by Brad Taylor
“Then why were you fucking her in the backseat of a car?”
Nick paused, then said, “Girls aren’t allowed in the barracks.”
“You never heard of a hotel?”
“Look, I don’t know. We were just . . . overcome, I guess.”
Seamus shouted up the stairs. “Hold it.”
Kylie sagged to a step, still weeping. Seamus marched up to her, cupped her chin, and raised her head. “Is this true?”
Lost in her own despair, Kylie hadn’t heard the conversation. She said nothing, almost catatonic. He squeezed her chin and repeated, “Is it true?”
“What? Is what true?”
“Are you his fiancée?”
She looked down the stairs and saw Nick staring at her intently. He faintly nodded his head. She hesitatingly said, “Yes.”
Her mind struggled to keep up. To comprehend what Nick was doing. She saw Seamus considering her answer and prayed he didn’t ask any questions about Nick’s family. Nick had been extremely evasive whenever anything like that came up. Even secretive. She’d never pressed.
He leaned back and said, “We researched Nicholas for over six months, and you never surfaced. Why is that?”
From the floor, Nick said, “The Secret Service insisted we keep it quiet. She can’t be officially protected, and they saw her as a potential leverage point.”
Kylie thought, Secret Service?
Seamus smiled. “Well, they were right.” He nodded at the man holding her. “Take her back. We’ll see how the honorable Phillip Hannister deals with two missing he holds dear.”
As the man jerked her back down the stairs, the name swam around her head, seeking purchase. He kicked the back of her knee and forced her to the ground, flex-tying her feet again. As the darkness descended from the hood, her memory clicked, and she knew why they wanted Nick.
Phillip Hannister, the vice president of the United States.
DAY FIVE
The Hunt
9
Going through the metal detectors of the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, I was a little disappointed in Kurt’s choice of meeting location. I always preferred hitting up a small pub—of which there were plenty in DC—but for some reason, Kurt had decided that the McDonald’s attached to the museum was the way to go. Considering it was ten in the morning, I guessed that was okay.
On the civilian side, Kurt was ostensibly the president of Blaisdell Consulting. On the military side he was a PowerPoint Ranger staff officer working at the Special Operations Division of the Joint Staff in the Pentagon. The multiple personalities would have given me schizophrenia. For security reasons, because of the myriad different cutouts and cover companies tangentially associated with the front known as Blaisdell Consulting, Jennifer and I never went to the physical building next to Arlington Cemetery in Clarendon. Any time we needed a face-to-face with our command, we did it off-site. And this situation was definitely one for a face-to-face, especially given the strange instructions Kurt had relayed on the phone call yesterday.
Based on Knuckles’s recommendation, I’d patiently let the letter sit on my desk for the better part of two long days. Well, patiently was a polite way of putting it. I’d paced around and read it so many times that Jennifer had asked if I’d worn out the words. I’d finally figured that a day and a half was long enough and picked up the phone to call Kurt. Jennifer had stopped me, saying I’d promised her to let it sit for two full days. I’d started to argue, then my cell had rung. Strangely enough, it was Kurt.
Stranger still, he didn’t want to talk on the phone. He’d told me to pack clothes for a week and to fly to DC. To which I’d responded, “Is the Taskforce going to reimburse me for the airfare? If not, you can fly your ass down here.”
He’d said, “I’ll pay you back. Both you and Jennifer.”
Not the Taskforce will pay you back or Blaisdell Consulting will reimburse you, but I’ll pay you back. And he wanted Jennifer to come as well, with enough clothes for a week. Strange indeed.
We wound our way through the displays, moving around the simulated moon landing outside of the interior entrance to the food court. Through the glass I saw Kurt in the corner, sipping a cup of coffee. Dressed like a businessman, he glanced my way and nodded. Jennifer broke to the counter to get her own cup and I went straight to him. He stood up and shook my hand, saying, “I know you have questions. Let me talk first.”
I nodded and sat down. He said, “Did you get a hotel?”
“Yeah. Just dropped our luggage off. Embassy Suites in Old Town.”
“Good. Well, first things first: It’s true Grolier Recovery Services has been ‘laid off.’ I’m working to rectify that, but my briefing to the Council on your behalf was preempted by other things.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute. For you, the primary problem is that prick Billings. He’s steadily grown convinced that you are a threat, and Brazil was the last straw. As secretary of state he convinced enough Council members to vote you out.”
