No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(54)

Finished, he surveyed the room, ensuring that at detonation no corner would be free from the hail of metal or flame. His last act was to set the Samsung phone on the windowsill, running its charger to an outlet just below. He checked to make sure the det cord and initiation device would reach the tail hanging from the mini USB plug of the phone.

Satisfied, he stood, hands on his hips. Proud of his work. The pain of the men receiving his creation never crossed his mind. The same way the United States hadn’t thought about his brother when he was ripped in half by an IED in Iraq.

Reap what you sow.






36




The GPS burped, and Jennifer pulled over to the side of the road. “This is it.”

I looked out and saw a row of town houses, split by alleys every fifty meters or so. I pulled out my smartphone, looking at the geolocation that Colonel Hale had sent. It was centered right over a house a hundred meters down the road, but that technology wasn’t perfectly accurate. I said, “Shit. That grid isn’t going to be good enough. We could be a house over. I was hoping for a stand-alone.”

Jennifer said, “You want to watch awhile? See what we can find?”

I thought about it, then said, “Yeah. Let’s see what comes out.”

Four hours later, after watching the comings and goings of various families from the town houses to the left and right of our target, but nothing from the house itself, I said, “The grid’s correct. The other houses all have kids, so I doubt there’s someone chained in the bathroom. I think our target is deserted. Let’s do what we did before. Go bang on the door. Let’s stir things up.”

“And if Braden answers?”

I pulled out the weapon from the Serbs, a Glock 19 complete with suppressor, and said, “He gets to meet the monster.”

She nodded, then said, “Okay, but the monster only comes out if necessary. Right?”

I chuckled. “Yeah, okay. I won’t shoot someone just to do it, but odds are this is a dead end.”

We went to the front stoop and I peered into the glass on the door, unable to see anything because of the drapes. I surveyed the area, seeing a small front yard that was overgrown and trash-ridden, a beat-up grill rusting on the side. The house to the left, across a cinderblock wall, had an immaculate lawn, complete with birdbath. The one on the opposite side of the street had the same manicured landscape with children’s toys littered about. To the right was a narrow alley, made of concrete and gravel and lined with trash cans.

This house is unoccupied.

I looked at Jennifer and raised my hand to knock. She took a knee against the brick wall, her weapon held low. I banged on the door, my own pistol held at the ready. Nobody answered. I waited and knocked again. Nothing. The lead had turned into a bust.

We could find the landlord, see who had rented the place, but it was looking as if there had been some spoofing with the phone. Hell, maybe the damn thing hadn’t even connected in Ireland. I was beginning to feel foolish for contacting Kurt. I said, “This is a dry hole.”

Jennifer said, “Let’s check around back. See if we can find something that way.”

She pointed to the alley, and I agreed, if only to keep the pain of failure at bay. We stashed our weapons and walked around the corner, then down the alley. One side was the edge of the town house, the other a concrete wall that was taller than me and topped with razor wire, making me wonder what the hell kind of neighborhood had birdbaths out front and slicing metal in the rear.

We turned the corner, walking down the back of the town house until we reached a large rolling metal gate. Jennifer started snooping. I held back, checking our six. Waiting on someone to ask what we were doing.

She prodded a window just above ground level, saying, “This is open.”

I said, “So?”

“So let’s check out the inside.”

Surprised at her willingness to break the law, I mentally measured and said, “I can’t fit.”

“I can.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “You sure?”

For an answer, she pried it open and began squirming through. I took a knee and pulled security, feeling a little like a loser. Me pulling security while she did the work.

She slipped in and I waited, hearing nothing, but prepared to run around to the front and kick in the door if I did. Eventually, she reappeared.

She wriggled out, struggling to escape the small window. Kneeling, she said, “Someone was held here.”

“What? How do you know?”

“The place is empty, but inside the basement is a bucket, and it’s full of excrement. Someone was forced to use it.”

I took that in, and she continued, “Also, I think there’s blood on the floor. Near a side door.”

I said, “Blood? How do you know?”

“I don’t, but there are two smears that look like blood.”

“Where? What side door?” I hadn’t seen one when we had come down the alley.

She started walking back, pacing the distance. She stopped and pointed at a hatch, barely four feet tall. A piece of plywood, but sure enough, it had hinges and a handle. It looked like access to an HVAC, not an entrance. She said, “That’s it. The floor is another two feet below.”

I tugged on the handle, and she said, “It’s padlocked from the inside.”