No Fortunate Son: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  He said, “You never specified anything about harm to us. Sorry.”

  My mouth fell open, and he smiled. He said, “American joke.” Showing me for the first time he was at least human enough to have sarcasm.

  We went through multiple roundabouts, the bike weaving in and out of traffic with us barely keeping up. I saw the helmet flick back to us and knew we were about to be burned.

  “Okay, he’s starting to check. We keep this up, he’s going to try to lose us.”

  Nung said, “What do you want me to do? Back off?”

  “Yeah. Stay within the same light-block, though. Keep as far back as you can, but stay in his lane. I don’t want to lose him if he turns.”

  We went another mile, and his helmet flicked back twice more. He split through a light, gave one more glance back, then took off.

  I slapped the seat. “Christ. That’s it.”

  Jennifer put her hand on Nung’s arm and said, “Catch him. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

  Nung goosed the accelerator, and we began weaving through the traffic, like a lumbering hippo to his panther. He kept glancing back, going in and out, and we managed to maintain our inside-the-light distance. We both paused at a red, our vehicle two cars back, and he turned around and glared. For the first time, through the face shield, I saw he was a Caucasian with blue eyes. I said, “That’s him. That’s Braden.”

  I opened the door, saying, “I’m taking him now. Pull up when I get him on the ground.”

  Jennifer said, “Pike, we can’t get through the traffic if—”

  Nung said, “He’s running the light.”

  I slammed the door closed, saying, “Do the same. Get close. Take him down.”

  Nung started driving like a maniac, scraping the chassis of the car as he ran by the traffic with two wheels over the curb. He punched through the light, honking his horn, then closed the distance, throwing Jennifer and me back and forth. To my front I saw a traffic circle with a statue of a giant lion, the cars leisurely going around.

  Braden glanced back once, and his eyes went wide at how close we’d gotten. He hit the throttle, leaning over into the curve of the circle as if he were racing a superbike at Laguna Seca. He got halfway around and his left peg hit the ground, his foot scraping the asphalt. He lost control, the bike skittering into the roadway, sliding forward with a massive pile of sparks, him following behind on his back, skipping across the pavement.

  We fought our way through the stop-and-go traffic, hampered by the cars ahead slamming on their brakes from the wreck. I saw Braden stand up, weave in a small circle like a drunk, then focus on us. He ripped the helmet from his head, his mouth open and panting. He shouted something I couldn’t hear, snatched the knapsack of jewels off the ground, and took off running through the traffic, cars skidding aside and horns blaring.

  To Jennifer, Nung said, “Take the wheel,” and opened the door.

  I did the same and saw Nung ahead of me, sprinting. Braden ran straight toward a line of people waiting to get into some tourist attraction. He knocked them out of the way and disappeared into a portal. I paused, turning back to Jennifer, knowing she’d identify where we were. What the line of people meant.

  Sliding over to the wheel, she said, “It’s the Catacombs. A mile of tunnels full of skeletons. You follow, and you’ll flush him to the other side. There’s only one way to go. I’ll meet you there.”

  I heard a horn honk and said, “Skeletons? What do you mean?”

  She said, “Go. You’ll figure it out.”

  I turned away and saw Nung disappear through the entrance. I took off sprinting, reaching the front in seconds.

  By the time I arrived, everyone was shouting and yelling, with an old man out front waving a radio. I slipped behind him and reached a turnstile, an obese woman behind it blocking my way. I said, “I’m following that man. Police.”

  She looked at me in confusion, and I hopped the turnstile. She smacked me in the back with her radio and I raced down the hall, hitting a spiral stone stairwell that was claustrophobic. I started down as fast as I could, going around and around and hearing nothing below me. I went so fast I started to get dizzy, wondering how far I had to descend before I reached the bottom.

  A light flared below, and I hit a tunnel, smelling of wet stone. I shouted, “Nung!”