“Brazil? I stopped a nuclear weapon!”
“I know, I know. But you also went on the warpath, eliminating Russian members of the FSB. When we originally sent you to Bulgaria, Billings was the dissenting vote. When you ignored the Council’s orders, he went into ‘I told you so’ mode.”
“They attacked us, sir. They killed Turbo, Radcliffe, and Decoy. Came damn close to killing Jennifer and me. And it was the Israelis who did most of the killing.”
He held up his hands, “Pike, you don’t have to convince me. I have no problem with what you did. Well, except when you basically told me to fuck off.”
I felt my face grow red in embarrassment. He was right about that.
He said, “Look, I’ve ordered the Taskforce to keep all linkages. We aren’t shredding the cover mechanisms and you’ll be kept on Blaisdell Consulting’s books like everyone else. But I’m going to need some time before I can get in front of the Council again.”
“Why? Knuckles said something about a soldier dying and that the VP’s son was missing. Is that what’s got the Beltway’s panties in a knot?”
And he told me about the whole hostage mess, which was pretty damaging. I could see why everyone was spinning out of control. If we didn’t find them, the administration would be held hostage by both the press and the terrorists. Everything that occurred would be under the prism of the captured Americans, with half saying any military action the United States executed was unjustified and conducted solely to prove we don’t listen to terrorists, and the other half saying we were cowering down and not doing military action because of the terrorist demands. It wouldn’t matter what crisis we were dealing with—the hostages would taint our response.
He then topped off the debacle with a nice little cherry that the VP’s son was apparently an analyst with potentially catastrophic intelligence in his little weenie head.
“Who do they think it is?”
“The consensus is an Islamic group, but I tend to agree with the D/CIA. It’s much too complex for them. I guess we’ll know soon enough, because we’ve been given the mission to find out.”
“The Taskforce? How the hell are they going to do that? It’s not like they can liaison with a foreign police force as an official US government entity. Whose bright idea was that?”
“The president’s. The entire Taskforce is now dedicated to this. I’ve got teams headed to Okinawa, Brussels, and Honduras. Knuckles is going to England.”
The conversation was starting to confuse me. Why tell me what the teams were doing when I had no need to know?
Jennifer sat down, sliding over a cup of coffee. Kurt said, “Good to see you, Koko.”
She took his hand, smiled, and said, “Good to see you as well, but please don’t call me Koko unless I’m on a radio.”
Kurt looked
at me and I said, “Yeah, she’s not into the whole callsign thing. Aggravates her. Anyway, are you telling me that you want Jennifer and me to help with this mission? Even after letting us go from the Taskforce?”
“No. Unfortunately, I’m not. Remember my niece? Kylie?”
“Well, yeah, of course, what about her?”
When I was still in the Army, on active duty, Kylie had been a fixture at any unit function. The truth was we all took a liking to her to the point where she became sort of a unit mascot. She was always hanging around at our get-togethers, grabbing us beers and wanting to hear stories from the teammates. My wife actually took her under her wing for a little bit, letting her babysit our daughter and taking her out for “girl talk” occasionally. But that had been years ago. When I had a wife and daughter.
“She’s on a student exchange from the University of Virginia to Cambridge University in England. My sister called right when this other crap was brewing. Kylie hasn’t called home, and I’m worried about her.”
Kurt was a permanent bachelor, but he treated Kylie like a daughter, much to her mother’s regret. In turn, Kylie adored him as if he were her real father. Like the father she’d never had. When Kurt’s sister had divorced, Kylie had taken her mother’s maiden name, and I was fairly sure it was because of Kurt and not her mother.
The mother, on the other hand, was a piece of work. Kurt seemed to tolerate her, but she was a peacenik with her head in the dirt. Always going on and on about how evil the CIA was and how the United States used the military to ensure the flow of oil or whatever else was current at the time. If she’d called Kurt for help, she was desperate.
Still not understanding the significance, I said, “Worried how? She’s a college kid. They do that shit all the time. What do you mean?”
“Not like this. She’s been gone for forty-eight hours, Pike. Just gone. She’s dropped off the face of the earth, and I think she’s in real trouble.”
