No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(53)

Sheepishly, I said, “I haven’t figured that out yet. Maybe I’ll bill Kurt.”

She looked at me like I had truly gone off the deep end. She said, “Maybe we should go back to the hotel and get on the VPN. See what Kurt wants. What he’s willing to do before we start building a makeshift team. Before we start wrecking things.”

I knew what she was asking. She understood that we were hanging out in the wind here. We’d been lucky with the Serbs, but if we found Kylie, it would more than likely be along with a bunch of armed men. Even given our conversation before, she knew someone was going to get killed, and it wasn’t a foregone conclusion that it would be the bad guys, even with Nung on the team.

I’d been running that very scenario through my head for the short flight over from London. Wondering how far I wanted to go. I’d decided to go as far as it took. Kylie free, or me dead. But that probably wasn’t fair to ask of Jennifer.

I said, “Hey, I know Kurt. He wants his niece back. And so do I. By giving us the geolocation of the Serb phone call, he’s provided his intent. If I call him now, questioning what I can do, he’ll tell me to back off. He won’t order me to do what’s right. He can’t.”

I pulled over next to one of the ubiquitous pubs that dotted the city, letting the car idle. I looked at her and said, “I’m going to get her back, but I understand if you want out. It is risky without a team.”

Jennifer studied my face, then said, “Is this about her, or you?”

“What’s that mean?”

“Is this about your daughter?”

The question touched a nerve that deserved to be left alone. I said, “What the f*ck are you talking about?” I began to wind up for a fine verbal joust, sick of the unfair accusations, but she just stared at me. Burrowing past the scar tissue with her gaze alone. I sagged into the seat and said, “Maybe. Maybe it is. But that doesn’t make it wrong.”

She said, “I know. Remember Guatemala?”

Surprised, I turned to face her, wondering where this was going. “Yes. Of course.”

“I wanted you to come. I didn’t think you would, but I prayed.”

“And?”

“And if she’s praying for you like I did, she’s in good company. I just want to know where you stand. What you’re about to do. What we’re about to do.”

I felt a grin break on my face. “You don’t have to come. I can get her back with Nung.”

She said, “Are you kidding me? You can’t even drive over here.”

I put the car in park and said, “Then why don’t you try your hand at driving, since I suck so much?”

She smiled and said, “Fine by me.”

We switched seats and drove in silence, the only sound the idiotic voice from the GPS.

Finally, I said, “I won’t turn into the monster you knew before. That won’t happen.”

She looked at me, judging my face. She said, “I don’t believe that.”

Stung, I said, “I won’t. I’m not like that anymore.”

She said, “You miss my meaning. I understand the monster, and sometimes it’s good to let it run free.”

I couldn’t believe the words had come out of her mouth. I wondered if it was a trick.

Turning down a small side road, she said, “These people are evil. They are the monsters.”






35




Braden McKee passed the gendarme patrol and continued southeast on rue Saint-Luc, walking at an unhurried pace. He saw the church known as Saint-Bernard de la Chapelle, the landmark for their safe house. He began counting alleys and turned down the fourth one. He found himself in a courtyard of brick, the small area full of broken wine bottles and newspapers, a rusty bicycle chained to a fence, its seat long gone. After a quick glance around, he entered a repugnant apartment complex through an unlocked gate made of black iron.

Walking by a rack of mailboxes, most with the hatch open or missing, he left the sunlight of the courtyard, the only illumination available. He entered a stairwell and turned on a flashlight to fight the gloom. He carefully walked to the fourth floor, stepping around the debris his torch revealed and breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell of urine. He used a key on the second door to the left, entering a small flat. Inside, there was no furniture. Just cracked linoleum and stained walls. He went to the bedroom and found a neat stack of boxes on the floor. Packages of RDX, rolls of detonation cord, and boxes of nails.

He went to work, first covering the windows on the eastern wall with sackcloth to block out any snooping eyes, then set about building the trap, working with no more excitement than a man hanging drywall.

Ringing the room in small packets of explosives, he worked to ensure the detonation was contained within this flat and that nobody in the flats to the left or right would be harmed. The only targets would be those who entered.

Once he was finished daisy-chaining the explosives to the detonation cord, he began mating them with the nails. He paid special attention to the entry door. It was here that the greatest chance of escape lay, either because of a bottleneck at entry, or because they’d figured out the trap and were rushing to exit.

He’d positioned four explosive charges, two low and two high, and now aimed the nail packages so they would crisscross two feet in front of the door, like four shower heads spraying out. They would eviscerate anyone unlucky enough to be standing in the cone of fire.