No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(40)
Her head exploded in stars and she collapsed onto the ground, barely hanging on to consciousness. He grabbed her hair and began to drag her backward. She saw her necklace in the dirt, her last connection to her uncle. She scraped the ground, touched the chain, then felt it slip from her fingers. He jerked her to her feet and slapped her hard, causing the blood running from her nose to spray out against the wall. Dazed, she was shoved through a small access hatch on the side of the house. She fell two feet to the flooring below, slamming her shoulder into the ground.
In a haze, she saw Nick’s unconscious body on the floor next to her, his face bloodied anew. Standing above him, without any damage, was Travis, looking appalled at what had occurred. Looking guilty.
Before she lost consciousness, the truth sank through the pain. That bastard betrayed us.
26
Walking up the steps to the flat, Jennifer wasn’t too keen on the plan Pike had in mind, but she let him go with it. The mailbox for apartment 4A was registered to a J. B. McFadden, so there probably wouldn’t be any drama anyway. Her concern was what Pike would do if this lead panned out and Braden showed his face.
The address from Dylan McKee led to the famed Piccadilly Circus, an area of London with a less than stellar reputation, which fit what Dylan had told them about his grandson Braden. They’d exited the tube at the Piccadilly stop, getting topside and seeing performance artists and giant LED billboards, not unlike Times Square in New York City.
They’d fought through the crowds of tourists, passing a man dressed like Yoda, painted entirely in gold and magically suspended in the air, only his cane touching the ground. Jennifer had done a double take and run into a seven-foot Darth Vader. He poked her with his fake lightsaber, making her jump.
Pike had laughed and kept moving, parting the people in front of him and ignoring the fact that he was interrupting their attempts at taking pictures. They went deeper into the neighborhood, past the tourist traps like the Ripley’s Believe It or Not! museum, and the area got decidedly seedier. Strip clubs and worn-out watering holes began to dot the landscape. They passed a gay cabaret, with an Asian massage parlor on the second floor, the neon blinking in the daylight.
Jennifer said, “Great area.”
Ignoring the scenery, Pike said, “Better than some other shit holes I’ve been to.”
Jennifer said, “What are we going to do when we get to the address? How long do you want to conduct surveillance?”
Looking at the street name on the brick building to his front, Pike turned down an alley and said, “No surveillance. I’m just going to knock on the door.”
Jennifer glanced at the grime on the windows and said, “You sure that’s smart? What if it spooks him?”
“If he’s here, he’s living in the open. He’ll answer the door. If he doesn’t, I’ll pick the lock and enter anyway.”
“And if he does?”
“If the guy on the surveillance video opens that door, he’s answering questions. Whether he wants to or not.”
Pike stopped and looked at a number on a dilapidated brownstone, now chopped up into a number of different flats. He said, “This is it.”
They’d entered a foyer and checked the mailboxes, seeing the name of J. B. McFadden on the flat in question. Pike had grunted and walked up the stairs to the first floor, Jennifer trailing behind. He reached the flat’s door, the hallway extending another thirty feet before terminating in a right-hand corridor. Jennifer automatically moved beyond him, checking for threats. She reached the end, peeked around the corner, and saw two more doors, one labeled maintenance, the other with an apartment number. At the end was a stairwell. She returned just as Pike knocked, looking at her with a grin.
“What?”
“I didn’t have to tell you anything. You’re learning, young Jedi.”
She smiled back and said, “You’re no Yoda. For one, you can’t levitate like that guy in the square.”
“Maybe I should paint myself gold and put on a mask.”
“I don’t think the Taskforce would appreciate the cover problems that would cause. It would be hard to blend in anywhere besides Piccadilly Circus.”
“I was talking about in the bedroom.”
She saw her reaction reflected in Pike’s grin and started to retort when they heard footsteps behind the door. She grew serious. “Pike, don’t hurt this guy. I don’t want to spend the night in jail explaining why you broke his thumbs.”
He said, “That’s entirely up to him.”
The door opened and Jennifer let out a small sigh of relief. It wasn’t the man from the surveillance photo. This guy was short, fat, and slovenly. He resembled Danny DeVito, if the actor had fallen on hard times and completely ignored personal hygiene. Wearing a stained white T-shirt, jeans, and no shoes, he looked like a hobo in a movie from the ’20s. His bodily odor wafted out, coating the hallway and forcing Pike to take a step back.
Breathing through his mouth, Pike said, “Mr. McFadden?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Me.”
Pike said nothing else, letting the unspoken command settle. From behind, Jennifer couldn’t see Pike’s expression but knew what he projected. She’d been on the receiving end, back when they’d first met, and she had no doubt the man would talk first. After one second of silence, he did.