  I heard nothing. The tunnel went in only one direction, so I figured they both had to be ahead of me. I took off running, eating up the ground. I reached a patch of tourists next to a closed gate blocking access to another tunnel. Mine continued on, but the gate had no lock. In between breaths, I asked, “Which way?”

  A man pointed away from the door, saying, “Right ahead.”

  I started running flat-out, trusting my feet to find purchase in the gloom, my brain telling me to slow down. I rounded a corner, almost smacking my head into the roof of stone, and caught a glimpse of someone disappear. I redoubled my efforts.

  Somewhere during my run the limestone walls gave way to bones. Millions and millions of bones. I was sprinting through death, with skulls arranged in symmetrical patterns and femurs used as cradles for the design. Literally walls made of bones.

  My feet splashed in water, and the man ahead turned at the sound. In the dim light, I recognized Nung. He said, “Just ahead,” then disappeared.

  The tunnel expanded into a small room with a column made of bones in the middle. In the light splayed out from a single lamp, I saw Nung squaring off against Braden, both circling each other. Braden snatched a skull from the wall and tossed it, causing Nung to flinch.

  Braden darted forward, and I entered the light, grabbing a leg bone. He saw me and pulled up short just as I hurled it. He ducked, and it clipped his scalp, probably setting loose some disease from the fourteenth century. He snarled at me, put a hand to his head, then turned and began running again.

  Nung took up the chase, me right behind. We passed several groups of tourists, all frightened at the turmoil, but none doing anything to stop us. The tunnel wound forward endlessly, and I began to wonder just how long it was. Surely they couldn’t expect tourists to walk miles. Could they?

  I broke out of the bone district, entering back into the limestone, and the light increased. I picked up my pace, gaining on Nung and hearing the footfalls of Braden in front of me. I reached an open cavern, seeing a stone stairwell on the side with a modern illuminated EXIT sign. Nung was blocking it, hands held high, and I knew it was the endgame.

  Braden had a knife out, waving it back and forth, a cell phone in his other hand. He shouted into it but was getting no signal from underneath the ground. I advanced into the cavern, and he saw me. He gave a war cry and attacked Nung, the single thing blocking his exit out.

  He stabbed forward with the knife, and Nung danced, blocking the downward blow and twisting Braden’s arm in a circle. Braden flung the cell phone from his other hand and clawed at Nung’s face, screaming in pain. Nung leveraged the elbow downward, bringing Braden to his knees. I jumped forward to assist, but not fast enough.

  Braden scrambled at his ankle with his free hand, and like magic, a small stiletto appeared. He jabbed it over his head, trying to connect with the flesh of the man holding him. Nung saw it coming, ducked under the blade, then snapped the elbow forward, the crack ricocheting in the cavern. Braden shrieked in pain, and Nung circled his arms around Braden’s neck. A meter away, I screamed, “No!” and saw the life leave Braden’s eyes as his spine popped.

  I reached them and said, “Nung, damn it, he’s no good to us dead.”

  He stood up, saying, “He was calling his friend. Telling him to kill the hostages. Whoever is on the other end of that phone has them.”

  53

  Hearing the voice mail, Seamus hung up. For the third time.

  Kevin said, “You want me to send the chat request? The room’s open.”

 
“No. Not yet. You sure this VOIP thing is working? I’m getting nothing trying to contact Braden.”

  Kevin said, “Yeah. If he’s not answering, it’s because he’s got the app turned off or he’s out of digital 3G or 4G coverage. Call him direct.”

  “I don’t want to taint the phone. Right? If I call on the cell network instead of VOIP?”

  “Yeah, but if you’re that worried, what’s the big deal? It’s a single call. You’ve been using VOIP for Braden since we started.”

  “Because if I’m that worried, it’s the exact wrong time to do it, jackass.”

  Kevin retreated to his computer screen, saying, “Well, do you want to send the request or not? I got the room open.”

  “No, damn it. We need the new Snapchat video. I want to hit them with the Bitcoin request, then when they stall, hit them with the death of their hostages.”

