No Fortunate Son: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  “And if it is?”

  “Get a pistol in his face. Lock him down.”

  “What if he resists? Runs?”

  “He gives you any shit—if he tries to warn anyone or anything else—pull the trigger.”

  She looked at me, and I said, “Use your judgment. I’ll be right behind you, but this isn’t the time for second-guessing or bullshit rules of engagement. He shows hostile intent in any way, you drop him.”

  We started up the stairs, taking them two at a time. We exited at the third floor and jogged down the hallway, Jennifer checking door numbers as we went by them. She stopped and mouthed, This is it.

  I heard shouting from inside. A fight. Then nothing. I raised my pistol and whispered, “This is it. No mercy.”

  I held back, and Jennifer rang the bell. We heard shuffling, then nothing. She looked at me, and I pointed to the doorbell with the barrel of my pistol. She rang again, and the door opened. A man inside said, “Hey, sorry for the noise. A little spat with my wife. It’s over now.”

  Irish accent. Jennifer recognized it the same time I did and whipped out her pistol, shoving it into his face, her eyes trained down the barrel, showing all business. He leapt back, bringing out his own weapon. She broke the trigger and hit him just above the nose, the body collapsing to the floor. I flowed past her, running into the room. I saw two doors, taking the nearest one and shouting at Jennifer to take the other.

  I entered a den and saw two people on the floor, gagged. I whipped around, desperately trying to find the threat, and saw a man jump up from a chair to the right of me, a suppressed pistol in his hands and a look of shock on his face. He squeezed off a double-tap, and I dove to the floor. One of the hostages leapt up and threw himself at the man, hitting him in the waist and knocking him into a wall. He turned his weapon on the gagged hostage, and I fired offhand from the ground, three, four, five times.

  The first bullet missed. The next four found their mark. He collapsed on the floor, and the hostage rolled upright. A female.

  But not Kylie.

  58

  On the phone with George Wolffe, trying to ascertain the damage to his men, Kurt Hale heard the president shout, “Quiet, damn it.”

  Kurt said, “Hang on.”

  President Warren looked at Creed and said, “Go ahead.”

  “Sir, we just got a chat request to join a room. I did so, and the terrorists are communicating with me.”

  Alexander Palmer snapped his fingers, pointing to an NSA man. “Get the location. Find out where they’re transmitting from.”

  Creed said, “Don’t bother. They’re using an app called Cryptocat, run through the Tor network. You’ll get nowhere. It’s why they picked it.”

  President Warren said, “Bring it up to the big screen.”

  Creed did, and Kurt read, So you think you can rescue your hostages? You think we’re that stupid? We told you not to try to find them, and now you have. Now you’ve caused their death.

  The room visibly sagged at the words.

  Palmer said, “Jesus. We killed them.”

  Creed said, “I need to reply. What do I say?”

  President Warren said, “We didn’t kill anyone. They did. We had to try.”

  Creed said, “Sir?”

  “Tell them we didn’t know it was them. Tell them it was a French operation, and we had nothing to do with it.”

  He did, and the reply words appeared on the screen.

  Is that why you had four FBI men in the assault?

  Palmer said, “They were watching. Waiting. They wanted to kill them this way.”

  Warren said, “When I find these assholes I’m going to . . .” His voice trailed off. He waited a beat, then said, “Tell them okay. Cut the crap. What do they want?”

  Creed typed the words, and everyone held their breath waiting on the reply. When it came, it was almost mundane. Like a bank robber.

  We already told you what we want. You have the Bitcoin address. Send the money.

  Warren looked at the head of the FBI and said, “How much do we have?”

  “About half. We haven’t been able to get it all.”

  Palmer said, “You can’t send it. There’s no proof that they won’t just give us another demand.”

  Warren considered, then said, “It’s just money. A drop in the bucket for us. If it buys us a day, it buys us a day. Tell them we can send half.”

  They waited on the response. When it came, it was chilling.

