No Fortunate Son Read online

  Also by Brad Taylor

  One Rough Man

  All Necessary Force

  Enemy of Mine

  The Widow’s Strike

  The Polaris Protocol

  Days of Rage

  Short Works

  The Callsign

  Gut Instinct

  Black Flag

  The Dig

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  Copyright © 2015 by Brad Taylor

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  DUTTON—EST. 1852 (Stylized) and DUTTON are registered trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Taylor, Brad, 1965–

  No fortunate son : a Pike Logan thriller / Brad Taylor.

  pages ; cm.—(A Pike Logan thriller)

  ISBN 978-0-698-18605-7

  1. Special forces (Military science)—United States—Fiction. 2. Special operations (Military science)—Fiction. 3. Terrorism—Prevention—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3620.A9353N6 2015

  813'.6—dc23

  2014036011

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To my siblings:

  Scott, while lying in the mud with flashlights all over, for showing me that humans see what they want to see. Something that served me well in some sticky situations later in life. “You only get arrested if you’re caught.”

  Cindy, for showing me a strength that few possess. You’ll never know how much I leaned on that during some hard times.

  Becca, after an ill-advised prank, for showing me I didn’t have to be faster than the man chasing us. I only had to be faster than you. Sorry about the beating . . .

  CONTENTS

  Also by Brad Taylor

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  DAY ONE: The Misfire

  Chapter 1

  DAY TWO: The Prize

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  DAY THREE: The Rollup

  Chapter 4

  DAY FOUR: The Panic

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  DAY FIVE: The Hunt

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  I’ve helped to wind up the clock—I might as well hear it strike.

  The O’Rahilly, Easter Sunday, Dublin, Ireland, 1916

  DAY ONE

  The Misfire

  1

  The woman caught Aiden’s eye a second time and he realized she was stalking him. Which he found ironic, given he was in the process of hunting another, although he was fairly sure her idea of success was much different than his. Older than the average female at the bar, she projected an air of quiet desperation, with a sultry smile covering her misery like a cheap coat of paint, the pain clearly evident underneath.

  Surrounded on all sides by soldiers barely over drinking age, most having recently returned from a combat deployment with the 82nd Airborne, she longed to get away from the smell of stale beer and testosterone. She was searching for someone to take her from the bravado of arms. Someone who didn’t have the stench of combat surrounding his every move. A civilized man who didn’t believe that training to kill was a decent way to make a living.

  She could be forgiven in her assessment, as Aiden Kelleher was much older than most of the men in the bar. His haircut, clothes, and demeanor did not mark him as a soldier. At least not a US one, with Tapout T-shirts, shaved heads, and skull tattoos. If asked, he certainly considered himself no less a soldier than the rowdy men in the bar. He had taken lives in the name of a cause, and he most certainly knew that killing was a noble way to make a living.

  Maybe I’ll come back here later. Taste a little American sweetness.

  He smiled to himself, knowing that wasn’t going to happen. He’d already raised his signature simply by opening his mouth, his accent causing the bartender to comment. He might be remembered, which wasn’t good, considering what he had planned.

  He felt his phone vibrate and checked the number. He held the cell up in the air, letting his partner see it at a table across from the bar, then exited so he could talk in private.

  “I have him in the bar, but I’ve raised my signature. The police will retrace his steps, and I might be ment
ioned.”

  “Can you still get him?”

  “I think so, if you want to push it. I would prefer to wait.”

  “We don’t have time. He’s set to go on a military exercise tomorrow, and we only have three days. You miss him tonight, and we lose him.”

  “We still have the others, right?”

  “Maybe. All will have the same issues as you, so we might miss more than just this one. Once they connect who we’re after, they will lock them all down tight. All six will be protected. It might even take less than three days for that to happen.”

  “Then tonight it is.”

  He hung up, texting the numbers 11111 to his partner’s phone, letting him know the mission was being forced, then reentered the bar, looking instinctively at the target’s table. He was gone, and so was Aiden’s partner. He felt his phone vibrate and read the text.

  In the cigar bar. Paying his tab.

