by Brad Taylor
The explosives were gone.
The first time he’d eaten in the room, he’d seen packages of RDX stacked against the wall, the white crystal spilling out of one waxed paper container, the chemical name CYCLOTRIMETHYLENETRINITRAMINE clearly stenciled on the outside, something he’d seen in predeployment training for IEDs in Afghanistan. A powerful explosive, it had been invented in World War II and was the weapon of choice for terrorists.
Next to the packages had been an assortment of equipment that would have made his Marine Corps IED instructors shiver: cell phones, electronic wiring, detonation cord, and containers designed to camouflage and increase the fragmentation of the blast. Things that had made him wonder if he was the bait for an ambush. The goat tied to the tree, waiting for the tiger to enter so it could be killed.
The fact that he’d been allowed to see it at all meant that they had no intention of him or Kaelyn being a witness, able to report what they’d experienced. No intention of them surviving whatever was planned. The goat never survived, whether the tiger escaped or not.
Now the explosives were all gone. And they were waiting to be chained to a tree.
23
Lost in thought, running through my conversation with Kurt, I had stopped counting the stops in the London Underground. Jennifer brought me back to the present, saying, “This is us.”
I saw the sign for Sloane Square and stood up, following her out the door along with a flow of other people. We exited to street level, and I got my bearings, saying, “It’s over this way.”
We started walking down Sloane Street in silence, Jennifer recognizing my mood and letting me think. We reached Royal Hospital Road, and I could see the Royal Hospital Chelsea in the distance. Home to the Chelsea Pensioners—retired veterans of the British military—it was not unlike our own VA system in the States, although it was much, much older. And also my last clue.
Before I’d gone to sleep the night before, Kurt had managed to hack into the servers of Sentinel Security and retrieve the footage from the Eagle. He’d sent it to me, along with a detailed report that basically said there was no evidence of Nick Seacrest. Kylie was there with a man, but the camera wasn’t positioned in such a way to get positive ID. All they could see was the back of his head. The tone of the email made it seem as if he was somewhat relieved, but he’d sent it to me anyway.
With Jennifer, I’d stayed up for hours reviewing the footage, and he was right. Along with the video package he’d sent the official military photo of Nick Seacrest, and I couldn’t match the face with the person sitting with Kylie. She’d been with someone, but it was impossible to positively ID the man. I’d stopped trying and taken a look at the footage from a different perspective—surveying for anyone who appeared interested in the couple. And had found something.
Kylie had sat outside, on the patio, and was clearly close to the man she was with, touching his hand and laughing at what he said, which I know must have broken Kurt’s heart to watch. Her date returned the gestures, whispering in her ear and laughing at her comments, silent on the tape. Jennifer had turned away at that point, knowing how the night ended. For me, it brought a feeling of impotence. I wanted to reach through the camera and tell her to leave. To go back to campus. To prevent what was going to happen.
I’d refocused, studying the patrons around her. Most were clearly there solely for the pub, the tables full of college kids and tourists. One small table, though, caught my eye. It sat right behind her, in full view of the camera, and held a single man. He was drinking coffee and doing nothing but smoking a cigarette. Twenty-three minutes into the tape, he was met by another man. A rough-looking guy in a black leather jacket and with a three-day beard. They sat together, not talking, just looking. Both smoking cigarettes.
Eventually, the date took Kylie’s hand and led her off camera. The two men waited for about thirty seconds and left as well. An indicator.
I went through the footage until I located the outside cameras, trying to identify when the second man had arrived. Eventually, I’d found it. He’d driven up on a beat-down Honda motorcycle, missing fenders and rolling on threadbare tires. But its license plate was in view of the camera.
When the two men left, they walked right by the bike. As if it wouldn’t be useful for what was about to happen. At least that’s what I thought.
I’d called Kurt with another request, the night now growing into morning. With the time difference, it was 8:00 P.M. in the United States, and the Taskforce was going to bed. I’d told him what I had and demanded that he run the plate.
He’d said, “How? This isn’t The Rockford Files. I don’t have a contact in the British police to do that.”
“Hack it. Get into their system and give me who owns it. You want to find Kylie or not?”
He exploded. “Don’t accuse me of that, damn it! Of course I do.” The phone went quiet, then, “You really think this is something? Because I’m about to go deep into the red. I hack UK government systems, and we’re treading on dangerous ground.”
I said, “I have no idea if it’s anything at all. None. But it’s all I’ve got. Those guys were sketchy, and maybe this has nothing to do with the VP, but my gut tells me those two assholes had everything to do with Kylie.”
I could almost hear the smoke grinding off the gears in his head. I was asking him to step one foot deeper into the chasm. In the end, he did so, and I got an email about two hours later. It said, Here you go. Don’t do this again. I want Kylie back more than life itself, but I can’t use national assets on a whim. If this comes to light, there will be no explanation. I was all set to ask Kurt for some support, maybe redirecting Knuckles, but that was cut short by the information he’d sent. The bike was registered to a retired British noncommissioned officer. A guy in his eighties now living at the Royal Chelsea Hospital and retirement home. I could see why Kurt was aggravated. It wasn’t exactly a smoking gun, but it was all I had. I didn’t have the courage to call Kurt back. In truth, I felt a little like an ass.
