No Fortunate Son (30 page)

W
e exited the bar without any trouble, and I said, “Where’s your car?”

“I don’t have one.”

I smacked him in the back of the head and said, “That’s not what the girl at your place told me. Where is it?”

He muttered something about a traitorous bitch, and I inwardly smiled at my subterfuge. Sometimes a bluff worked. He said, “Down the street.”

I said, “Brett, with me. Retro, link up with Nung. Follow us.”

Clynne heard the words and realized there was more in play than just us in the bar. A little bit of purposeful psychology to keep him on his toes.

We walked two blocks, finding a beat-up Honda Accord. I let Brett drive, putting Clynne in the passenger seat, me directly behind him. I said, “So, where to?”

“Macroom. He’s staying in a farmhouse out there.”

We headed out of the city, and soon enough we were on the N22 going west into the Irish countryside. We traveled for about thirty minutes, going deeper into farm community, small blacktops branching left and right into the green hills. We crossed a stone bridge, an ancient defunct mill on the other side, and he said, “Stop! Too far.”

“What do you mean?”

“The road to the house is right past that mill, but it’s a one-lane dirt thing. You take it, and he’ll know you’re coming. He’ll stop us.”

“And why would you care about that?”

He held his hands up. “Hey, man, no way do I want that psycho on my ass. He’s crazy.”

We turned around and crossed the stone bridge again, then took a left, paralleling the river the bridge spanned, now on a winding strip of blacktop. About a mile in, he pointed out the window, saying, “That’s it.”

Brett slowed, and I saw a ramshackle house about two hundred meters away, in the center of a field. Made of stone, it had maybe four or five rooms, a crumbling chimney on the left side. It was surrounded by farmland, but the house itself was overgrown, with vines and bushes reclaiming what the forest had lost, as if whoever owned the land simply mowed around it. Between us and it was the river, maybe forty feet across and three feet deep.

I said, “You’re telling me Seamus is staying in that shit hole?”

He held up his hands and said, “That’s what he told me.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck from the backseat, pulling to the rear. “I’m not stupid. Nobody could have found this place without having actually been here. There is no way you could have led us here from what he
told
you. I want to know what the hell you’re doing with him. Right now.”

He strangled for a minute, fighting my arm, then said, “Okay, okay! I got it for him, but I swear I don’t know nothing about your friends. He told me he needed to lay low. That’s all.”

I pulled back again, and he began to cough. I let up, and he spurted, “I’m not lying!”

I said, “Okay then. I find out you are and we’ll have a talk. We understand each other?”

He nodded, visibly trembling. I waited for him to recant anything, but he remained quiet. I was satisfied.

I turned to Brett. “Get Retro up here. Get some OP kit.”

Brett said, “Me and him?”

“Yeah. Have Nung transport it. Eyes on from this point forward.”

Brett looked to the right and asked, “Who owns the hill here? I haven’t seen a house.”

Clynne said, “I don’t know. It’s all farmland, but if you want to use it, I won’t say anything, I swear.”

Brett chuckled, and he said, “I won’t!”

I said, “Yeah, I know. Mainly because you’re not going to get the chance.”

*   *   *

Brett watched the Wasp UAV circle overhead, Retro controlling its descent. He swooped the thing right over their hide site, then brought it straight up into the air. Brett ducked, hearing Retro laugh. Watching the monitor, he circled the UAV over three cows two hundred meters away. Brett said, “Come on. Bring it back.”

Retro loved gadgets and was a little bit of a computer geek at heart. He would tinker with any new electronic kit that came into the Taskforce arsenal for days, figuring out all the parameters. He was the one man on the planet—outside of Steve Jobs—who actually understood all the settings on an iPhone.

He said, “Negative, Ghostrider. It’s time to buzz the tower.”

Brett rolled his eyes and watched the UAV dip, skipping right above the cows. They barely moved. With a wingspan of just over two feet and an electric motor, the UAV probably didn’t even register with the animals.

He brought it around and crash-landed right next to their hide. He said, “You send the video to Pike?”

“Yeah. A video of a torn-up building. I’m sure he’s jumping up and down.”

