No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(78)

“I’m not sure. You think you could talk the team through the Snapchat procedures? Make sure they send it in such a way that it can’t be tracked?”

“Yeah, it’s really not that hard. I can send them step-by-step instructions.”

“Seamus,” Colin said. “You need to take this call.” His face was drained of color, and his hand that held the phone was trembling.

“Who is it?”

“Ratko.”

Seamus took the phone, cleared his throat, and said, “Ratko?”

“Where is your shit of a brother? Where are my jewels?”

“How did you get this number?”

“Never mind that. Where is your brother? He won’t answer the phone.”

“I thought he was meeting you in Brussels tomorrow? What’s the big deal?”

“He was supposed to call, letting me know he had gotten away clean. He never did, but the news is talking about the robbery and not saying a damn word about anyone getting arrested.”

Seamus said, “Okay, okay, look, I don’t know where he is, but I don’t think it’s time to panic. Give him a chance.”

Ratko’s voice went cold. “You and that brother had better not be double-crossing me. You wondered how I found this cell number, remember that. Braden doesn’t show in Belgium tomorrow, I’ll find you the same way.”

The line went dead. Seamus put his hand down, and Colin said, “What’s wrong? Why is Ratko pissed?”

“It’s nothing. He’ll calm down.”

“Seamus, I can’t have him hunting me. He’s worse than the law. You hear what those guys do to people? This thing is breaking down.”

Seamus ignored him, turning to Kevin. “Can you call the team with VOIP?”

Kevin nodded.

“Do so. Give them the instructions.”






54




I slapped in the combo to our hotel safe and ripped out the two suppressed pistols, handing one to Jennifer. I was kicking myself for not having them with me in the first place, but when I thought the Paris gendarmerie were on board it made little sense to bring firepower. We weren’t going to actively engage, and trying to penetrate an arrest to interrogate Braden would have been made much, much harder sporting two illegally suppressed Glocks. It wasn’t worth the risk.

I did find it humorous that Jennifer had placed our laptop inside as well, like the maids would have stolen it. For the price we were paying for this Parisian gem, I would expect to be able to leave a couple of half-dressed midgets in the room holding the Glocks and get no flack. Of course, I wasn’t going to push that theory.

She stowed her weapon and booted up the laptop, going online and furiously typing, trying to find the location of the hostages before the men who held them realized something was wrong.

I had nothing else to do, so I called down to Nung, making sure he was ready to receive us when we had a destination. Our hotel wasn’t exactly conducive to vehicles, so I’d had him drop us off, then circle like a shark until summoned. The time getting back to the hotel had eaten up thirty minutes, and I was growing worried that we were about to miss our window. We needed an edge.

Jennifer said, “No, damn it. A Samsung Galaxy,” and I realized she was on a chat with someone at Taskforce headquarters, the Samsung phone hooked to her laptop. She said, “Where’s Creed? Get him online.”

I heard, “He’s at the White House Situation Room. Working the problem.”

I wanted to punch the wall at the words, superstitiously wondering if the devious bastards we were after had managed to divert the one computer geek I trusted at Taskforce headquarters. Refusing to face the real probability that those same devious men might have killed two members of my team. Including Knuckles. My friend and my mentor.

Earlier, we’d searched Braden’s body and found a passport from the UK, confirming his identity, along with two cell phones. The cell he was using when we killed him was a ruggedized flip phone that worked on the cell network like a walkie-talkie. The other was a Samsung Galaxy smartphone, stuffed into his back pocket. I’d continued searching, stripping the body, when a museum official from the exit came down, shocked at what he’d seen.

He’d said, “The police are on the way. Don’t you move.”

Nung had simply looked at him, then at me, saying, “Time to go.”

He’d glided toward the stairs with his catlike gait, and the man stepped aside.

I said, “Give me your radio.” The guard did, and I sprinted up after Nung, reaching the exit and a group of tourists standing around with large eyes, getting more for their entrance fee than they expected.

Marching out as though I owned the place, holding the radio from the man downstairs, I picked out the first thirtysomething man I could find. A guy with Harley-Davidson tattoos and a bad goatee. An American who looked as if he was used to bending the rules.

I’d said, “Don’t let anyone else come up. I’m coordinating the first responders, but I don’t have the manpower to lock down the exit. There’s a bad guy down there.”

His wife or girlfriend said, “That’s not our business . . .” but I saw him grin, looking at my radio. Because, you know, if you’re holding a radio, clearly you’re the authority.