No Fortunate Son Read online

  Jennifer said, “Until we need the backup.”

  I turned down a lane, watching the GPS track, and said, “Yeah, there is that. I called someone else for help, but it’ll be a while before he can get here.”

  Jennifer said, “What? You’re turning into the Man of Mystery. Who did you call?”

  “Nung. Remember him?”

  “The guy from Thailand? How on earth did you have his number?”

  “He gave it to me after we rescued Knuckles. I’ve kept it for a special occasion, and this is it.”

  Nung was the son of an old Air America pilot in Bangkok. Half Thai and half American, he had helped us get Knuckles out of a little prison predicament that hadn’t been exactly smooth. He was as calm a person as I’ve ever seen in a scrape. To be honest, I thought he might be a little crazy, but he was definitely good at mayhem, and that’s something we might need now that Knuckles was off the table.

  “Do you even know his name?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s Nung.”

  “His real name. Nung is the number one in Thai. Did you call for Song as well?”

  Song meant the number two in the Thai language and was the name of another guy who had helped us. I said, “No, I don’t know his name. If he wants to tell us, he can. And it’s just him, no Song.”

  “Why’d he agree to come? What did you promise?”

  “I told him I’d pay him for his services after we found Kylie.”

  She leaned her head back into the rest and closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead as though she had a migraine. We traveled through the small roads, leaving the city center of Dublin behind and heading to the west. Eventually, she said, “How are you going to do that? We don’t have that much cash in the till from Grolier, and the damn plane ticket alone will be enormous.”

  Sheepishly, I said, “I haven’t figured that out yet. Maybe I’ll bill Kurt.”

  She looked at me like I had truly gone off the deep end. She said, “Maybe we should go back to the hotel and get on the VPN. See what Kurt wants. What he’s willing to do before we start building a makeshift team. Before we start wrecking things.”

  I knew what she was asking. She understood that we were hanging out in the wind here. We’d been lucky with the Serbs, but if we found Kylie, it would more than likely be along with a bunch of armed men. Even given our conversation before, she knew someone was going to get killed, and it wasn’t a foregone conclusion that it would be the bad guys, even with Nung on the team.

  I’d been running that very scenario through my head for the short flight over from London. Wondering how far I wanted to go. I’d decided to go as far as it took. Kylie free, or me dead. But that probably wasn’t fair to ask of Jennifer.

  I said, “Hey, I know Kurt. He wants his niece back. And so do I. By giving us the geolocation of the Serb phone call, he’s provided his intent. If I call him now, questioning what I can do, he’ll tell me to back off. He won’t order me to do what’s right. He can’t.”

  I pulled over next to one of the ubiquitous pubs that dotted the city, letting the car idle. I looked at her and said, “I’m going to get her back, but I understand if you want out. It is risky without a team.”

  Jennifer studied my face, then said, “Is this about her, or you?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Is this about your daughter?”

  The question touched a nerve that deserved to be left alone. I said, “What the fuck are you talking about?” I began to wind up for a fine verbal joust, sick of the unfair accusations, but she just stared at me. Burrowing past the scar tissue with her gaze alone. I sagged into the seat and said, “Maybe. Maybe it is. But that doesn’t make it wrong.”

  She said, “I know. Remember Guatemala?”

  Surprised, I turned to face her, wondering where this was going. “Yes. Of course.”

  “I wanted you to come. I didn’t think you would, but I prayed.”

  “And?”

  “And if she’s praying for you like I did, she’s in good company. I just want to know where you stand. What you’re about to do. What we’re about to do.”

  I felt a grin break on my face. “You don’t have to come. I can get her back with Nung.”

  She said, “Are you kidding me? You can’t even drive over here.”

  I put the car in park and said, “Then why don’t you try your hand at driving, since I suck so much?”

  She smiled and said, “Fine by me.”

  We switched seats and drove in silence, the only sound the idiotic voice from the GPS.

  Finally, I said, “I won’t turn into the monster you knew before. That won’t happen.”

  She looked at me, judging my face. She said, “I don’t believe that.”

  Stung, I said, “I won’t. I’m not like that anymore.”

  She said, “You miss my meaning. I understand the monster, and sometimes it’s good to let it run free.”

  I couldn’t believe the words had come out of her mouth. I wondered if it was a trick.

  Turning down a small side road, she said, “These people are evil. They are the monsters.”

  35

  Braden McKee passed the gendarme patrol and continued southeast on rue Saint-Luc, walking at an unhurried pace. He saw the church known as Saint-Bernard de la Chapelle, the landmark for their safe house. He began counting alleys and turned down the fourth one. He found himself in a courtyard of brick, the small area full of broken wine bottles and newspapers, a rusty bicycle chained to a fence, its seat long gone. After a quick glance around, he entered a repugnant apartment complex through an unlocked gate made of black iron.

