No Fortunate Son: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  As we slipped along in the darkness, it seemed the towering stone buildings were looking down on us with disapproval. We scurried through, sticking to the shadows, making a half-assed attempt at looking like tourists out for a stroll at four in the morning but knowing we looked skeevy slinking around.

  We passed down the alleys of deserted restaurants, the chairs all on the tables, the rain dripping down. We saw not a soul. We skirted by the hotel’s alley entrance and reached rue de l’Écuyer. We paused, waiting for a car to pass. The rain had let up some, turning into a miserable drizzle.

  I said, “You sure you can do this? The stone’s going to be wet as shit.”

  She was a bundle of energy, her entire body vibrating in anticipation. No fear. No hesitation. Everything that had been said in the room was gone. I realized my question was stupid.

  She pulled me into the wall, out of the rain and into the darkness. She said, “I get caught, you get me out, right?”

  I said, “Of course.”

  She nodded and clicked her earpiece, not even waiting on me, taking over the operation. “Dunkin, Dunkin, this is Koko, you on?”

  “I got you Lima Charlie. Ready to slave.”

  I heard the words from my own earpiece and started to say something, but she put a finger to my lips. “I get to say it this time.”

  She pulled her shoes off and handed them to me. Standing barefoot, she took a deep breath, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Showtime,” then slipped around the edge of the wall.

  I watched her leave and felt my emotions go into turmoil. Part of me wanted to stop her, a feeling of impotence flowing through me because I was putting her in harm’s way without a means of helping her. If she were hurt, it would be my fault. And I wasn’t sure if I could live with that.

  I lost sight of her and began the long wait to hear she was inside, the rain dripping down from the awning I was cowering under. I heard a noise and saw a rat, scuttling about the adjacent outdoor café, looking for scraps. I waited a minute more, then leaned out into the street. I saw her thirty feet in the air, clinging to an outcropping of granite, her feet swinging about, searching for purchase. I knew she was in trouble, but, outside of standing below to catch her, I could do nothing. I watched for what felt like hours, but was probably five seconds, and saw her feet connect with a stone, her toes curling into the veins.

  She paused, and I clicked in. “Koko, you okay?”

  She came on, breathing heavy. “Yeah. I’m okay. This granite is slick as goose shit. You owe me big time.”

  I smiled. “I’m always owing somebody.”

  I saw her start climbing again and heard, “But this time I’m making you pay up.”

  She reached the window, and I saw her lean over and place the slave device on the cable coming out of the camera, working the claws past the insulation with one hand alone. I heard, “Dunkin, slave in place. You got feed?”

  “Stand by.”

  A second later, he said, “Got it. All feeds. Nine cameras. You’re good. Everything is empty except for the front desk. Security is in place and bored.”

  She started cutting the window. From the keycard, we knew this guy had rented the room for three weeks. Since he was dead, we didn’t have a whole lot of fear of anyone finding the break-in.

  She started to open the window, and I saw headlights on the road. I said, “Car. Hug the wall.”

  She froze, and I waited. She was outside of the cone of the headlights, and the rain would make it hard for anyone driving by to see her, but movement would be a killer.

  The vehicle passed, and she went back to work. Shortly, I saw her disappear, a black blob that simply ceased to exist.

  I heard, “Inside. Room is empty. Some clothes, but nothing else.”

  “Nothing interesting? No documents or anything else?”

  “No. But we know this guy was in Dublin. He probably packed out to go there, leaving the bare minimum here.”

  I said, “Okay, get to the garage. Get me in.”

  46

  I left the alley and rounded the corner, walking to the indoor garage. I reached the entrance and said, “Dunkin, you got the view in the garage?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is it clear?”

  “Yeah. Nothing.”

  “Tell me if you see me on camera.” I retraced my steps earlier and said, “I’m set.”

  “Saw nothing.”

  Which made me feel a little bit better about our earlier reconnaissance. I said, “Koko, you coming?”

  “Yeah. Thirty seconds.”

  I waited, and then heard a knock on the door. I knocked back, and it opened, Jennifer looking like a bedraggled cat that had been thrown in a bathtub full of water. Except for her eyes. There was no misery in them.

  She said, “Stairwell’s pretty secure. It’s not one used by the guests, but there’s a camera on the first floor. We’re going to be on tape.”

  I pulled off my knapsack, handed her the Serb pistol she’d earned in London, then gave her shoes to her and said, “Not bad for a female.”

  She put them on, saying, “Really? Funny, I didn’t see you scaling the wall.”

  I said, “Touché. Let’s go.”

  We retraced her steps up the stairwell, hugging the sheetrock to avoid the single camera on the first-floor landing. I tossed her my knapsack and said, “Get out the radar scope.”

  I peeked out the door and saw it was clear. The floor was small, with two rooms to the left—including the one Jennifer had entered—and two to the right, separated by about fifty feet of hallway. I made a beeline for the target room on the right, then held up, Jennifer bumping into my back like a Three Stooges act. I flashed her the keycard and nodded, a silent command. She placed what looked like a small brick against the door, reading a digital screen.