They’d been in position trying to confirm or deny activity for over four hours and so far had seen nothing. A look through thermals had detected two heat sources, and using a directional microphone, Brett had discerned engine noise emanating from the house, meaning a generator, so someone was using the building, but there was nothing to indicate hostages or anything nefarious. It looked like a single squatter was living there.

Or another trap.

After the in-depth planning that went into the kill box in Paris, Brett had grown a little paranoid.

The sun reached the edge of the earth, and they were in that moment
of twilight between using regular optics and night vision. Still no signs of anything indicating hostages.

Brett and Retro had been in situations like this before and had planned accordingly. They knew it would be a long night whether they found something or not.

Even if they’d immediately been able to confirm evidence suspicious enough for further exploration, they knew it would take Blaine the better part of the night to coordinate a response through the Taskforce. Their job was reconnaissance only, and they’d keep eyes on until relieved. Which meant a night in a hidey-hole.

The thermometer began to drop and Brett brought up the thermals again, knowing the difference in temperature would make the view much more stark. Inside, the same two heat sources showed up black against the white of the structure. Only now, one had moved.

He said, “Okay, got at least one target. Still think the other is a generator.”

Retro noted the information in his log, saying, “Wonder what the trigger is to call this a dead end?”

“With Pike, it’s usually some gunfire. Because he can’t stand a dead end.”

Retro started to respond when he saw lights bouncing down the dirt lane on the far side of the house. Two cars a half mile away.

He said, “Company,” and Brett traded the thermal for a spotting scope.

While the blacktop on their side of the river had steady traffic, they’d seen only a single truck on the dirt lane on the far side of the house the entire time they’d been there. He fully expected the vehicles to continue on, like the truck, but they turned down the rutted track that led through the fields to the house.

He sat up. “Call Pike. Tell them we’ve finally got activity.”

Both vehicles stopped outside the house, and ten or eleven men spilled out, carrying assault rifles. Brett said, “Holy shit. Call Pike. Tell him the trigger’s been met. Get the cavalry rolling.”

S
eamus came inside, finding Kevin at the computer. Kevin turned around at the noise, his hands leaving the keyboard, and Seamus saw the surprise at the number of men who trundled in.

Seamus pulled the first aside and said, “You’ll sleep in the room down that hallway, on the left. The one on the right is where we’re already staying. We can take a couple more in there if it’s too crowded. I want two here in the kitchen, two at the side door, and two at the back door in the anteroom. That leaves four off. Work out your own schedule.”

The men began bringing in sleeping bags, coolers, and other comfort items. Kevin watched them work, saying nothing. Seamus asked, “Any word from Braden?”

“No.”

“Ratko?”

“No. Nobody’s called at all.”

Seamus rubbed his face and muttered under his breath, his eyes tired. The men continued coming and going around him.

Kevin said, “Something else I need to know about?”

“Yeah. Well, maybe.”

“What?”

“Aiden says there’s another reporter in the US sniffing around. A friend of the one he killed has picked up the story. He’s got an interview with someone in the administration about it.”

“But we’re close enough now it shouldn’t matter. Right? You’re going to send another Snapchat tomorrow? With the guys we have? Like we talked about?”

He sighed. “Yeah. But it’s going to be too close. Word gets out about what’s happened, and they will shut down. I can’t predict how much longer this will go on, but even one day in the news is too much. I know the Yanks. The administration will immediately start talking about being hard on terrorism and our window will close. Remember the shit storm that happened when they released that deserter Bergdahl? All the talk about dealing with terrorists? They won’t want a repeat of that in the press.”

“So what did you tell Aiden?”

Seamus looked out the window and said, “To kill him.”

Kevin remained silent. Seamus leaned forward, picking at a piece of wood on the makeshift table. He said, “Man, I didn’t want to do that. I’m being pushed into it. Fucking reporters.”

Kevin said, “We got half. Maybe we should just call it a win.”

Seamus glared at him. “No way. If Braden’s truly gone, then they’ll pay. I’ve already lost one brother to those arrogant fucks. We hold the keys. The vice president’s son is worth more money. They won’t give in at first. One of the hostages will have to die.”

Kevin said, “Which one? The girl?”

Seamus grimaced. He said, “Yes. She’s the best leverage. Her killing gets sent, and they’ll know we’re serious.” He leaned back again, then said, “Maybe not. Maybe that whiner from Brussels. I don’t know if I can kill the girl.”

