No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(35)

“Braden, it’s Seamus.”

He heard a laugh. “That damn VOIP app comes up with a different number every time you call. I always expect it to be a telemarketer.”

“How goes the planning?”

“Good. These Serbs are no joke, and the lasses they’re using for the recce are pure blades. I don’t know how they find them, but they turn heads.”

“And the diversion?”

“I took the explosives and pre-positioned them. They’re ready to be primed. The packages are tucked away with Clooney and Smythe. They’re just sitting around waiting on me to return.”

“That’s what they get for botching the North Carolina capture. They get to play backup again. The Serbs okay with the plan?”

“Yeah. If this diversion goes off like we promised, they’re more than okay. The target is pretty prominent, and they’re going to need all the help they can get diverting the French police.”

“How soon do they want to go?”

“They’re in no rush. Why all the questions?”

“I need their help.”

He explained what he’d been told minutes earlier.

“You want them to break some legs? They won’t be too keen on that.”

“Tell them the man is about to screw up their heist. Tell them it will affect the diversion, and anyway, all I want to do is confirm what this guy is up to. No contact. Just follow and report.”

Seamus heard nothing for a moment, then, “Okay. I’ll give it a go.”

“Get them on a train to the UK. They need to move fast. The only handle I have is the DoubleTree hotel in Cambridge, and I don’t know how long he’ll stay. Tonight for sure, but that’s all I’ve got.”

Braden agreed and Seamus broached something he didn’t want to. He said, “You did that right, didn’t you? Was there anything you left? Any clue?”

“Fuck no, Seamus. Your damn information proved incorrect. He was supposed to be alone. Instead he met that girl. I was forced to take them both.”

Seamus said, “Okay, okay. I had to ask. There’s too much at stake.”

“I did it right. Left the ferry clue and cleansed the site. It isn’t me.”

“I believe you. Remember why we’re doing this. Get the Serbs moving.”

His brother said good-bye the same way he always did. “For Brian.”

Seamus replied, “For Brian. Let’s make these f*ckers pay.”






22




Captain McKinley Clute heard the footsteps coming across the floor and he sat up, trying to see through a small hole in his hood. He managed to cock it just right, flipping his head to keep it in place, but caused a string of drool to fly up from the cloth gag in his mouth.

He stared at the door, hearing the footsteps approach, wondering if it would be his or Kaelyn’s that was opened.

It was his.

He heard the boots clomp across the floor and tensed his stomach, curling into a ball. In the past, they’d kicked him just because they could, and he’d taken to protecting himself whenever they approached.

His hood was ripped off, the command “Rise” echoing in his ears. He blinked his eyes, getting used to the light, and stood. This could be either good or bad.

Sometimes he met Kaelyn in the central den to eat—the only time he saw her—both being forced to their knees, hands tied behind their backs, a rabid bit of punching and shouting to keep him off-balance. He’d begun to believe it was just harassment, designed to ensure he didn’t entertain the notion of fleeing, but the pain was real all the same.

He shuffled through the door, hands behind his back and head bowed. He reached the den of the apartment and saw his sister on her knees, looking up at him in concern, her mouth gagged like his. The sight brought a sense of relief, for one because he knew he wasn’t getting a beating, and two, because he could see she was okay, even with the cloth cinched tight into her mouth.

A hand was placed on his shoulder and he was made to kneel like Kaelyn. The flex ties were switched, with their ankles bound together and their hands released, then the gags removed. A bowl was placed in front of each of them, some sort of oatmeal-like gruel with the color and consistency of wet concrete.

The man who’d led out McKinley said, “Eat. Fifteen minutes.”

The man turned away and sat on a rusted metal chair, the only furniture in the room. He pushed the chair onto its hind legs, the back leaning into the wall precariously. He crossed his arms, staring at both of them. The other man stood inside Kaelyn’s doorframe behind them, out of sight, making McKinley want to protect his kidneys from an unseen kick.

McKinley dipped the spoon into the paste and took a bite, wincing at the acrid smell but knowing it would be the only sustenance he was given. He brushed Kaelyn’s arm on the way down, receiving no punishment, even though he knew they’d seen it.

It confirmed something in his mind. He’d put some serious thought into their captivity, not having anything else to occupy his time, and while it was alternately brutal and barely tolerable, he was sure it was all scripted. There was a reason they were separated for twenty-three hours a day. It was to instill a sense of hopelessness and prevent any collusion, the same reason they spent their days in the dark with a hood on their head. His beatings appeared random but were designed solely to convince him that his captors were on the ragged edge and prone to snapping at the slightest provocation. To prevent him from even thinking about escape. But they never touched Kaelyn.