by Brad Taylor
The woman repeated the maneuver, firing and shouting, “Anything! Your damn feet! It’ll have our location embedded in it. Just send it.”
She ducked back down and said, “Pike, Pike, I’m going to attempt a breakout. They’re closing too fast. Get your ass in here.” She glanced at Kylie, and Kylie nodded.
“I sent it.”
“Might be too late. Listen, we’re going to try to escape out the back. Duckwalk away from here, keeping the desk between us and them.”
“What if there isn’t an exit?”
“Best I can do right now. Let’s go.”
Kylie started crawling, the woman scooting backward, keeping the weapon aimed at their rear. Kylie saw movement to her right and screamed. The woman rotated, firing her pistol, and the man dove sideways, out of view. The two on the left came in fast, shooting at them on the run. The woman whipped back around, and Kylie knew they were dead. The woman couldn’t stop them both.
The pistol spit fire, dropping the first man, but the second one kept coming. He slowed and took aim with his weapon, lining the sights on Kylie, the death that was about to occur hyperclear in her eyes. She screamed, and he flew forward as if he’d been knocked off his feet from behind, sliding on his face as if he’d fallen asleep while running.
The man on the right stood up, but he was no longer firing toward them. He was firing away. Kylie saw his head slap back, a fine mist of red sprouting from it.
He crumpled to the ground, revealing the person who’d killed him.
And she saw salvation.
It was the predator. Her uncle’s friend. An apex killer holding a smoking gun.
He’d come at last.
She wondered if she was hallucinating, then realized the shooting had stopped.
The woman said, “Guess you got the picture I sent.”
“Yeah. Sorry we took so long to get here.” The predator strode to Kylie and squatted down. He gently cupped her chin, staring into her eyes with concern. He said, “You’re a hard woman to find. You dropped something in Ireland and I wanted to give it back.”
He held out his hand, and hanging from it was her pendant.
The depth of his search sank in, and she began to cry, huge sobs rolling out of her and filling the room.
He wrapped her in his arms, absorbing all the fear she had left.
88
It was an unusually warm day for a winter in Charleston, much different than the icebox it had been when I’d left a scant few days before, and I had convinced everyone to go to an outdoor bar and grill called the Shelter, right across from the Grolier Recovery Services office on Shem Creek. It was still colder than I would have liked, with the mercury hovering at a barely tolerable sixty degrees, but Shelter had outdoor heaters as well and picnic tables that were perfect for all six of us.
The heat from the sun beating down on my back, I felt the stress of the last week wash away in a cleansing warmth, the other bar patrons near us laughing and joking, reminding me of what life should be. The outing seemed to be helping Kylie as well, and for the first time she held a smile longer than a split second.
Her face had started to heal, but you could still see a hint of the bruising. Her mental state was the same way, outwardly okay, but I was sure she had yet to sleep peacefully. She was staying in our guest bedroom, and I could hear her whimper in the night.
All the “official” hostages were going through a Bergdahl-type reintegration, with a team of psychologists monitoring their every move, but Kylie, being a nobody, didn’t rate. Even with Kurt as an uncle. The best she’d gotten was an outpatient session with a grief counselor. She’d opted to come to us in Charleston, and Kurt had told her mother he thought it was best. There was more to reintegration than talking to some lab rat.
I’d been treating her with kid gloves, but Jennifer had taken to her like a long-lost sister. For her part, Kylie seemed to think Jennifer was the second coming of Joan of Arc and had glommed on to her like a barnacle. Which I was sure was bad.
Any time women get together, it’s bad.
The waitress appeared, carrying a tray of shot glasses full of some college crap called Fireball—Kylie’s choice—and Knuckles raised his glass.
“To another year in the big leagues with Grolier Recovery Services.”
We’d been reinstated in good standing with the Taskforce, which, given what the hell we’d done, should have been a foregone conclusion, but some on the Oversight Council had still balked. I had the names, and they’d better pray they never needed my help.
We clinked our plastic glasses, and I downed the cinnamon abomination, winking at Kylie.
We’d managed to escape Camden Lock before the police had arrived and locked it down, running to the sedan and hauling ass to the US embassy. I’d given thought to fleeing completely, riding straight back to the Taskforce bird and flying home, but I knew the mess I’d left behind would need attention, not the least of which was finding out what the hell Nung had done with the vice president’s son. I’d opted for the embassy and sucking up the punishment.
Humorously enough, the only men who were arrested were Blaine and his communications section. We walked free and flew home after forty-eight hours. They stayed in jail for a week.
The president had brought enormous pressure to bear, using the full might of the United States and our unique relationship with England. Something I was learning to appreciate very much.
The entire affair was coated as an Interpol undercover sting operation against the Pink Panthers. We had the jewels from the Bulgari heist, and most of the dead guys were already on an Interpol hit list as members of the crew, so it fit. We let the respective police forces take credit, crowing about their exhaustive investigation and holding the Bulgari jewels up to the TV cameras. The unwashed masses watching the news bought it, cheering the action, but Kurt let me know some of the Brits were more than a little pissed. They didn’t like our operations in their country and were out for—if not blood—at least some egg on the face.
