No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(57)

They drove away from it and headed northeast, and the neighborhoods began to become run-down. Eventually, they were traveling down small roads teeming with African immigrants. She saw a sign for an Islamic studies institute and committed the name to memory. Two turns later, and they were driving by an ornate Orthodox church.

Another anchor.

He put the building in the rearview mirror, then turned into a courtyard, honking at two men loitering in front of a wrought-iron gate. They shouted at him in French but moved out of the way. Parking behind another sedan, he exited and walked around to her side and pointed to an archway leading inside a dilapidated apartment complex.

He opened the door, saying, “Inside there. Take it slow. No sudden movements. Show me you want to obey. Don’t make me guess.”

She walked through an arch. Stung by the smell, she hovered in the shadows, waiting on a command. He turned on a flashlight and pointed to a graffiti-stained stairwell. “Fourth floor.”

She walked forward, gingerly picking her way, the small cone of light dancing behind her. They reached the fourth floor and he said, “Right.” She started moving, wondering if she was walking to her death. Wondering if it wouldn’t be better to run now. She passed one door and reached a second, having the thought taken from her by a command.

“Stop.”

He knocked on the door, and the man called Braden opened it. He said, “Come in.”

She hesitated.

Louder, he said, “McKinley, tell her to come in.”

She heard, “Kaelyn, I’m here.”

The relief was so great she thought she would collapse. She stumbled through the door and walked inside, embracing Mack. Braden broke them apart, saying, “Look. All we’re doing is providing proof of life. Your people want you back, and we want to give you to them, provided they pay a price.”

She saw Mack steel himself and wanted to stop him from talking. Wanted to acquiesce to whatever they asked. Then felt ashamed, as a Navy officer, that she would.

Mack said, “What price? I won’t participate in this as some propaganda stunt. I don’t know what you are trying to do, but it won’t be with my help.”

He looked at her with a sense of regret, and she nodded, saying, “Neither will I.”

Braden sighed. “Look, all we’re doing is extorting money. I need proof of life from you. I’d like to make it dramatic, but I can do it however you want. Your participation is a foregone conclusion.”

Mack said, “Bullshit. What’s all of the RDX for? The det cord running around the room? We’re dead anyway.”

For the first time, Kaelyn saw a myriad of small packages on the walls, all staggered symmetrically. A deathtrap she didn’t comprehend, but she understood her brother’s words. She went pale.

Braden pulled a pistol and aimed it at Kaelyn’s head. He said, “Do it your way, then. Tie him the f*ck up.”

The two men descended, and Kaelyn sprang toward Mack. Braden grabbed her wrist and jammed the barrel into her head. “Don’t. You aren’t dying today unless you fight.”

She watched, helpless, as her brother was beaten into submission, the two men punching like machines. No joy or anger. Just work. Eventually, he was flex-tied hand and foot.

Braden said, “Now your turn. Would you like to fight?”

Internally, she knew she should. Knew it was required, if only to preserve her own image of what was heroic. She did not. She told herself it was because she needed her strength to escape, if the opportunity presented itself. Needed to prevent any damage that would harm that chance. It was the truth, but it did nothing to salve her feeling of cowardice.

She went to the floor and in short order was tied just like her brother. Braden said, “Put on the hoods.”

She lay in the darkness for a moment, hearing scuffling around.

Braden’s voice: “Okay, get them parallel. You need to be off camera when you pull the hoods. Do not get in the way of the lens. Don’t worry about talking. There is no audio.”

She touched her brother in the back, a stroke to let him know she was there. A shadow appeared above her head. Braden said, “Get them on their knees.”

A hoist, and she was up.

“Okay, on the count of three. One . . . two . . . three.”

The hood was ripped away, and she saw Braden with an iPhone, taking video. She glared at him and realized she’d given him exactly what he wanted when he said, “Perfect.”

The hoods returned, and she heard Braden say, “Put them in the bedroom. Cinch them tight. This is home for a while.”

She heard the words and realized the man had told the truth. They wouldn’t be killed today. But tomorrow was a short twenty-four hours away.






39




Braden exited into the courtyard, dialing Seamus through the VOIP application, and Seamus answered with a flustered tone.

“Hey, it’s Braden. You sound like you’re in the gym working out.”

“I’m on the M7 fighting through the Muppet tourists. Frog called today. Our black friend is in town and wants to meet.”

“Now? It’s a week early.”

“Yeah, I know. This shit has been one short circuit after another. Nothing I can do about it. I’m on my way to Dublin. What’s up with you?”

“Got the Snapchat. They’re tucked in tight. It’ll look good.”