No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(90)

I found my mates sitting in the far back. I passed the beers out and said, “Well? What did you find?”

Brett leaned forward conspiratorially and said, “Look over to the right.”

I did and saw a round vending machine. Nothing else. I said, “What?”

“That thing dispenses Pringles potato chip cans. Weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I looked at Retro, and he said, “It’s true. I got a picture.”

I said, “Who gives a shit? What about our target?”

Retro said, “Well, unless it’s those two guys up front dressed like bums, it’s got to be the two lovebirds in the cubby.”

I said, “Really? You’ve got the balls to insult someone else’s clothes?”

Retro got his callsign because of his dress. He consistently looked as if he were trying out for Saturday Night Fever, wearing clothes that were twenty or thirty years out of date. I used to think he just refused to buy anything new, but it had been going on as long as I’d known him, and I now secretly suspected he was purposely finding old stuff at Goodwill or other secondhand stores.

Brett chuckled and said, “We’ve recced the entire place. The back room is empty. You’ve seen everyone here. If that chick was telling the truth, it has to be one of those guys in the cubby.”

After finally convincing the National Command Authority that we had indeed rescued the Clute twins, things had accelerated almost out of my control, making me wonder if I was going to regret asking for help.

The support team had showed up just fine, and we’d done a thorough CSI-like scrub of the apartment, with one egghead taking DNA and other biometrics, and a couple of others going through the apartment with a fine-tooth comb. It reminded me of the cleaner in Pulp Fiction.

In the end, they didn’t get a whole lot. They would forensically check the phones and other electronics in more depth back in the rear, but the bad guys had used the same VOIP app that had stymied us in the past. The flip phone we found had one number: Braden’s.

The only thing of interest was a notebook with addresses. One was the safe house where I’d found Kylie’s pendant. Another was the hotel in Brussels that we’d broken into. A third was the death house that had almost killed Knuckles and Brett. After that, there were a few that I didn’t know, and all would need to be investigated, but one caught my eye. An address for someone named Clynne in Cork City, Ireland.

I’d left the support package to deal with the bodies, taking Jennifer and Nung with me to the Paris airport. I had no idea how they dealt with such things and half expected one of the eggheads to start pouring acid in the bathtub.

We had finally linked back up with the vaunted Taskforce Rock Star bird and the team, minus Knuckles. He’d taken a few licks and was headed home. Nothing major, but enough to keep him out of the fight. I texted him, calling him a * and poking him in the eye for leaving me high and dry yet again, and was surprised at the pleasure I got in his reply. Not the words. Just the fact that he could type them.

For the record, he sent a real vote of confidence: Don’t kill my men doing something stupid.

I’d sent back, Stupid? Who’s going home with stitches in his ass?

We’d taken off to Ireland and had learned in-flight that the Oversight Council was sending LTC Blaine Alexander and an Omega package. Which meant either they were finally taking me seriously, or they really, really didn’t trust me.

In an ordinary mission, when we’d built up enough evidence that a terrorist was to be taken off the board, Blaine would show up to control the operation, juggling everything from talking to the president to coordinating all the intricate cover concerns in the targeted country. In this case, we had very little, so his inclusion was a tad strange.

I didn’t mind. We’d butted heads in the past, but he was a good guy and someone I trusted. In the end, all it did was give me cover from the head shed, since technically he was in charge, so anything that happened would fall on him to explain.

I’d picked up Brett and Retro, so with Nung and Jennifer, that gave me almost a whole team. I’d decided not to fly to the Cork City airport because of the risk. It was beyond believable that our opposition had the place wired, but then again I would have never pegged them to set such a diabolical trap in Paris. I was taking no chances.

I redirected to Shannon airfield, about two hours north of Cork City. There were other, closer places, but Shannon had a long history of helping out US government flights, including CIA rendition aircraft, so I preferred the infrastructure in place. While we had all the requisite tail numbers and documentation, we also had a near-term history of some weird-ass flying, and they knew when to look the other way.

We’d landed and linked up with Blaine in the lobby of the Shannon airport fixed-base operator, a place that serviced private aircraft—usually rock stars or oil magnates. Blaine seemed a little hesitant, wondering how I’d treat him, since not too long ago he’d tried to lock me up on a mission in the US that had gone sideways. I decided to make him pay a little bit, putting on my war face and saying, “What the f*ck are you doing here?”

Taken aback, he’d lowered his outstretched hand and said, “You didn’t get the word?”

Jennifer had elbowed my kidney and shook her head. She said, “Yeah, we got the word and appreciate the assistance.”

Then she glared at me.