautomatic pistol. He shot his arms in the air, shouting, “Hey, no, wait!”

The soldier raised the weapon and said again, “Why are you f*cking following me? I saw you in the bar. What do you want?”

Aiden saw a flurry of movement behind the soldier and knew it was too late. He shouted, “No! Don’t!” but the rounds cracked anyway, the backup team removing the threat. Sergeant Cransfield was struck in the shoulder and collapsed into the car. From the seat he ripped off three rounds. Aiden heard the bullets puncture his windshield and dove to the ground. He crawled backward and heard two more sharp cracks, then his name called.

He stood up and ran, reaching the target car and the backup team. Staff Sergeant Cransfield was lying across the seat, eyes open and skull split from the kill shot. Aiden slammed the backup against the doorframe, shouting, “What the f*ck are you doing?”

The man bucked forward, shoving Aiden hard enough to cause him to stumble. “He was going to kill you, you f*cking tool!”

Aiden leaned back and rubbed his face, thinking. He said, “Shit. Get your team and leg it out of here. Drive his vehicle deep into the woods. We’ll deal with this later.”

Without another word, Aiden ran back to his car and slid behind the wheel. He said, “That Muppet Smythe killed the target.”

He got no reply. He turned to the right and saw a single hole settled just below Dermot’s right eye.

“Jesus Christ.”

He put the car in gear and backed out, assessing the disaster. Not only had they failed to take their target alive, but they’d lost a man in the process. He hoped the other five targets went better than this.

He turned onto Morganton, running through his mind how he was going to deal with Dermot, cataloging his network of American contacts to make the corpse disappear. It wasn’t until he reached Skibo that he realized the target’s body would be found, causing a police investigation.