No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(22)

“So unlike bin Laden, we don’t blab about who it was.”

“That might work for the public. You might be able to keep us secret from them, but you won’t from the insiders. Shit, the chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence has missing kids. He’s going to want to know what happened, and he’s going to find out. I just want to make sure we all understand the repercussions.”

Billings sat back for a moment, then said, “Maybe Kurt’s right. Maybe we should use traditional assets on this. Even if they aren’t as good.”

President Warren’s face showed disgust. He said, “Have you talked to the vice president?”

Billings shook his head.

President Warren said, “I have. And I’m also the one who told Mark about his son. The one who had to deliver the news on how he died.” President Warren’s face was stone, the anger leaking out of his voice like acid. “I promise that Mark could give a shit about any exposure. He’d gladly spend the rest of his life in disgrace or prison if it meant vengeance for his son. Vice President Hannister has seen the Curtis tape. I guarantee he’ll do anything in his power to prevent his son from ending up on a tape of his own. Think about what you would do if it were your son or daughter.”

When Billings said nothing, preferring to sit back and hide his eyes from the president’s gaze, Warren turned to Kurt. “You understand my orders?”

“Yes, sir. I think you’ve been plain.”

“Well, let me make it absolutely clear: If you’ve got the means to resolve this situation, and the end result is compromise, you will compromise. Do you understand?”

Kurt nodded. “Yes, sir. Perfectly.”

President Warren’s eyes bored into him. He pointed at the screen, the still of Curtis Oglethorpe’s body on the ground. “No mercy. Burn it to the ground. Whether we get them back or not.”






14




Lieutenant Kaelyn Clute slowly came to consciousness, the world a hazy kaleidoscope of light. She felt a ravenous thirst, but also queasy, as if she’d just been on a roller coaster, her inner ears in turmoil from repeated spinning. She strained her eyes, trying to penetrate the gloom, but still couldn’t see anything concrete. Only vague light and shadow. She realized it was because of a rough burlap sack on her head. In a panic, she attempted to sit up only to find she was tied at the ankles, knees, wrists, and elbows.

And it all came back.

The Irishmen’s car pulling over to the side of the road, flashing its lights. Mack cursing his luck, saying he wished he’d hadn’t agreed to show them to the aquarium. Her calming him down as they pulled alongside the disabled car, one Irishman already out and under the hood. Her exiting the vehicle, then seeing the pistols. Mack shouting and fighting. The needle being injected into her neck. Her vision blurring as she watched Mack being beaten.

The memories slammed home, making her tremble, sweat popping out on her neck. She rolled onto her back, the nausea returning, her body feeling as if it were rocking left and right even as she lay still. She felt damp, rough-hewn lumber under her and heard a steady mechanical noise. A pump. She smelled diesel and realized it wasn’t the drugs affecting her equilibrium. She was on a boat. Or more precisely, in the bowels of a boat, next to the bilge pump. But where was Mack?

Afraid to speak, afraid of alerting anyone that she was awake, she slowly lowered her head down to the wood and scraped, feeling the sack move an inch. She continued until she had a sliver of light at the base of her neck, enough so that she could see her chest. She lay still, waiting to see if the motion had caused anyone to notice. Wondering if someone was watching her right this minute. Nothing happened. She repeated the maneuver until she had a good five inches of vision at the base of her chin. She rolled her head to the left and saw the dim interior of a ship’s engine room, but no Mack. She turned right and saw a pair of legs, tied.

McKinley.

She wormed her way forward until she made contact with him, then did the best she could to wake him, rolling her body on top of his and patting his chest with her restrained hands. He did nothing, sending fear through her that he was dead.

She slid off him and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the panic. She chastised herself, reverting to the discipline it took to achieve her position in naval aviation. Remembering her survival and resistance training, she began thinking through the problem just as she would if she’d had a catastrophic failure in her aircraft, putting aside the fact that she had absolutely no control over anything.

Then McKinley’s legs moved.

She sensed it more than anything else. She cocked her head back to see, remaining still as a stone. A moment passed, and she saw them move again. She sagged to the hull, letting out pent-up relief in one ragged breath. She waited, knowing Mack was working through the aftereffects of the drugs just as she had. He slowly showed more animation, and she could stand it no longer.

She wormed toward his head and whispered, “Mack . . . Mack, are you awake?”

He groaned, a noise that overshadowed the bilge pump. She hissed, “Mack, quiet. Whisper to me.”

She craned her head again until she could see the burlap over his face. It turned toward her. She said, “Mack, can you hear me?”

“Kaelyn?”

“Yes.”

“Are you all right?”