No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(37)

When the two men left, they walked right by the bike. As if it wouldn’t be useful for what was about to happen. At least that’s what I thought.

I’d called Kurt with another request, the night now growing into morning. With the time difference, it was 8:00 P.M. in the United States, and the Taskforce was going to bed. I’d told him what I had and demanded that he run the plate.

He’d said, “How? This isn’t The Rockford Files. I don’t have a contact in the British police to do that.”

“Hack it. Get into their system and give me who owns it. You want to find Kylie or not?”

He exploded. “Don’t accuse me of that, damn it! Of course I do.” The phone went quiet, then, “You really think this is something? Because I’m about to go deep into the red. I hack UK government systems, and we’re treading on dangerous ground.”

I said, “I have no idea if it’s anything at all. None. But it’s all I’ve got. Those guys were sketchy, and maybe this has nothing to do with the VP, but my gut tells me those two *s had everything to do with Kylie.”

I could almost hear the smoke grinding off the gears in his head. I was asking him to step one foot deeper into the chasm. In the end, he did so, and I got an email about two hours later. It said, Here you go. Don’t do this again. I want Kylie back more than life itself, but I can’t use national assets on a whim. If this comes to light, there will be no explanation. I was all set to ask Kurt for some support, maybe redirecting Knuckles, but that was cut short by the information he’d sent. The bike was registered to a retired British noncommissioned officer. A guy in his eighties now living at the Royal Chelsea Hospital and retirement home. I could see why Kurt was aggravated. It wasn’t exactly a smoking gun, but it was all I had. I didn’t have the courage to call Kurt back. In truth, I felt a little like an ass.

We entered the grounds of the hospital, the security guard telling us we could visit freely and pointing to an ancient cemetery as a highlight. Jennifer thanked him and we moved down an old stone walkway to the newer infirmary.

The lady at the front desk said, “Are you here for a visitation?”

Unsure of how this worked, I jumped right in, saying, “Yes, I’m here to see Dylan McKee. I understand he’s staying here.”

She tapped on a computer and said, “Yes. Is he expecting you?”

“No. Not really. It’s a surprise.”

She smiled as if that were the best thing in the world. She said, “He’ll love that.”

“You know him?”

“No. Not personally, but they all like surprise visits. Take a seat in the coffee shop. I’ll send someone to fetch him.”






24




We did so, seeing old warriors talking to family and visitors touring the grounds. Uncomfortable, I asked Jennifer what the hell I was going to say. I mean, I couldn’t accuse an eighty-year-old man of kidnapping a US citizen. I was beginning to regret coming here. The only reason I had done so was because of the risk Kurt had taken to get the information. There was no way it would lead anywhere.

She smiled and placed her hand over mine. “This guy is you in forty years. Your blood. Just talk to him. If there’s something here, he’ll let you know. If not, then make an old veteran happy. Tell war stories.”

Her words were exactly what I needed to hear. I relaxed. I wasn’t the best at social stuff, as Jennifer would attest, but I had no trouble talking to soldiers.

Eventually an administrative assistant entered the coffee shop, followed by a man who stood ramrod straight. At least six feet tall, he was gaunt, as if eaten by an unknown disease, but his eyes were alive. Blue and full of mischief.

She pointed to us, and he walked over. I stood. “Mr. McKee, I’m Nephilim Logan. From the US.”

He said, “Well, I didn’t think you were a relative.” He shook my hand, then took Jennifer’s and actually kissed it.

He sat down and said, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? You Yanks just pick a name out of the reception book?”

Wanting a connection before I accused him of stealing my boss’s niece, I said, “Where did you serve? Malaysia? Borneo? Yemen?”

He looked at me with a new light and said, “You’re in the American Army.”

“Not anymore. But I was.”

“You’ll find few civilians here who even remember those places. It’s all about the blitz in World War II or Iraq and Afghanistan. The fights in between are forgotten.”

Jennifer said, “I’m a history buff, but the only thing I can get Pike interested in is a fight. It’s the one area he knows more than me.”

The old man said, “I was in Malaysia. Back when it was the Wild West, as you Yanks say. We were going to lose it to a bunch of Chinese. I’ll tell you, we’re fighting the same thing now in Afghanistan. We already quit in Iraq. Nobody listens to the history of the past. . . .”

From there I let him go, and we spent an hour telling war stories. He was a strong man with strong opinions, not unlike any old soldier from the United States. I learned he was from Belfast, Northern Ireland, and that he’d been torn during the troubles there. Being in the British Army had put him on the horns of a dilemma, with many treating him like a traitor. Because of it, he’d spent as much time as he could deployed, moving his family away from their ancestral homeland. The conflict was too close, and the wounds too deep. When his daughter had married, she had returned, but he never did.