We entered the grounds of the hospital, the security guard telling us we could visit freely and pointing to an ancient cemetery as a highlight. Jennifer thanked him and we moved down an old stone walkway to the newer infirmary.
The lady at the front desk said, “Are you here for a visitation?”
Unsure of how this worked, I jumped right in, saying, “Yes, I’m here to see Dylan McKee. I understand he’s staying here.”
She tapped on a computer and said, “Yes. Is he expecting you?”
“No. Not really. It’s a surprise.”
She smiled as if that were the best thing in the world. She said, “He’ll love that.”
“You know him?”
“No. Not personally, but they all like surprise visits. Take a seat in the coffee shop. I’ll send someone to fetch him.”
24
We did so, seeing old warriors talking to family and visitors touring the grounds. Uncomfortable, I asked Jennifer what the hell I was going to say. I mean, I couldn’t accuse an eighty-year-old man of kidnapping a US citizen. I was beginning to regret coming here. The only reason I had done so was because of the risk Kurt had taken to get the information. There was no way it would lead anywhere.
She smiled and placed her hand over mine. “This guy is you in forty years. Your blood. Just talk to him. If there’s something here, he’ll let you know. If not, then make an old veteran happy. Tell war stories.”
Her words were exactly what I needed to hear. I relaxed. I wasn’t the best at social stuff, as Jennifer would attest, but I had no trouble talking to soldiers.
Eventually an administrative assistant entered the coffee shop, followed by a man who stood ramrod straight. At least six feet tall, he was gaunt, as if eaten by an unknown disease, but his eyes were alive. Blue and full of mischief.
She pointed to us, and he walked over. I stood. “Mr. McKee, I’
m Nephilim Logan. From the US.”
He said, “Well, I didn’t think you were a relative.” He shook my hand, then took Jennifer’s and actually kissed it.
He sat down and said, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? You Yanks just pick a name out of the reception book?”
Wanting a connection before I accused him of stealing my boss’s niece, I said, “Where did you serve? Malaysia? Borneo? Yemen?”
He looked at me with a new light and said, “You’re in the American Army.”
“Not anymore. But I was.”
“You’ll find few civilians here who even remember those places. It’s all about the blitz in World War II or Iraq and Afghanistan. The fights in between are forgotten.”
Jennifer said, “I’m a history buff, but the only thing I can get Pike interested in is a fight. It’s the one area he knows more than me.”
The old man said, “I was in Malaysia. Back when it was the Wild West, as you Yanks say. We were going to lose it to a bunch of Chinese. I’ll tell you, we’re fighting the same thing now in Afghanistan. We already quit in Iraq. Nobody listens to the history of the past. . . .”
From there I let him go, and we spent an hour telling war stories. He was a strong man with strong opinions, not unlike any old soldier from the United States. I learned he was from Belfast, Northern Ireland, and that he’d been torn during the troubles there. Being in the British Army had put him on the horns of a dilemma, with many treating him like a traitor. Because of it, he’d spent as much time as he could deployed, moving his family away from their ancestral homeland. The conflict was too close, and the wounds too deep. When his daughter had married, she had returned, but he never did.
I told him about my life in the Army, tours in Iraq and Afghanistan and other places, leaving out the top secret shit I’d done. He told me about his grandson, a man named Brian McKee who had served as well and had been killed in an IED attack in Basra, Iraq, in 2006. Eventually, the stories wound down, and he said, “I appreciate the visit, but you didn’t come here to talk about British success in Malaysia.”
I said, “No, sir, I didn’t.” And I laid it out for him, camouflaging the true problem by talking about a stolen rental car. Making up a story about how I had misunderstood the insurance requirements and now was trying to find the car instead of being forced to pay for it. I told him about the video tape, then asked why a motorcycle registered in his name would be in Cambridge.
He said, “I have no idea why. My daughter sometimes uses my name for things. Maybe she did something with a motorcycle, but she’s got nothing to do with Cambridge.”
Which was no help. I said, “Would she have loaned it out to someone? Given her bike to a friend?”
He thought a moment, then said, “No, but I could see Seamus pulling some crap like this.”
“Who is he?”
“My other grandson. Brian’s brother, and a waste of good flesh. He’s done nothing with his life. Brian joined the military, proud to serve. Seamus refused, going on about our Irish heritage and hating the British military. When Brian was killed in 2006, he went off the deep end, spouting his hatred of the United States for pulling us into Iraq, then talking about joining the Irish Republican Army and fighting the very country I served. I had nothing more to do with him.”
The conversation was a curveball but held enough to keep my interest. Enough to see where it went.
I said, “Is he—are you—Catholic?”
The old soldier laughed. “No. That’s what’s so stupid about Seamus. We’re Protestant, but he’s convinced he’s been shit on by Whitehall. He’s just crazy.”
I pulled a surveillance photo from the Eagle out of my bag, saying, “Is this Seamus?”