  We thought you would stall like that. Here’s a little secret. Your hostages weren’t in that room today. They are still alive, but you just killed them. Expect another Snapchat soon.

  The room remained quiet for a split second, then erupted in pandemonium, nobody knowing which hostages were in the discussion. President Warren slapped his hand onto the table and said, “Shut the hell up. Creed, tell them the money’s coming. Tell them we’re giving them all we have.”

  Palmer said, “Sir—” but President Warren ignored him. He looked to the director of the FBI and said, “Send it. Right now.”

  The director scurried out of the room, and Creed typed the message. They watched the blinking icon, waiting on a response. Nothing happened.

  Kurt whispered into his phone, “Okay, things here are going to shit. Give me some good news.”

  George said, “Finally got Brett on the line. He’s alive and unhurt.”

  “And Knuckles?”

  “He’s okay. Took some shrapnel, but he’s going to be okay. Basically got his ass punctured, but his body armor stopped any lethal hits. He was on his way out the door when it triggered. Almost all of it missed him. Two feet the other way, and he would have been eviscerated, but he’s got nothing but a few stitches at this point.”

  Kurt sagged into his seat, saying, “That’s the best damn thing I’ve heard in years. Can I talk to them?”

  “Not right now. They’re dealing with acting like FBI agents. The two real ones were torched.”

  Kurt closed his eyes.

  George said, “What’s going on there?”

  “We’re getting toyed with.”

  “What about Pike? What’s he got?”

  “Nothing. He’s out chasing shadows.” Kurt heard President Warren ask, “Are they still online?” and he said, “I have to go. Keep me abreast of the situation.”

  They watched the icon blink on the big screen, then saw, Is Chairman Clute there? Ask him which one he wants to die first. His choice.

  Chairman Clute’s face went white. He looked at the president and said, “I can’t do that. Please, tell them to stop.”

  President Warren said, “God damn it, tell them we sent the money. Tell them not to do this.”

  Creed did, and the reply was, You arrogant infidels need to learn a lesson. You paid half, so I kill half. Fair trade.

  The screen flickered, and a Snapchat appeared, showing two hooded hostages. Nobody said a word. President Warren looked at Chairman Clute, then said, “Pull it off the screen.”

  Creed did so, and Warren said, “Palmer, take a look.”

  His face visibly sweating, Palmer went to Creed and leaned over his shoulder. Kurt felt his phone vibrate. He looked at the screen and saw it was Pike. He thought about shunting it to voice mail, but answered. Pike deserved to know Knuckles was alive.

  He said, “Hey, I’m in a little bit of a situation here. I can’t talk, but Knuckles and Brett are fine.”

  He heard nothing for a second, then Pike said, “Seriously? They’re okay?”

  Creed hit the play button, and Kurt watched Palmer’s face, waiting to see it flinch. He said, “Yes, now I have to go.”

  Pike said, “Sir, I need the support package right now. I’ve got two dead terrorists and two hostages, alive. I need help to get out of the building clean.”

 
“Pike, I can’t talk right now. I’m watching these fucks kill a hostage on video.” Then the words sank in. “You’ve got what?”

  “I have the Clute twins, damn it. I need support.”

  Palmer turned from the screen and said, “It’s the original video. The proof of life.”

  Chairman Clute sagged in his seat, and Creed brought the chat back to the large monitor. Words appeared on the screen: The next Snapchat is decided by you. Which one dies? I don’t hear anything in one minute, and I’ll choose.

  Kurt said, “I’m watching a live chat with the terrorists. They’re saying they’re going to kill one of the twins in the next few seconds. Tell me you’re not delusional.”

  “Jesus, sir.” The phone fumbled, and he heard, “This is Kaelyn Clute. I’m alive. Who is this?”

  Kurt about fell out of his chair. He stood up and shouted, “I need this on speaker, right now.”

  Palmer glared at him, then looked to the president. “I don’t know what to say to get them to stop. We can’t pick one.”

  Kurt raised his voice. “Pike’s on the line. He’s got the Clute twins.”