  The radar scope was invented to give assault teams a little advantage when breaching a room, as it could see through walls and identify if anything living was beyond. It worked much better than thermals in that it would identify motion instead of just heat, letting us know if a human was inside, meaning we wouldn’t get amped up over a hot lightbulb. It didn’t matter if the person was sitting still. A heartbeat alone was enough movement.

  She held it up against the door for a moment, then whispered, “Clear.”

  I swiped the card. And got nothing.

  Shit.

  Jennifer tugged my arm and pointed at the room across the tiny hall. I nodded, and she repeated the procedure. She gave me the go-ahead, and I swiped again. The light went green.

  We both stood there, surprised at the success. The light flicked out and I swiped again, then entered, my own Glock drawn. The room was empty and, after a quick search, gave us as little information as the room she’d entered from the street. I said, “On to the penthouse.”

  We skulked back to the stairwell and went to the top floor. This one had cameras, I knew. I called Dunkin. “About to break the penthouse floor. Am I clear?”

  I heard nothing.

  I said, “Dunkin, Dunkin, you copy?”

  I heard a snort, then, “Yeah, I’m here.”

  I said, “Are you fucking sleeping? You little shit, I’m going to break your neck when I get back.”

  Jennifer, hearing the calls through her own earpiece, grabbed my arm and shook her head, giving me her disapproving-teacher stare. I gritted my teeth and said, “Dunkin, are you monitoring?”

  He came back quickly. “I’m here. Floor is clear. The room to the right has a tray of food outside from a delivery service, but your suite is clear.”

  I shook my head, not believing I was inside a target with my backup asleep at the wheel. I said, “We’re going to break the plane of the door. You fall asleep again, and I’ll rip you apart. You copy?”

  I heard, “Yes, sir.”

  We exit
ed and went to the penthouse, a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging on the door handle. Jennifer applied the radar scope and signaled we were good. I swiped the next keycard and the light went green again. We entered, feeling a large space in the darkness. The door closed, and I saw some sort of bulletin board in the center of the room, but I had no time to check it out just yet. I pointed to the room to the left, and Jennifer stalked toward it. I took the room to the right.

  I swept the space, moving to the bathroom, and heard, “Left side clear.”

  I finished clearing my room and met her in the den. I flicked on the lights and saw something out of a Taskforce operations briefing.

  There was a sand table on the floor, with little buildings and roads, and a bulletin board full of pictures, with notes above them in Cyrillic writing. Definitely not from a family planning a fun vacation.

  Jennifer said, “What the hell is all of this?”

  I leaned in to the bulletin board, reading the few English words on it. I said, “Bulgari. That picture says Bulgari underneath it. That’s what that asshole asked about before we killed him.”

  Jennifer said, “What in the world is going on? What does this have to do with Kylie?”

  “I don’t know. Get out your camera. Take pictures of all of this. We’ll send it to the Taskforce for translation. I’m going to search the rooms and see if I can find a connection to Braden.”

  I left her to do the work and entered the bedroom I’d already cleared, now looking for clues instead of threats. Larger than most hotel bedrooms, it was utilitarian, with a desk full of different international electrical outlets and a dresser sporting a forty-inch plasma screen. The bed was made, and there were no indications that anyone had used it.

  Unlike the room outside, the desk and everything else were pristine, and I realized what we’d entered: the place was a TOC. A Tactical Operations Center for planning an operation. Nobody was sleeping in here. They’d rented the penthouse only because of the size. They could get the entire team in here for briefings to plan whatever they had going on. I had done the same thing more times than I could count, in more countries than The Amazing Race had stamps in its passport, which made me wonder who we were chasing.

  I started to leave and heard Dunkin in my earpiece. “Man approaching. Man approaching. I don’t know where he came from, but he’s at your door.”

  47

  I felt the shock flood my body and said, “Weapon? Any weapon?”

  “Not that I can see. He’s out of sight now but walking your way.”

  “Koko, on me, now.”

  She came flying through the door, not speaking a word but saying enough with her expression. A mixture of fear and violence. She held her Glock up and I shook my head. I grabbed her arm and flicked my eyes to the sliding closet.

  We entered and I slid the door as quietly as I could. I heard the front lock snick open, and the man began moving around, making small noises. Then I heard the sound of paper ripping and understood what was happening. He was tearing the place down. He shuffled a bit, further scratches of sound reaching us, then called someone on a phone. I could clearly hear what he said, but it did no good, as he was speaking a language I didn’t understand.

  His voice became loud, shouting, then grew obsequious. I heard him disconnect and thought he was done and we were safe. I was wrong.

  The light in our room flared on, the glow stabbing through the crack in our closet. Jennifer stiffened, and I pulled her close, telling her with my body to let it go. To wait until there was a reason to explode. I felt her trembling and raised my Glock. She saw the death in her peripheral vision and raised her own. I leaned in and whispered, “My shot. You do nothing.”

  She lowered her gun, but I could still feel the tension in her body. Fearing she’d cause a compromise, I leaned in again and said, in a voice that could barely be heard, “You’re a ghost. Nobody knows you’re here. Let him go about his business.”