  The establishment their target had chosen was called Itz Entertainment City, a large building with a multitude of different venues, including a standard sports bar with the usual chain of flat-screen televisions, a comedy club, a dance club, and a cigar bar. It was a place frequented by soldiers from the sprawling Fort Bragg in Fayetteville, North Carolina. For the most part, their target had spent his time in the sports bar, drinking sparingly and talking with friends. He’d come alone, and, given his field time tomorrow, Aiden was sure he’d leave alone.

  Aiden turned to exit, staging for the follow, and bumped into the woman. He saw she was considerably more intoxicated than he’d thought before, swaying slightly and using the bar for support.

  “Hey, I’d thought you’d left.” She gave a crooked smile. “Did you come back looking for something?”

  “I’m sorry, no. I’m actually leaving now.”

  Her eyes clouded in confusion, his accent struggling to find a foothold in her soaked brain. He moved past her, hearing, “Hey, are you British?”

  The comment drove a needle of anger deep between his eyes, causing him to squeeze them shut harshly. He whirled around and said, “No, you stupid American cow. Irish. Irish.”

  She stumbled back at his ferocity, and he knew he’d made a mistake. Knew he’d let his hatred overcome his discipline for the mission. She would remember him for sure now. He smiled and said, “You going to be here when I get back?”

  Caught off guard, the liquor clouding her judgment, she said nothing, a confused grin on her face. She hesitantly nodded. He smiled again and brushed her shoulder, saying, “See you soon.”

  The touch made her beam, but Aiden didn’t notice. Behind her he saw his target leaving the establishment. She said something he didn’t catch, and he walked to the exit, waiting a beat to let the target get some distance. He dialed his partner.

  “Dermot, it’s Aiden. Where are you?”

  “Already in the car. I got him in sight. You’re clear to leave.”

  Aiden speed-walked to the driver’s side of their rental, sliding behind the wheel. Fiddling with a laptop, Dermot said, “Backup is on station. Waiting on the beacon to lock. What did Seamus say?”

  “It’s now or never. We miss him tonight, we pull out.”

  Dermot’s computer flashed and he said, “Then let’s get him tonight.”

  “Where’s he headed?”

  “That road called Skeebo or Skibo or whatever.”

  Aiden took a right on Legend Avenue, saying, “We keep following until he gives up for the night. Same plan. We take him at the apartment.”

  They traveled through the heart of Fayetteville, passing malls and hotels, until eventually they were on a road called Morganton, the target seven cars up in the right-hand turn lane.

  Aiden said, “Is that Reilly Road?”

  “Yes.” Dermot’s teeth flashed in the dark. “Good omen.”

  “He’s headed home. Get the backup ready.”

  Dermot began dialing as the light turned green. Aiden crowded the car in front of him, pushing to get into the turn lane. Unconcerned before about maintaining a close distance to the target—in fact preferring to let the beacon do the work—he now needed to be in a position to assault. He heard one horn blare, saw the light go yellow, and blasted through the turn, now two cars back.

  Aiden saw a sign for Stewarts Creek Condominiums and felt the excitement of the hunt rise. He said, “Get ready. Get backup ready. Remember, no shooting. No harm.”

  The target’s turn signal began to blink, and Aiden’s mind flashed to Belfast and the hunting of men. He felt his lip curl involuntarily, his hands crimping the steering wheel in an effort to release the adrenaline. He had to consciously remind himself that there would be no killing here. A death would be worse than counterproductive.

  The target pulled into the entrance for the complex and Aiden goosed the pedal to catch up. His headlights splashed the back window, and he saw the brake lights too late. He skidded forward, punching the bumper hard enough to slam Dermot against the dash.

  The world stopped for a moment, the only sound the ticking of the engine under the crumpled hood. This was not what Aiden had intended at all.

  Dermot said, “Abort.”

  Aiden saw the door open in front of him and said, “Call the backup. We take him here. Right now, before someone else shows up.”

  “He’s completely alert. What if he comes out shooting?”

  “God damn it, all he knows is he was hit from behind. Why would he come out shooting?”