  Sitting aside, listening to the back-and-forth, Colin finally said, “What’s the holdup? Where’s Braden?”

  “I don’t know. I keep getting his voice mail.”

  “He called before, right? Saying the diversion was going down?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t get him now. I don’t know about the robbery.”

  “Why does that matter? Call the team sitting on them. Tell them to make the Snapchat. They can execute.”

  “I don’t trust them,” Seamus snapped. “They fuck it up, and they’ll have the world coming down on their heads. A hornets’ nest. Then it’ll be coming to us.”

  Colin said, “I thought that didn’t matter to the mighty Seamus.”

  Seamus looked at him and said, “You dumbass, of course it matters. I don’t want to give them a road map to find us, and it would take one mistake for the NSA to grab.” He paced around the room, running his hands through his hair. Feeling the pressure.

  Kevin interrupted his thoughts, saying, “Seamus, got something out of Paris. You ought to see this.” He pointed to a separate laptop, streaming with live news. A breaking story appeared.

  Seamus said, “Turn it up.”

  The sound came on, the announcer speaking French. Seamus said, “Shit. Can you find one in English?”

  “By the time I search, the story will be over.”

  The screen showed a broken-down apartment complex, the area out front blockaded with all manner of emergency vehicles, the blue lights flashing like a circus. As the man spoke, the camera zoomed in to the fourth floor, grimly framing a blackened window, the drapes, stained by flame, fluttering in the breeze.

  Entranced, Seamus stared at the screen, not believing he had created the chaos. The picture flashed back to the news desk, and the anchor spit something out in a rapid manner, looking flustered and holding his hand to an earpiece. The screen cut to a picture of a jewelry store called Bulgari, then to a picture of a necklace, a thick gold chain encrusted with diamonds, a heavy ruby in the center.

  Colin whooped and said, “The robbery! It went off.”

  Seamus smiled and said, “Looks like it.”

  One of the cell phones on the windowsill went off. Not the one he held, so it wasn’t Braden. Still looking at the laptop, he waved his hand and said, “Someone get that.”

  Colin moved to the window, and Kevin said, “You want to start the chat?”

  “I’m not sure. You think you could talk the team through the Snapchat procedures? Make sure they send it in such a way that it can’t be tracked?”

  “Yeah, it’s really not that hard. I can send them step-by-step instructions.”

  “Seamus,” Colin said. “You need to take this call.” His face was drained of color, and his hand that held the phone was trembling.

  “Who is it?”

  “Ratko.”

  Seamus took the phone, cleared his throat, and said, “Ratko?”

  “Where is your shit of a brother? Where are my jewels?”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “Never mind that. Where is your brother? He won’t answer the phone.”

  “I thought he was meeting you in Brussels tomorrow? What’s the big deal?”

  “He was supposed to call, letting me know he had gotten away clean. He never did, but the news is talking about the robbery and not saying a damn word about anyone getting arrested.”

  Seamus said, “Okay, okay, look, I don’t know where he is, but I don’t think it’s time to panic. Give him a chance.”

  Ratko’s voice went cold. “You and that brother had better not be double-crossing me. You wondered how I found this cell number, remember that. Braden doesn’t show in Belgium tomorrow, I’ll find you the same way.”

  The line went dead. Seamus put his hand down, and Colin said, “What’s wrong? Why is Ratko pissed?”

  “It’s nothing. He’ll calm down.”

  “Seamus, I can’t have him hunting me. He’s worse than the law. You hear what those guys do to people? This thing is breaking down.”

  Seamus ignored him, turning to Kevin. “Can you call the team with VOIP?”

  Kevin nodded.

  “Do so. Give them the instructions.”