He looked at it and said, “Christ. No. That’s Braden. My other grandson. Seamus’s got his arse in the mix now?”
I heard the words and felt a spark. Rationally, I knew it was nothing. All I’d done was prove that the bike registration was correct, and the guy riding it was connected to the old soldier, but my sixth sense was telling me I had found a vein to mine. And my sixth sense was rarely wrong.
I said, “I don’t know. This is from where the car was taken. It’s all I have. Is Braden like Seamus? I mean, would he steal a car?”
“No. Not the Braden I know. But he always looked up to Seamus. Looked up to Seamus and Brian. He was a follower.”
I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to open up wounds for your family, but I’d like to talk to Braden. Do you know where I might find him?”
“No. My daughter would, but she’s out of the country for the winter. She won’t be back until the spring, and even then, I don’t know how much she’s kept in touch with them. After Brian died, everything changed. Braden used to visit, but I haven’t seen him in years.”
“What about Seamus?”
He scoffed. “I disowned that bloke years ago. He’s a bad seed, and always was.” He stood and stretched his legs. “I have an old address for Braden. It’s from two or three years ago, but maybe it’ll help.”
“You don’t mind giving it to us?”
“Hell no. I’ve got more in common with you than I do with them. Promise me one thing, though.”
“What?”
“You find out they took your car, break them down and teach them a lesson. Something I failed to do.”
I nodded. “Sir, if they have the car I’m thinking about, I promise they’ll regret taking it.”
25
Kylie felt the cold through the window, someone in the house having cracked it yet again. She held in her urine, wanting to drag out the time. The gust interrupted her warmth as before, but this time it beckoned. Told her the men held no fear of her escaping. She stared at the window, hoping an answer would present itself, hoping some sign would tell her to gather the courage to make the attempt.
She was the only one who could. The only one who had the ability to get free. To contact someone on the outside. She remembered a story about a man who’d held three women for years, conducting unspeakable acts while the neighbors had no idea. It wasn’t until one escaped, running a mere fifty yards out of the house, that they were rescued.
She should have the courage to do the same. She stood on the toilet and cranked the window open, wincing with the noise and glancing reflexively at the door. No knock came. She got it fully open, now worrying that the influx of cold air would alert her captor.
She hoisted herself up, sticking her head through, her hands scratching the gravel six inches below. One pull, one kick, and she would be out, running down the concrete alley.
Do it. Get out. Do it now.
Her arms refused to move. She couldn’t commit. She pulled herself back in and sagged against the toilet, silently crying.
The guard banged on the door, sending a primeval fear through her. He’ll see the window.
Hoping she sounded strong, but hearing terror in her voice, she said, “Almost done.”
She hoisted herself back up and closed the window, then flushed the toilet, hating herself. Hating her cowardice.
The bearded guard opened the door and said, “Come on. Back down to the cellar.”
She entered the hallway and heard the man Seamus on a phone, shouting.
—“He went where?”
—“Who did he see?”
—“What? You’re shitting me.”
—“Yes, it matters. That’s my damn grandfather.”
—“Take him out. I don’t know how he’s gotten that far, but it’s too close.”
—“Don’t give me that shit. I don’t work for you. I’m helping your operation. You want the diversion, you need to get rid of him. If I have to do it, I’m pulling my men to execute. You got that?”
She heard him hang up as they reached the door to the basement. To someone she couldn’t see, Seamus said, “Pac
k them up. We’re getting out of here.”
The other man said, “You sure? We don’t have enough drugs for two movements. This was supposed to be base.”
The bearded man opened the door, the darkness splitting open before her, and she heard, “Pack them up. I’ll get more drugs.”
She was led down and forced to sit. She waited until the light disappeared, then hissed, “Nick?”
She could tell he recognized the urgency in her voice by the tone of his response, vibrating in concern. “Yes?” She heard him shuffle toward her. He said, “Yeah, I’m here. What’s up? What’s wrong?”
“They’re moving us. We’re going somewhere else.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Someone did something that’s made them afraid.”
Unconsciously, she brought her bound hands up and rubbed her necklace, a talisman.
Travis said, “This is good. If we’re bringing pressure on them, our negotiations only get stronger.”
She ignored him, talking in the dark to Nick. “If we leave here, I lose the chance at escape. We don’t know where we’re going. This might be it.”
Travis hissed, “No, damn it. No way. Let this play out.”
She said, “Nick? What should I do?”
Nick was silent. Travis said, “I can’t let you do this. You’re putting our lives in jeopardy.”
She repeated, “Nick?”
He said, “Kylie, I can’t ask that of you. I . . . I just can’t.”
The door above opened, spilling light in the room. Kylie recognized the problem. Saw the wall separating Nick from a decision. She said, “Is it because you feel responsible for me?”
She heard no response and said, “Nick. Please. Tell me what to do.”
Nick said, “Kylie, maybe if—”
The man on the landing shouted, “Shut the fuck up.”
The boots clomped down the stairs, the window of decision shrinking with each step. She sat back and made her choice.