  “Because this is America. Everyone has a gun.”

  Aiden snorted and said, “Bullshit. That’s Hollywood.” He opened the door and swung out, seeing his target in the glare of a streetlight, standing next to the car with his hands on his hips. He said, “Hey, sorry. My fault.”

  He took two steps forward, not realizing his mistake. While Aiden was correct in his assessment of the average American civilian, it fell woefully short for his given target. He knew Staff Sergeant Bryan Cransfield had recently returned from Afghanistan but did not realize that the man’s hard-fought sense of survival had not yet returned to civilization. This soldier was still living in a world where green-on-blue attacks dominated his psyche. Where he’d seen a friend killed by the very men he was training. And unlike the majority of America, Sergeant Cransfield now traveled armed.

  He’d survived a year in Afghanistan, but the experience had killed him without him even knowing. Had he been less aware, less attuned to potential threats, he would have lived to see the sunrise. He would have only been captured. But he couldn’t be faulted for that. He couldn’t know that the car behind him wasn’t armed. Or about the car in front that was.

  Sergeant Cransfield said, “Why are you following me?”

  Aiden saw the blunt glare of a semiautomatic pistol. He shot his arms in the air, shouting, “Hey, no, wait!”

  The soldier raised the weapon and said again, “Why are you fucking following me? I saw you in the bar. What do you want?”

  Aiden saw a flurry of movement behind the soldier and knew it was too late. He shouted, “No! Don’t!” but the rounds cracked anyway, the backup team removing the threat. Sergeant Cransfield was struck in the shoulder and collapsed into the car. From the seat he ripped off three rounds. Aiden heard the bullets puncture his windshield and dove to the ground. He crawled backward and heard two more sharp cracks, then his name called.

  He stood up and ran, reaching the target car and the backup team. Staff Sergeant Cransfield was lying across the seat, eyes open and skull split from the kill shot. Aiden slammed the backup against the doorframe, shouting, “What the fuck are you doing?”

  The man bucked forward, shoving Aiden hard enough to cause him to stumble. “He was going to kill you, you fucking tool!”

  Aiden leaned back and rubbed his face, thinking. He said, “Shit. Get your team and leg it out of here. Drive his vehicle deep into the wood
s. We’ll deal with this later.”

  Without another word, Aiden ran back to his car and slid behind the wheel. He said, “That Muppet Smythe killed the target.”

  He got no reply. He turned to the right and saw a single hole settled just below Dermot’s right eye.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  He put the car in gear and backed out, assessing the disaster. Not only had they failed to take their target alive, but they’d lost a man in the process. He hoped the other five targets went better than this.

  He turned onto Morganton, running through his mind how he was going to deal with Dermot, cataloging his network of American contacts to make the corpse disappear. It wasn’t until he reached Skibo that he realized the target’s body would be found, causing a police investigation.

  Which meant the killing wasn’t done. He turned onto Skibo heading back to the sports bar, and the woman who knew his accent.

  DAY TWO

  The Prize

  2

  The car windows began to steam, Kylie feeling the man’s hands fumbling inexpertly at her bra, half of her brain begging him to figure it out while the other half focused on his belt. She felt the strap on her back release and had a split second of regret, wondering if she should stop the train of hormones raging in the cloistered confines. Get back to just talking, like she’d promised herself would happen.

  She thought of what her Scottish roommate had told her just before she’d left, after she’d emphatically stated yet again that she wasn’t seeing anyone. An impish grin on her face, the roommate had said, “I know what you Americans call this. When I did my student exchange to Virginia, it was all about ‘what happens on an exchange stays on the exchange.’”

  And now she was in the backseat of a car, not with a British aristocrat, but an American soldier. Someone she’d been trying hard not to like, but had been failing. Her mother would lose her mind if she knew she was seeing someone in the military, which is why she’d been so secretive—even in a foreign country.

  But maybe that was part of the attraction.

  He parted her shirt and leaned forward, using his mouth, causing an involuntary gasp. She forgot about his belt and arched her back, wrapping her hands in his hair with her eyes closed.