  The room went quiet. Chairman Clute leaned forward, his face radiating hope, like a father searching for a child in the aftermath of a tornado. Knowing the worst was coming, but not wanting to believe. He said, “Who’s Pike?”

  President Warren said, “Put him on.”

  The phone was redirected, and President Warren said, “Pike? This is President Warren. You there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here, sir. Could I get some fucking help for a change?”

  Kurt cringed at the language, and President Warren said, “We’re about to get a video of one of the Clute twins getting executed.”

  Pike said, “Well, unless I’m the one pulling the trigger, that’s going to be pretty damn hard to do.”

  Chairman Clute said, “Who are you? What do you have?”

  The next words from the speaker were “Daddy? We’re alive. We’re both alive. But I think this man could use some serious help to keep us that way.”

  Kurt saw the tears begin to flow from Chairman Clute’s eyes. He looked at the president and said, “We through fucking around with Pike?”

  59

  Ali Hassan slipped over the side of the boat and the coldness of the water took his breath away. An involuntary gasp escaped as he kicked his legs to keep his head above the waves, the sound lost to the wind.

  The temperature outside was a brisk forty-four degrees, and he realized the River Thames was cold enough to cause rapid hypothermia. Something he should have recognized before, but he was used to the surf off the coast of Somalia. Even in the wintertime it was bearable.

  He said, “Ismail, quickly. Pass me the explosives.”

  Ismail saw him flailing, mistaking the urgency in his voice for a danger he couldn’t see. He slid across a box four feet square, covered in a tarp. It hit the water with a small splash, then began bobbing in the waves. He said, “What is it? What do you see?”

  His teeth beginning to chatter, Ali Hassan said, “Nothing from man, but if we don’t get to shore soon, we’ll die out here. The water is freezing.”

  Ismail laughed, the sound abruptly cut short as he slid into the darkness of the Thames himself. He sputtered, the liquid so cold he couldn’t form a sentence. The man in the boat said, “You want me to get closer? So you don’t have as far to swim?”

  Ali looked toward his target and said, “No. Someone will see. We’re too close to the palaces and other government buildings. Too close to people watching. You keep going as planned. Away from here.”

  The man turned the throttle of the outboard engine and the small boat puttered away, soon lost from sight in the darkness.

  Ismail said, “If the rope isn’t there, we’re going to die. Or be forced to turn ourselves in to prevent it.”

  Ali unrolled a length of twine from the box and tied it to his belt. He started to swim to the southern shore, dragging the box behind him. He said, “The sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll know.”

  Roughly a hundred meters away, the edge of the river twinkled with lights, their target rising up and dominating the landscape, illuminated like a gigantic Christmas tree. The London Eye.

  Originally called the Millennial Wheel, it was once the largest Ferris wheel in the world and still ranked in the top four, standing over four hundred feet in the air. Created to celebrate the turn of the century, thirty-two capsules dotted its circumference, each capable of holding twenty-five people. At full capacity, there would be eight hundred people in the capsules, slowly turning. Eight hundred bodies Ali intended to send crashing into the dark water of the River Thames.

  They reached the outer glow emanating from the shore and continued on into the undercarriage of the loading platform. Ali swam to the nearest anchor pipe, a giant thing embedded deep into the footings at the bottom of the river.

  Two feet above the waterline the pipe had a collar of steel with spikes pointing downward. A fixture designed to prevent someone like Ali from climbing the pipe to the platform above. Which would have sufficed if he were working alone. He was not.

  Now inside the lighting given off by the giant wheel, Ali and Ismail swam among the pipes, sticking to the shadows and working their way to the right side of the loading platform, near the gift shop. Ismail went forward, searching the gloom, while Ali clung to a pylon, fighting the waves and keeping the box of explosives from slamming into him. Ali lost sight of him, then heard him hiss.

  He let go and swam forward, struggling with the box against the current. He saw a knotted rope dancing above the river, Ismail halfway up it. Ali waited until he was on the platform, then tied the box to the end of the rope and climbed up himself.