Kevin said, “Colin can. That guy has no conscience. As long as it isn’t pinned to him.”

“That’s not what I meant.
I’m
the one giving the order. It’s irrelevant who pulls the trigger.” He looked around, then said, “Where is he, anyway?”

Kevin glanced down, embarrassed.

Seamus said, “Where
is
he?”

“He went out for a hot meal. I told him not to.”

“You’ve been here by yourself?”

“Yeah. But nothing’s happened.”

Seamus stood, fists clenched. “That fuck. I’ve had enough of his bullshit. How long has he been gone?”

“He left right after you did.”

Seamus’s mouth fell open. “Right after me? I’ve been gone for hours.”

Kevin started to answer, but Seamus exploded out the door, running to the root cellar. He slammed open the wooden hatch, jumping down the stairs by the light of a small torch. He aimed it in the dank prison, illuminating only two people. He ripped off their hoods, seeing the two males. He said, “Where’s the girl? Where did she go? If she found a way out, you’ll pay the price for her escape.”

The one called Travis blinked at the light in his eyes, holding his hands up to block it. Seamus pushed his shoulder with a boot. “Talk! I told you what would happen. Where is she?”

The vice president’s son spoke up, and for the first time, Seamus saw his face was swollen. More so than when he’d left.

“That bearded fucker took her. Colin.”

Seamus heard the words and felt his world begin to implode.

Nick continued, “We heard him talking to someone on the phone, afraid of being hunted. He said he could deliver you to them. Then he took her.”

Jesus, Joseph, Mother, and Mary.

Seamus snarled, “You’re lying. Tell me where she is!”

Travis said, “That’s what happened. It’s not—”

Seamus pulled out a pistol and jammed it under his nose, hard enough to tear cartilage. “You fucking tell me right now, or I’m spraying your brains on the ceiling.”

Travis began mewling, losing the ability to speak. Nick shouted, “She’s gone, you shit. Probably dead.”

Seamus sized him up in the glow of the space heaters, and Nick drew up as straight as he could in his binds. Nick said, “If she is, you’re going to pay. No court will keep me from you. No prison will protect you.”

Seamus let go of Travis and screamed in frustration. He stalked to Nick and knocked him to the ground, putting the pistol on his forehead.

“I should kill you right now.”

Nick showed nothing but defiance. “You and I both know I’m walking dead. I just pray I get the chance to take you with me.”

Seamus barely heard him. He backed up, keeping the weapon aimed
at Nick, his brain trying to assimilate the damage. He stood still for a moment, then began running up the stairs.

He burst into the kitchen and shouted, “Quit your preparations. We’re leaving this place.”

The men looked at him in confusion. He said, “Colin has betrayed us to Ratko. I have no idea how close they are, but they’re coming. Where’s Michael?”

“Prepping his bed—”

“Michael! Get in here.”

A tall man with ropy muscles and a farmer’s tan came in. “What’s up?”

“We’re leaving. Fuck the preparations. Get the two hostages in here.”

“Two?”

“Yes, God damn it. Two. Get them ready to move. I’ve got drugs in my backpack from Clynne. Dope them up.”

Kevin said, “Where are we going?”

“To London. We’ve gotten all we’re going to with them. The Somalis have their attack prepared. We’ll give them the hostages. Get on the computer and get us ferry tickets. How long will that take?”

“Ferry tickets to where?”

“To England, damn it! How long before we can leave?”

For the first time, Kevin saw panic. Something Seamus had never shown. He said, “Hey, let’s plan our movement. Do some research. We can’t just run willy-nilly with two drugged hostages. Let me do some work.”

“How long?”

“Maybe an hour. Maybe longer. Let me find a place where we can hole up. Get the ferry passes. Plan a route.”

Seamus sagged back, the pistol held against his leg. He said, “Okay. Do it. Michael, all men at the ready. Put most up front. Looking for vehicles. Ratko comes, and he’ll drive right up, using Colin as security.”

“You want someone at the road?”

“Yeah. Definitely. A vehicle comes in here, and I want it shot to pieces. Especially if it’s Colin at the wheel.”