No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(24)

She took in what he said and instinctively knew the implications: It was an abandoned airfield with new, serviceable runways. They were waiting on an aircraft.

No sooner had the thought entered her head than the man returned, saying, “Get up.”

They did so, and she scanned the sky. To the west she saw a speck, which grew into an aircraft. It hit the ground, and she recognized a Viking de Havilland Twin Otter, a twin-engine plane designed for short takeoff and landing. Used the world over for harsh environments, it was loved by bush pilots for its ability to get into tight, rough spaces. But it wasn’t known for its endurance.

He pushed them forward, and she began to see the plan fall apart. To see their death. She said, “Listen, we’re going to be lucky to get to another piece of land on that thing. I don’t know what the pilot told you, but I’m surprised it made it out here on one tank. Getting back is suicide. You’re going to kill us in the ocean.”

The man said, “Perhaps we should let you fly it, hmm?”

The words caused an involuntary spike of fear, belying his earlier words about being just a “delivery boy.” He knew exactly who she was.

The plane taxied to their location and stopped, the engines still turning. Two men exited, moved to the concrete building, and pushed out a large cylinder on wheels, with a gas nozzle attached. They began refueling, and Kaelyn finally realized how much effort had been put into their capture. How much coordination and preparation.

Which meant the men had something very valuable in mind in return.






15




I stepped out of the train station behind Jennifer, dragging our two carry-ons behind me. She pointed to the street and said, “Guess I was right about the rental car.”

In front of me was a sea of bicycles, all chained and stacked haphazardly as if the Tour de France had decided to stop for a train ride. Well, that is if the Tour de France was run with rusted beachcombers and ancient ten-speeds. It looked like a bicycle graveyard. Which did nothing to help my mood.

My entire plan of attack had started to disintegrate over the Atlantic Ocean, ten minutes out from the British Isles. Knuckles had gotten a redirect. Apparently, the vice president’s son’s car had been found out in the English countryside, and it had been clean with the exception of one clue: a ferry receipt for Tangier, Morocco. It had necked down the potential kidnappers significantly, pointing to three or four different Islamic groups. As hunting terrorists was more of the Taskforce forte, he was given a mission change to explore the connection, leaving the English criminal investigation with the FBI, which meant we were dumped as soon as possible at Heathrow in London, nowhere near Cambridge.

Poking out of the hatch of the Gulfstream, he’d said, “Sorry to do this to you, but orders are orders.” Then he’d smiled and waved before closing the door and leaving us on the tarmac holding our bags. I knew he thought it was incredibly funny, and I felt like a hitchhiker that had been tricked and taken to the wrong destination.

I’d wanted to get a rental car and drive to Cambridge, but Jennifer said that taking a train would be much easier. I’d argued that we needed the flexibility, and she’d stated that she’d done the research on Cambridge University and the surrounding town and that having a car would be more of a hindrance than a help. I’d acquiesced, mainly because I’m the one who had tasked her with the research, so I had to live with the results. But I was sure I’d prove her wrong when we arrived.

That certainty faded in view of the bicycle graveyard, sending a little stab of aggravation through me. Jennifer said, “Want to rent some bikes? The hotel I booked is right around the corner.”

I said, “And what? Strap these bags to the seat like a Vietcong on the Ho Chi Minh Trail?”

I saw a tiny grin slip out and realized she was screwing with me. Knowing that I had been all set on a big ol’ I told you so, she was returning the favor.

I shook my head, unable to stop my own smile. I tried to maintain my annoyance, but it was impossible with her. I said, “Can we get a cab instead?”

Three minutes later and we were headed to our hotel in downtown Cambridge. It turned out that the university didn’t have a single campus but instead spanned the entire town. Composed of over thirty colleges, each with its own separate green, the school was impossible to separate from the town. And the town was old. I mean, really old, having been founded in 1209. Charleston, South Carolina, prided itself on its history, but it had nothing on this village, something that Jennifer loved.

Getting the history lesson on the cab drive over, I began to regret giving her the research task. Right up until she corrected the cabdriver on his knowledge of the town, which was funny as hell.

We dumped our bags at the hotel and asked directions to Queens’ College, the campus where Kylie was conducting her exchange. A third-year student studying English literature, she should have been finishing up her first semester here. Instead, she’d disappeared, and I dearly hoped to find out it was just a college prank.

Kurt had already smoothed the way with the administration, and they were expecting us, so I didn’t think we’d have any trouble with the school. Her roommate might be a different story.

I tried to get a cab, but Jennifer insisted on renting some bikes from the hotel, and we set out, pedaling through history, the stone buildings and alleys projecting a stoic reticence at our very presence. Allowing us to view them, but knowing we would never appreciate the history they embodied. Well, that’s what I thought, anyway. For her part, Jennifer kept exclaiming one thing after another from her research, making me wish we could explore and let her run around like a puppy in a field. Making me wish we had some time before we began to dig into what had happened to Kylie. Something I was dreading.