  Walking by a rack of mailboxes, most with the hatch open or missing, he left the sunlight of the courtyard, the only illumination available. He entered a stairwell and turned on a flashlight to fight the gloom. He carefully walked to the fourth floor, stepping around the debris his torch revealed and breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell of urine. He used a key on the second door to the left, entering a small flat. Inside, there was no furniture. Just cracked linoleum and stained walls. He went to the bedroom and found a neat stack of boxes on the floor. Packages of RDX, rolls of detonation cord, and boxes of nails.

  He went to work, first covering the windows on the eastern wall with sackcloth to block out any snooping eyes, then set about building the trap, working with no more excitement than a man hanging drywall.

  Ringing the room in small packets of explosives, he worked to ensure the detonation was contained within this flat and that nobody in the flats to the left or right would be harmed. The only targets would be those who entered.

  Once he was finished daisy-chaining the explosives to the detonation cord, he began mating them with the nails. He paid special attention to the entry door. It was here that the greatest chance of escape lay, either because of a bottleneck at entry, or because they’d figured out the trap and were rushing to exit.

  He’d positioned four explosive charges, two low and two high, and now aimed the nail packages so they would crisscross two feet in front of the door, like four shower heads spraying out. They would eviscerate anyone unlucky enough to be standing in the cone of fire.

  Finished, he surveyed the room, ensuring that at detonation no corner would be free from the hail of metal or flame. His last act was to set the Samsung phone on the windowsill, running its charger to an outlet just below. He checked to make sure the det cord and initiation device would reach the tail hanging from the mini USB plug of the phone.

  Satisfied, he stood, hands on his hips. Proud of his work. The pain of the men receiving his creation never crossed his mind. The same way the United States hadn’t thought about his brother when he was ripped in half by an IED in Iraq.

  Reap what you sow.

  36

  The GPS burped, and Jennifer pulled over to the side of the
road. “This is it.”

  I looked out and saw a row of town houses, split by alleys every fifty meters or so. I pulled out my smartphone, looking at the geolocation that Colonel Hale had sent. It was centered right over a house a hundred meters down the road, but that technology wasn’t perfectly accurate. I said, “Shit. That grid isn’t going to be good enough. We could be a house over. I was hoping for a stand-alone.”

  Jennifer said, “You want to watch awhile? See what we can find?”

  I thought about it, then said, “Yeah. Let’s see what comes out.”

  Four hours later, after watching the comings and goings of various families from the town houses to the left and right of our target, but nothing from the house itself, I said, “The grid’s correct. The other houses all have kids, so I doubt there’s someone chained in the bathroom. I think our target is deserted. Let’s do what we did before. Go bang on the door. Let’s stir things up.”

  “And if Braden answers?”

  I pulled out the weapon from the Serbs, a Glock 19 complete with suppressor, and said, “He gets to meet the monster.”

  She nodded, then said, “Okay, but the monster only comes out if necessary. Right?”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, okay. I won’t shoot someone just to do it, but odds are this is a dead end.”

  We went to the front stoop and I peered into the glass on the door, unable to see anything because of the drapes. I surveyed the area, seeing a small front yard that was overgrown and trash-ridden, a beat-up grill rusting on the side. The house to the left, across a cinderblock wall, had an immaculate lawn, complete with birdbath. The one on the opposite side of the street had the same manicured landscape with children’s toys littered about. To the right was a narrow alley, made of concrete and gravel and lined with trash cans.

  This house is unoccupied.

  I looked at Jennifer and raised my hand to knock. She took a knee against the brick wall, her weapon held low. I banged on the door, my own pistol held at the ready. Nobody answered. I waited and knocked again. Nothing. The lead had turned into a bust.

  We could find the landlord, see who had rented the place, but it was looking as if there had been some spoofing with the phone. Hell, maybe the damn thing hadn’t even connected in Ireland. I was beginning to feel foolish for contacting Kurt. I said, “This is a dry hole.”

  Jennifer said, “Let’s check around back. See if we can find something that way.”

  She pointed to the alley, and I agreed, if only to keep the pain of failure at bay. We stashed our weapons and walked around the corner, then down the alley. One side was the edge of the town house, the other a concrete wall that was taller than me and topped with razor wire, making me wonder what the hell kind of neighborhood had birdbaths out front and slicing metal in the rear.

  We turned the corner, walking down the back of the town house until we reached a large rolling metal gate. Jennifer started snooping. I held back, checking our six. Waiting on someone to ask what we were doing.

  She prodded a window just above ground level, saying, “This is open.”

  I said, “So?”

  “So let’s check out the inside.”

  Surprised at her willingness to break the law, I mentally measured and said, “I can’t fit.”

  “I can.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “You sure?”

  For an answer, she pried it open and began squirming through. I took a knee and pulled security, feeling a little like a loser. Me pulling security while she did the work.

  She slipped in and I waited, hearing nothing, but prepared to run around to the front and kick in the door if I did. Eventually, she reappeared.

  She wriggled out, struggling to escape the small window. Kneeling, she said, “Someone was held here.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  “The place is empty, but inside the basement is a bucket, and it’s full of excrement. Someone was forced to use it.”

  I took that in, and she continued, “Also, I think there’s blood on the floor. Near a side door.”