  54

  I slapped in the combo to our hotel safe and ripped out the two suppressed pistols, handing one to Jennifer. I was kicking myself for not having them with me in the first place, but when I thought the Paris gendarmerie were on board it made little sense to bring firepower. We weren’t going to actively engage, and trying to penetrate an arrest to interrogate Braden would have been made much, much harder sporting two illegally suppressed Glocks. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  I did find it humorous that Jennifer had placed our laptop inside as well, like the maids would have stolen it. For the price we were paying for this Parisian gem, I would expect to be able to leave a couple of half-dressed midgets in the room holding the Glocks and get no flack. Of course, I wasn’t going to push that theory.

  She stowed her weapon and booted up the laptop, going online and furiously typing, trying to find the location of the hostages before the men who held them realized something was wrong.

  I had nothing else to do, so I called down to Nung, making sure he was ready to receive us when we had a destination. Our hotel wasn’t exactly conducive to vehicles, so I’d had him drop us off, then circle like a shark until summoned. The time getting back to the hotel had eaten up thirty minutes, and I was growing worried that we were about to miss our window. We needed an edge.

  Jennifer said, “No, damn it. A Samsung Galaxy,” and I realized she was on a chat with someone at Taskforce headquarters, the Samsung phone hooked to her laptop. She said, “Where’s Creed? Get him online.”

  I heard, “He’s at the White House Situation Room. Working the problem.”

  I wanted to punch the wall at the words, superstitiously wondering if the devious bastards we were after had managed to divert the one computer geek I trusted at Taskforce headquarters. Refusing to face the real probability that those same devious men might have killed two members of my team. Including Knuckles. My friend and my mentor.

  Earlier, we’d searched Braden’s body and found a passport from the UK, confirming his identity, along with two cell phones. The cell he was using when we killed him was a ruggedized flip phone that worked on the cell network like a walkie-talkie. The other was a Samsung Galaxy smartphone, stuffed into his back pocket. I’d continued searching, stripping the body, when a museum official from the exit came down, shocked at what he’d seen.

  He’d said, “The police are on the way. Don’t you move.”

  Nung had simply looked at him, then at me, saying, “Time to go.”

  He’d glided toward the stairs with his catlike gait, and the man stepped aside.

  I said, “Give me your radio.” The guard did, and I sprinted up after Nung, reaching the exit and a group of tourists standing around with large eyes, getting more for their entrance fee
than they expected.

  Marching out as though I owned the place, holding the radio from the man downstairs, I picked out the first thirtysomething man I could find. A guy with Harley-Davidson tattoos and a bad goatee. An American who looked as if he was used to bending the rules.

  I’d said, “Don’t let anyone else come up. I’m coordinating the first responders, but I don’t have the manpower to lock down the exit. There’s a bad guy down there.”

  His wife or girlfriend said, “That’s not our business . . .” but I saw him grin, looking at my radio. Because, you know, if you’re holding a radio, clearly you’re the authority.

  He nodded his head, saying, “Shush, Celia. We can help.”

  We sprinted through the door, and Jennifer was waiting. Right outside. I couldn’t believe it, thanking the gods yet again that I’d run into her and her bottomless pit of historical knowledge four years ago. We piled in, and she said, “Where’s Braden?”

  I said, “He’s dead. No time to discuss.”

  I pulled out my Taskforce phone and called Kurt, praying he would answer. He did.

  “Sir, I don’t have time to explain, but we took down Braden, and he’s tied into the hostages. I need a geolocation of a phone signal right now.”

  His answer had rocked my world. “Pike, I don’t have time for this right now. The hostages may very well be dead. Along with Knuckles.”

  He’d given me the abbreviated version of what had happened, speaking in short, clipped sentences. The story left me speechless. How could we have been sucked in to such a trap? Where were the intel indicators?

  Jennifer saw my face and said, “What? What’s he saying?”

  I waved her off and returned to the mission. “Sir, I just caught the guy from the tape in Cambridge. I don’t know what the hell is going on with that hit, but your niece is alive. Braden was giving orders to kill her, but he couldn’t get a signal because we were deep underground. I need this phone lock.”

  “Underground? What the hell are you talking about? And how do you know she’s alive?”