  Ismail helped him over the edge, the wind cutting through his wet clothes, causing him to shiver involuntarily. He said, “Where is Mansoor?”

  “Inside. Hiding in the dark.”

  “And the uniforms? Tell me he brought the uniforms. Something dry.”

  Pulling up the box, Ismail said, “Yes. Go inside. Change.”

  Thirty minutes later both men were dressed in uniforms for the cleaning crews, the man called Mansoor twitching nervously beside a large plastic bin on wheels. He said, “We must go. The safety crew will be here soon. They check everything. You need to get in and out before they arrive.”

  “Everything? They look at everything?”

  “Down here. The spindle and hub are checked by computer.”

  “Okay. How will we get there?”

  “Outside. The arms outside. They have a hatch that leads upward.”

  “Do you clean them out ordinarily?”

  “No, but I’ll protect you with the bin. You get inside, close the door, and you won’t be seen going up.”

  “You will stay until we’re done?”

  “No, no. I have to make my rounds. I’ll get rid of your wet clothes at the same time. How long do you need?”

  Ali looked at Ismail, and he said, “Forty minutes.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll position again in forty minutes. But no more. The safety crew will be here in less than an hour, and they know me on sight. You they will question.”

  They trundled out of the gift shop area as if they belonged, Mansoor pushing the bin and the other two holding brooms. They walked away from the loading platform to the two giant A-frame arms that held the wheel in the air.

  Built as a cantilever, the enormous wheel was supported on one side only, the arms leaning sixty-five degrees before mating to the hub two hundred feet in the air, allowing the wheel to extend out over the river. Four sets of giant cables buried one hundred feet deep kept the entire assembly from falling over.

  Seamus had stated that it would take too many explosives to destroy the hub and spindle at the center of the wheel, and he was right, but the unique arc
hitecture had one Achilles’ heel—the cables. The entire wheel was held upright much like a person leaning backward and holding on to a rope tied to a tree. Cut the rope, and the person falls. Cut the cables, and the arms—already leaning out over the River Thames—would topple, bringing the entire wheel down, with all eight hundred people inside screaming on the way.

  Some would be rescued. Some would be crushed. Most would drown trying to escape the capsule. But all would contribute to the spectacular nature of the attack.

  Mansoor parked the bin next to a steel hatch at the base of the giant arm, blocking the view of the various security cameras. The small aperture looked not unlike something seen on ships, an oval piece of metal surrounded by bolts. He scurried low, unlocked the hatch, then stood, making a show of sweeping the concrete, and said, “Hurry. Go.”

  Ismail and Ali scrambled inside, hearing the door lock closed behind them. They looked at each other, realizing they were trapped. Ali shrugged and began climbing a ladder, dragging the box behind him. Ismail sighed, hoisting the box on his shoulder and beginning to follow.

  Fifteen minutes later, they exited onto the scaffolding underneath the spindle at the center of the wheel, two hundred feet in the air. They paused for a moment, breathing heavily, the dragging of the explosives having taken its toll. Ismail looked at his watch, then scuttled to the far end, finding where the giant cables joined the hub. He pointed to the flange of steel holding the anchor point of the cables and said, “Here. We cut here. Open the box.”

  Ali did so, saying, “You mean the cable?”

  “No. The steel. We can shatter it with the RDX. Cutting the cable will be much harder. We don’t have plastic explosives to form around the cable, so most of the power would be lost. Breaking those flanges off, though, will be easy.”

  Ali nodded, not truly understanding but trusting Ismail’s knowledge. In short order, both of the outer flanges were prepared, a ribbon of RDX on either side of the steel, slightly offset from each other. The result would be an explosive force that cut through the hardened metal, separating the flange from the spindle. Ismail finished by coating both explosive packages with white spray paint, making them blend into the color scheme of the spindle. When he was done, he armed the detonators and asked, “How long for the timer?”