  I felt the trembling stop but kept my weapon at the ready. The man left the room.

  We heard more shuffling from the other bedroom, then heard the outside door close. Jennifer sagged against me and said, “Man alive. I don’t want to do anything like that again.”

  I said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  I called Dunkin and got the all clear from the camera. Jennifer used the scope just to be sure, seeing the hallway was empty. We exited, moving straight to the laundry room stairwell. I jerked the handle, and it moved freely up and down but didn’t open the door. I tried again, getting the same result. The door was locked.

  Feeling like a fool, I said, “Please don’t tell me you disabled the lock on the first-floor stairwell before you came down.”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because this fucker is locked.”

  She tried the handle, saying, “Mine was open. I didn’t do anything.”

  For whatever reason, her doorway had been left unlocked. Which was absolutely no excuse for me not checking this one before I let it close.

  Jesus Christ. I should have left a wedge. Idiot.

  Jennifer said, “Pick it?”

  “Take too long, and I don’t want to be on tape doing so. Right now, we’re just guests to anyone who reviews the footage.”

  From Dunkin’s floor plan I knew that the hotel guests’ stairwell flowed out right past the reception desk, but we could still use it to get out. I said, “Guest stairwell. We’ll exit on the first floor, then retrace your steps to the garage.”

  We speed-walked to the other end of the hall, entering the stairwell and taking the steps two at a time. We reached the second floor, and Dunkin called again. “The man just went to Koko’s entry room on the first floor.”

  Shit. He was sterilizing every room. He’d find the window breach.

  I held up and Jennifer said, “We are going to get out of here clean, right?”

  I said, “Of course,” but I was honestly starting to wonder. I started back down, moving much slower, thinking through options. I skipped the door to the first floor and continued to the lobby. Jennifer said, “How are we going to exit? The desk will see us.”

  I said, “Yeah, that’s a threat, but I’d rather the hotel staff see us than the man on the first floor. He has two rooms to sterilize, and it would be just our luck he’d pop into the hallway the same time we do. He takes one look at you and your wet clothes, and he won’t have to guess at who was climbing through the window. We’d be forced to take him out, and any lead we’ve found will be gone. They’ll think they’re compromised and abort whatever they’ve got planned.”

  We reached the lobby, and I had Jennifer lead. Walking into the small atrium, we went past the beefy dude at the front desk.

  Moment of truth.

  He nodded at us, then did a double take. He said something in French, which I didn’t understand.

  Here we go.

  I tensed up and Jennifer answered in French. Calming the man. I hid a smile and kept walking. The guard said something else, walking around the desk. Jennifer hissed, “He doesn’t buy my story. He’s asking why I’m all wet.”

  Still walking, I said, “What did you tell him?”

  I saw the door to our front, and she said, “That we were visiting a friend. He asked who.”

  We were parallel to his desk, the door thirty feet away. I considered just sprinting when he darted in front of us, blocking the exit. He moved surprisingly fast for such a big guy. Over six feet tall, he leaned forward, using his size to intimidate. He said something I couldn’t understand, and I decided I’d had enough.

  I held my hands up and said, “Speak English?” He shook his head, and I said, “How about ass kicking? You speak that?” My hands already shoulder-high, I balled my fists and popped him in the face with two quick jabs from my left. His head bounced like a paddle ball on a string, and I gave him a right roundhouse punch with all of
my weight behind it, snapping my hip into the blow. It connected perfectly with a sharp crack, and he dropped straight down, as if I’d magically touched him with a wand.

  Jennifer knelt next to his head and checked to make sure he was breathing. She looked up at me and said, “I guess he got a crash course in that language.”

  I pulled her to her feet without a word, moving to the front door. We burst out of it, the rain stinging my face. I turned left, dodging through the deserted cafés, Jennifer right behind me.

  With any luck, the event would be chalked up as an attempted break-in and not connected with the Serbian TOC operations. Nothing had been stolen, and no other guests had been disturbed, so it was a good bet. After tonight’s shenanigans, I figured we were due some good luck. For Kylie’s sake.

  We sprinted back to the Grand Place square, putting distance between us and the damage we’d left behind.

  48

  Kurt heard his phone beep but knew switching to the other line would send his sister over the edge. He glanced at the display and saw it was George Wolffe, his deputy. The man in the passenger seat shouted, “Whoa!” and Kurt realized he was about to sail through a red light. He slammed on the brakes, causing the car behind him to blare his horn.

  He said, “Sorry, Creed,” then brought the phone back up. George Wolffe was gone, and his sister was shouting, “Kurt, Kurt, you still there?”

  He said, “Kathy, I’m about to get in a wreck in DC traffic. Look, I’ve given you all I have. We’re following up leads as fast as we can, and hopefully something will break free today. If it does, you’ll be the first to know.”

  He saw his passenger, Bartholomew Creedwater, answer his own phone, and the traffic light went green. He pulled through the intersection and heard Kathy say, “If they found the pendant in Ireland, why are they now in Brussels? You’re not making any sense.”