No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(81)

“No. I’ve got no equipment.”

He squinted. I knew he was reflecting on the fact that we weren’t in the active lineup, something confirmed by a lack of basic Taskforce equipment.

I said, “I don’t have a support package. It diverted to the crisis site. I need something else.”

The answer seemed to make sense. He said, “Well, I could find the Internet service provider that’s tied to the IP address. I could locate who’s paying the bills for the ISP.”

“Do it.”

We waited ten minutes and he came back on. “It’s an apartment rental service. They provide fully furnished short-term apartments in Paris for international travelers. Unfortunately, they pay for Internet service at all of their apartments. They’re scattered throughout Paris. I know that’s not much.”

It was more help than he understood. “Can you hack into the rental service?”

“Yeah. Probably won’t be too much trouble.”

He started pounding the keys, shouting over his shoulder to another guy, speaking in computer geek code and finally getting into the mission.

I said, “Give me the apartment address Braden McKee is renting. He’s from Ireland.”

They worked a bit, and he said, “Okay, we’re in. The problem is the foreign registrations are logged by passport number and nationality, I guess for privacy purposes. I’ve got twelve apartments in Paris for Irish nationals. I can’t get any better without having the guy’s passport.”

I heard Jennifer start ripping through the knapsack of jewels we’d pulled off Braden. She turned to me, holding the key to the hostages in her hand.

I smiled and said, “Guess what I have?”






56




Eating her bowl of cereal next to Mack, Kaelyn Clute had grown used to the routine. After the scare when they’d driven to the rundown apartment, things had drifted back into an endless repetition of darkness and light, split only by the once-a-day feeding. The hood had become almost a welcome cocoon, though she still despised the gag. It had grown crusty with her spittle and had begun to stink.

She rubbed Mack’s leg with each spoonful, and he did the same in return, a system of connection that reassured her and gave her strength. She saw the level of her bowl and had learned through repeated feedings that she had about another five minutes with McKinley.

The man in the chair to her front slapped his back pocket and pulled out a phone. He glanced at the other man and flicked his head out the door. “Be right back. Probably Braden.”

It was the first time since they’d made the video that the routine had been broken, and for some reason it scared her. She put the spoon down and tried to listen but heard nothing through the door. She ate more slowly, catching Mack’s eye.

The man returned, talking into a phone.

—“Braden told us to wait. He would take the video. Why are we executing now?” He looked into her eyes.

—“Yeah, let me talk to him.”

—“Seamus, what’s up? We still tracking?”

—“Yeah, yeah, I can do it,” he said, still looking at her. “Kevin gave me the instructions. I won’t screw up. Look, Fayetteville was a mistake, but it doesn’t make me an idiot.” His next words proved the statement a lie, an unnecessary call to action to the two hostages in the room.

—“Leave the bodies here?”

She heard nothing else, unable to focus on the conversation, her hands shaking, the spoon rattling in the bowl.

The man ended the call and said, “He wants us to execute, but Seamus doesn’t trust us. Wants me to send him a Snapchat first so Kevin can analyze it. Make sure we’re clean.”

He pulled out an iPhone, then a piece of paper with instructions on it. He began going through the phone settings, manually manipulating the privacy settings. When he was done, he said, “Look over here.”

The other man grunted and said, “You want me to smile?”

He held the phone up and said, “I don’t give a shit.”

Two minutes later, he sent the video and said, “Get them back into the hoods.”

Kaelyn saw the man advancing, telling her to replace the gag around her neck, and she knew it was now or never. She looked at Mack and he nodded, understanding the same thing she did. They were going to die.

But not on their knees.

She leapt up, her ankles still flex-tied, and threw herself at the first man, catching him just below the waist. He shouted and went down. She rolled over and began screaming, “Help us, help us!”

Hopping like he was in a macabre three-legged race at a company picnic, McKinley drove himself into the other man. He dropped the phone and scrambled for his pistol in the small of his back. McKinley beat him to the draw, launching forward with his entire weight, punching the man and tying up his arms.

Kaelyn rolled over, getting on top of the first man, still screaming as loud as she could, hammering him in the face. The man elbowed her in the temple, causing stars, but she continued fighting. She clawed his eyes, desperately trying to put him down. He drew his pistol and slammed the barrel into her forehead. The fight left her, the light from the room tunneling away. She fell over.

Her vision blurry, she heard the man shout something, his barrel pressed against her forehead. She tried to yell, to tell Mack that at least one should live. To tell him to continue fighting. Nothing came out. She saw McKinley sag back, the will gone from the sight of the gun to her head. The man punched him in the face, knocking him to the floor. She began to weep.