No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(66)

I said, “You sure you can do this? The stone’s going to be wet as shit.”

She was a bundle of energy, her entire body vibrating in anticipation. No fear. No hesitation. Everything that had been said in the room was gone. I realized my question was stupid.

She pulled me into the wall, out of the rain and into the darkness. She said, “I get caught, you get me out, right?”

I said, “Of course.”

She nodded and clicked her earpiece, not even waiting on me, taking over the operation. “Dunkin, Dunkin, this is Koko, you on?”

“I got you Lima Charlie. Ready to slave.”

I heard the words from my own earpiece and started to say something, but she put a finger to my lips. “I get to say it this time.”

She pulled her shoes off and handed them to me. Standing barefoot, she took a deep breath, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Showtime,” then slipped around the edge of the wall.

I watched her leave and felt my emotions go into turmoil. Part of me wanted to stop her, a feeling of impotence flowing through me because I was putting her in harm’s way without a means of helping her. If she were hurt, it would be my fault. And I wasn’t sure if I could live with that.

I lost sight of her and began the long wait to hear she was inside, the rain dripping down from the awning I was cowering under. I heard a noise and saw a rat, scuttling about the adjacent outdoor café, looking for scraps. I waited a minute more, then leaned out into the street. I saw her thirty feet in the air, clinging to an outcropping of granite, her feet swinging about, searching for purchase. I knew she was in trouble, but, outside of standing below to catch her, I could do nothing. I watched for what felt like hours, but was probably five seconds, and saw her feet connect with a stone, her toes curling into the veins.

She paused, and I clicked in. “Koko, you okay?”

She came on, breathing heavy. “Yeah. I’m okay. This granite is slick as goose shit. You owe me big time.”

I smiled. “I’m always owing somebody.”

I saw her start climbing again and heard, “But this time I’m making you pay up.”

She reached the window, and I saw her lean over and place the slave device on the cable coming out of the camera, working the claws past the insulation with one hand alone. I heard, “Dunkin, slave in place. You got feed?”

“Stand by.”

A second later, he said, “Got it. All feeds. Nine cameras. You’re good. Everything is empty except for the front desk. Security is in place and bored.”

She started cutting the window. From the keycard, we knew this guy had rented the room for three weeks. Since he was dead, we didn’t have a whole lot of fear of anyone finding the break-in.

She started to open the window, and I saw headlights on the road. I said, “Car. Hug the wall.”

She froze, and I waited. She was outside of the cone of the headlights, and the rain would make it hard for anyone driving by to see her, but movement would be a killer.

The vehicle passed, and she went back to work. Shortly, I saw her disappear, a black blob that simply ceased to exist.

I heard, “Inside. Room is empty. Some clothes, but nothing else.”

“Nothing interesting? No documents or anything else?”

“No. But we know this guy was in Dublin. He probably packed out to go there, leaving the bare minimum here.”

I said, “Okay, get to the garage. Get me in.”






46




I left the alley and rounded the corner, walking to the indoor garage. I reached the entrance and said, “Dunkin, you got the view in the garage?”

“Yep.”

“Is it clear?”

“Yeah. Nothing.”

“Tell me if you see me on camera.” I retraced my steps earlier and said, “I’m set.”

“Saw nothing.”

Which made me feel a little bit better about our earlier reconnaissance. I said, “Koko, you coming?”

“Yeah. Thirty seconds.”

I waited, and then heard a knock on the door. I knocked back, and it opened, Jennifer looking like a bedraggled cat that had been thrown in a bathtub full of water. Except for her eyes. There was no misery in them.

She said, “Stairwell’s pretty secure. It’s not one used by the guests, but there’s a camera on the first floor. We’re going to be on tape.”

I pulled off my knapsack, handed her the Serb pistol she’d earned in London, then gave her shoes to her and said, “Not bad for a female.”

She put them on, saying, “Really? Funny, I didn’t see you scaling the wall.”

I said, “Touché. Let’s go.”

We retraced her steps up the stairwell, hugging the sheetrock to avoid the single camera on the first-floor landing. I tossed her my knapsack and said, “Get out the radar scope.”

I peeked out the door and saw it was clear. The floor was small, with two rooms to the left—including the one Jennifer had entered—and two to the right, separated by about fifty feet of hallway. I made a beeline for the target room on the right, then held up, Jennifer bumping into my back like a Three Stooges act. I flashed her the keycard and nodded, a silent command. She placed what looked like a small brick against the door, reading a digital screen.