  I said, “Blood? How do you know?”

  “I don’t, but there are two smears that look like blood.”

  “Where? What side door?” I hadn’t seen one when we had come down the alley.

  She started walking back, pacing the distance. She stopped and pointed at a hatch, barely four feet tall. A piece of plywood, but sure enough, it had hinges and a handle. It looked like access to an HVAC, not an entrance. She said, “That’s it. The floor is another two feet below.”

  I tugged on the handle, and she said, “It’s padlocked from the inside.”

  I studied the plywood hatch, seeing what looked like a spray of old ketchup on it. I immediately pulled my eyes away, not wanting to dwell on the repercussions of what that might be. I knelt down and studied the gravel at the base. I saw what looked like drag marks. Like someone had towed a large bag of trash out of the door. I followed the marks out with my eyes, searching the ground. And saw something.

  A glint of metal. I bent down, picked it up, and found Kylie Hale.

  I said, “She was here. You were right.”

  Jennifer said, “What is it?”

  I held up a pendant. A small circle of gold, shaped like a Flintstones tire. Inside the rim of the gold were the words ROMANS 3:8.

  It referred to the Bible verse that said, “Let us do evil that good may come,” and was an unofficial Taskforce motto. Something we placed on ball caps and coffee mugs. The only people who would get the meaning were Taskforce members, but it pretty much summarized exactly what we did, and there was no way this was a coincidence. Kurt must have given it to Kylie.

  I thought of the blood and said, “It’s hers. Damn it, it’s hers. We’re too late.”

  37

  Kylie saw the light come in through the hood, then heard the footsteps coming down.

  Feeding time.

  She no longer had the energy to cower, and simply waited for the bearded man to arrive. She coughed, a phlegm-ridden rattle, and realized she was feeling worse. She had a low-grade ache behind her eyes that had nothing to do with the bruises inflicted by Seamus. She was sick and growing weaker.

  She heard the man shuffling to the other two captives first, then felt him next to her. He removed her hood, then set a bowl of microwave chicken nuggets in front of her, next to a bottle of water. The same food she’d had for days, but she understood why. It didn’t require any utensils. So no potential weapons.

  Since her escape attempt their captivity had grown more strict. The hoods stayed on at all times, and they were forbidden from talking. Feeding time was a mixed blessing, as she got to see around her, but she was required to drop her blanket from her shoulders to eat. Losing the precious heat the thin covering provided.

  Their captors had run two space heaters into the cellar, but both only managed to raise the temperature a few notches. Even with them on, it was a constant fifty-five degrees. Cold, damp, and rotten.

  Usually, the bearded man waited until they were through. Waited and watched. This time, he did not. He said, “I’ll be back in thirty minutes. No talking,” and tromped back up the stairs. He closed the hatch, plunging the room into darkness, and she heard the padlock click shut.

  She sat for a minute, allowing her eyes to adjust to the soft red glow put out by the heaters. She saw Nick watching her intently, his face a battered mess. Off to the side, by himself, Travis ate without looking up. The sight of him caused a spasm of anger. She gave an involuntary cough and spit out a glob of phlegm. Nick flinched, then sidled over to her, bringing his meager portion.

  He whispered, “Hey, take my food. You need the strength.”

  She said, “You weigh much more than me. I’m not stealing your food. Anyway, I’m not hungry.”

  “You need to eat. And to increase your fluid intake. Take my water
bottle as well.”

  She tried to smile and said, “What, are you a doctor now?”

  “No. Not really. But I’ve had some training in this sort of thing. You have to keep your strength up. And collectively, we have to help you do it.”

  She gave a small chuckle. “You’ve been trained to be chained in a cellar after getting beaten? Was that right after you learned what a cumulus cloud was?”

  She saw he was serious. He said, “I did something else before I was a weatherman. For that job I had to go through SERE. Survival, evasion, resistance, and escape training. And one of the key things the POWs from Vietnam stressed was that disease was the killer. Looking at you, they were right. Eat.”

  She did so, nibbling on a nugget. She said, “What did you do before?”

  “Not worth talking about. Bottom line, I had the misfortune of running across an IED.”

  “You were blown up? What happened? You don’t look handicapped.”

  He held out the water bottle. “Drink up. You need it.”

  She took it in her bound hands, and he said, “I’m not hurt anymore. It was a bullshit political move. Because of my father. I was told I’d be medically retired, but I fought to stay in and change my specialty to something a little softer. They were petrified I was going to get killed, and they couldn’t have that in the press. They faked the medical stuff, but I raised such a stink that they agreed I could stay in if I changed jobs.”

  She downed a few large gulps and handed the bottle back to him. “I can’t take all of it. You need some.”

  He said, “Naw, I’m good. I don’t want to have to piss anyway.”

  She saw the small grin and realized this time he was kidding. She pointed at the bucket and said, “You think I like using that? With beard guy staring at me?”

  They heard Travis cough, and she realized he’d come closer as well. She saw Nick’s face and said, “Ignore him.”