Unfortunately for those who felt that way, we’d also saved their biggest tourist destination from absolute disaster. And that meant something to the cooler heads at Whitehall, especially since we threw the bone of credit for stopping the attack to Scotland Yard. Only a select few knew about American involvement.
The one real contention I’d had was when they’d tried to take Kylie from me. She’d been clinging to my waist since the rescue, never getting more than an arm’s length away. Two men had burst into our holding room in the embassy, telling her she was going to another location. She’d recoiled, cowering into me, and the men had insisted.
I’d let them take Jennifer earlier and had no idea where they’d shoved Brett and Retro, but they could all take care of themselves. Taking Kylie was a bridge too far.
I stood up and said, “She’s going nowhere.”
They said, “It’s not your call. We have questions. She needs to be debriefed.”
Completely calm, I said, “It is my call. She stays. Or you go to the hospital. It’s your choice.”
The shorter of them said, “You don’t have a say.”
He grabbed her arm, and she whimpered, a sound that cut through to my soul. I slapped his hand away and leaned in, giving him the full heat of my potential for violence. I whispered, “Do you really want to fuck with me? She doesn’t leave my side. Ever again.”
I felt her wrap her arms around my waist and knew I’d made the right call.
The men were both embassy flunkies, and they’d threatened to contact the Marine security detachment to solve the dilemma, but one look at me and they knew such a decision was ill-advised. No matter who they brought in, the outcome was preordained. And it wasn’t in their favor.
Kylie had remained with me for the rest of our stay.
Jennifer and I had both been debriefed by MI6—the Brit
ish version of the CIA—and they were nothing but a bunch of suits with sour attitudes and small-dick syndrome. While they were questioning Jennifer, additional men had shown up, from Hereford. They were Special Air Service, and after an initial confrontation, they were much more accommodating, wanting to know everything we had on the RIRA.
They’d entered our holding room giving off the same bullshit bravado of the MI6 guys, only with a little bit of a Commando vibe, something I’d seen for over twenty years. Since they were dressed in civilian clothes, I knew who they were before they even opened their mouths.
They also tried to separate Kylie from me, all hard-ass and full of bluster. I repeated my dance from earlier, and these men immediately recognized the threat, because they held it in themselves. They backed off, and a man entered the room, alone. As soon as I saw him, I knew I was good.
I’d served with him in Iraq, and we’d killed and captured quite a few bad guys together. And lost some mutual friends along the way. He glared at me, a fake interrogator stare, then I saw the recognition in his eyes. He said, “Pike? Pike Logan? Who the hell is Nephilim?”
“That’s my real name. What’s up, Tinker?”
It turned out he was now a squadron sergeant major and looking for information into the new IRA threat. I gave him all I had. When we were done with the intel, he continued, only now we were swapping war stories, Kylie still clinging to me. Someone tapped on the door, and the MI6 guys returned with Jennifer. They saw the camaraderie and got a pinched look on their faces, like they’d both just swallowed a fly. Tinker quit talking in their presence, flicking his eyes to them, then returning to me.
He said, “You fancy a pint tonight? Talk a little more privately?”
“Of course. But I don’t think I’m getting out of here anytime soon.”
He said, “Too bad. Call me when you can.”
I nodded, and Jennifer had sat down, done with yet another round of interrogation with the MI6 suits. Tinker had winked, then said in a loud voice, “Rough this bloke up. He’s holding out.”
I scowled at him, but they’d all left us at that stage. Our trials were over. In the end, after a day and a half of interviews, we were let loose.
Truthfully, the hardest part of the whole affair had been getting Nick back into the fold. Nung had him, and I was the only contact to the psychopath.
89
It turned out that Nung’s idea of protection was stashing the vice president’s son in an Asian massage parlor, where they’d both waited in the back for days, living on ramen. I’d given the embassy his cell, but Nung had failed to answer because he didn’t recognize the number calling. They switched to using my Taskforce phone, but he hung up at the first utterance of the caller. Because he was crazy, but thought he was sane, he’d hear the voice and say, “Stranger Danger.” Then disconnect. I thought it was funny as hell, and eventually, because everyone was in a panic, I’d convinced the dumbass embassy flunkies to let me call.
Nung had answered on the first ring. He heard my voice and said, “What is taking so long? I’m about to fly your friend to Thailand. Go home.”
I’d talked him off the ledge, setting up a transfer. He’d agreed, then said, “Our business is done. Payment in full.”
I said, “What payment? What are you talking about?”
He said, “We are good. Call again if you need my service.”
I had no idea what he was blathering about, but he had been pretty damn crucial to the entire operation, and if he was good, I was good.
I said, “Nung, when are you going to tell me your real name?”
“Maybe next time.”
I said, “Thanks for the help. I mean it. No amount of money could repay what you did.”
“This amount will.”
Confused again, I said, “What money?”
I could almost see his bored grin. He said, “Good-bye, Pike.”
Nicholas Seacrest entered the embassy to great fanfare, almost like a head of state, but he was having none of it. The ambassador was in play, wanting to receive him, and he walked right by, searching the room and stalking straight to me, a guy stuck in the back with the minions.
He said, “Where is Kylie?”
Holding my waist, like she’d been doing since I’d rescued her, she stepped out. I saw the look on his face and I felt whole. Jennifer took my hand, and the failure of losing my family slid away, dropping into the abyss.
They closed into an embrace, the ambassador’s staff running to them. One man tried to break up the joy. Tried to salvage a photo op with the ambassador. I snatched his hand away, bending it backward. He yelped, and that was the end of the official US reunion, the embassy staff aghast at my actions.
Jennifer jabbed me in the gut, hissing, “Don’t be an ass.”
I looked at Kylie and said, “That would be impossible at this stage.” I squeezed Jennifer’s hand and said, “You ended up being a pretty good killer.”
She said, “I had a good teacher.” She turned to me and said, “Someone who knows when to break the trigger. You were right all along.”
I searched her eyes, saying, “You have any doubts? Any regrets about what you were forced to do?”
She gazed at Kylie and said, “None. None at all.”
Nick broke from the embrace and got my attention. He said, “You’re the one she kept talking about, aren’t you? The one she said would come. The predator.”
I said, “I don’t know about that. From what I hear, it was you who kept her alive.”
He looked at her, then back at me. “I put her in danger. It was my fault, and I couldn’t stop the slide once it started.”
I said, “You did just fine.”
“I can’t begin to thank you. I don’t even have the words. I wanted to do what you did, but I had no way. I had nothing. I should have . . . maybe if I’d . . .”
I could see the questions forming in his head. The second-guessing. I had already sized up his mettle days ago and saw my edge. I said, “You miss it? What you did before?”
He kissed Kylie’s forehead, and then my words sank in. He glanced at me, misunderstanding why I was asking. Thinking I was questioning him. Which I was, but not for the reasons he believed.
He said, “Every day. Every single day.”
I handed him a card, saying, “That’s for a company called Grolier Recovery Services. It’s a small archeological firm, but we do some interesting stuff on the side. Give me a call.”
He took it and said, “CIA?”
I laughed and said, “Hell no. I’m not a clown in the circus.”
To my right, I saw Brett scowl, a former Marine but now a paramilitary case officer in the Special Activities Division, assigned to the Taskforce. I winked and said, “Present company excluded, of course.”
Nick started to ask another question, but I said, “Later. When the clownfest here is over.” He was swept away by the embassy personnel, leaving Kylie at my side. She was glowing, watching him walk away, smiling so big it looked like it hurt. She squeezed my waist, sending a literal shiver through me. A reminder of what was right in the world.
Two days later, we were in Charleston, sitting at a picnic table in a bar full of patrons who had no idea of the bad man. Of the evil stalking them right this second, only protected by the thin shield the people at my table held on their behalf.
With the sun warming my face, the entire trip seemed a universe away. If it weren’t for the nasty taste of cinnamon in my mouth, it would be perfect.
Knuckles stood up, shouting for another round, then sat back down. He said, “I wonder what happened to all the Bitcoins?”
“Bitcoins? What the hell is that?”
Retro said, “Internet currency. We paid close to twenty-five million dollars to the terrorists. It just disappeared.”
I remembered the weird computer pr
intout from Seamus, realizing Nung had made a pretty damn good payday. I said, “Don’t know anything about it. That’s Washington shit.”
Retro mumbled something about tracking the coins, then the conversation shifted, Brett laughing at Knuckles for the stitches in his ass. Kylie leaned into my ear.
“I knew you would come for me. I knew it.”
Embarrassed, I said, “Anyone would have. I just had the ability. That’s the hard part. Doing the shooting is easy. You should be thanking your uncle.”
The table noise faded to the background as I focused on her, wanting to give her my full attention. Wanting to keep her engaged and talking. She said, “No. No they wouldn’t. I thought about you every night. I thought about you coming. Not just anyone. You. I lost faith at the end, and believed I was dead. But you came all the same.”
I didn’t want to tell her I’d come for my daughter. Didn’t want to do the introspection of whether I would have rescued her if the history of my world had been different. Not wanting to touch the slimy veneer that she was calling heroism.
Surreptitiously listening in, Jennifer saw the emotion flit across my face and said, “He couldn’t do otherwise.”
Kylie smiled at me, a radiant adoration that made me uncomfortable. I stood up, saying I had to use the bathroom, wanting to get away from the conversation.
When I returned, I saw Jennifer leaning into Kylie’s ear, a deep discussion going on, the two solving the problems of the world. Or so I thought.
I interrupted the conversation just by sitting back down. I saw Kylie’s face and knew I was in trouble. I just didn’t know why.
She lasered into me, like she was about to clear the air of a terrible injustice, and said, “What did you tell Jennifer in the police van?”
Jennifer gasped, her eyes flying open, her expression mortified at Kylie’s breach of trust. Knuckles saw the reaction, looking confused.
I glared at Kylie, wanting to run back into the bathroom. She glanced at Jennifer, then back at me.