The fear on his face was a little bit of a punch, reminding me of my own daughter. Reminding me of what I’d lost. He saw my face and immediately knew the wound he was cutting open. Jennifer saw it too. She clasped my hand and they both closed in, leaning forward as if they were now discussing a terminal disease with a patient, which aggravated me. I could take the pain. I’d been through it already.
I said, “What do you want me to do? Why’d you tell me about the missing men? The Taskforce mission?”
“No reason, except we bought a new Rock Star bird. A Gulfstream 650. It has longer range, faster flight, and more storage than the G-Four you blew up. Knuckles is taking it to England on its maiden voyage. I want you to go with him.”
The Rock Star bird was a nickname we had for a Taskforce Gulfstream IV that was specially modified to infiltrate Taskforce equipment into a country. It was outfitted with everything from suppressed weapons to technical surveillance kit, all hidden in special compartments in the walls of the aircraft to defeat host nation immigration procedures. I’d used it on the last mission to detonate a nuclear bomb over the ocean—which hadn’t gone over too well, considering its cost.
He continued, “I want you to find my niece. Make sure she’s okay. I’ll pay for your flight up here today and pay for your per diem in country. Just tell me she’s okay.”
I saw the pain on his face and felt my own memories start to bubble. The loss. And the chance to prevent another one.
I said, “As a Taskforce member, doing secret shit?”
“No. As a friend of the family. Knuckles will be doing the secret stuff under a cellular telephone contract. You land and walk away. I’ve already talked to Knuckles, which is why I’m sending him to England. He can keep a secret. You can’t mention that I allowed you to use Taskforce assets. You get there, you can talk to anyone you want. Give them my number, my sister’s number, whatever. The only thing you’ll be doing with Knuckles is flying over with him.”
I was running the implications through my head, and he misinterpreted it as hesitation or aggravation at having to hide what I was doing. He said, “Pike, I’m sorry about the Oversight Council. I didn’t want that to happen, and you’re getting a raw deal, but I need you on this. I need you to do what you do best. Find her for me. Please. As a friend.”
Jennifer said, “Kurt, of course we’ll go.”
He leaned back and exhaled.
I said, “Sir, there was never a question about that. And don’t worry about the pay.”
He said, “I’m really scared. I’m afraid of what you’ll find.”
I grinned. “Focus on the circus going on back here. Kylie’s probably teaching the limeys to play beer pong. It’ll be a walk in the park.”
“And if she’s not?”
Jennifer said, “She is. Don’t think that way.”
Kurt kept his eyes on me, an unspoken question on his face, the pain just behind the eyes. He and I knew of a different world that could have touched Kylie. A place of evil that rarely knocked on the door of the average civilian. A place that was causing him nightmares. A place that had found me already. And he knew it.
I said, “Jennifer’s right. Don’t worry about it. I’ll go get her. I understand no backup. No official help. Doesn’t matter. If she’s in real trouble, they made a mistake in the target. Whoever took her will wish they’d taken the VP’s son instead.”
He squeezed my arm, glancing at Jennifer. “Pike, I know I have no right to ask you, but I don’t want just questions answered like the police have already given. I don’t want to hear ‘no clues.’ I cannot live with ‘we’ve done all we can.’”
He looked out the window and said, “She’s in a world of shit. I can feel it, and I can’t do anything about it with the crap going on around here. I can’t leave.” He returned to me, I swear with a touch of shame. “Will you do what’s necessary? Can you? After what happened with the Council? I need to know.”
I understood what he was asking, and I was a little surprised that he thought he had to. I knew he’d given me permission to go after the Russians, even if it wasn’t articulated, but this was on a whole different level. This wasn’t about national security. This was personal. Which in my internal code was much, much higher.
I locked eyes with him, feeling my daughter. Feeling a chance at redemption. I gave him the answer he wanted. “I’ll get her back. Trust me, there is no measure of the pain I will inflict to do so.”
10
Kylie waited for thirty minutes before speaking. When she was sure none of the kidnappers were still in the basement, she blew air, getting a gap in the hood, and said, “Nick? You still here?”
She heard nothing. She said again, a little louder, “Nick?”
She heard a shuffle, then, “Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. My head’s a little woozy. I think I have a concussion. I keep going in and out.”
The words scared her. He was her only anchor.
“Nick . . . I don’t know what to do. They’re going to come back, and they’re going to find out the truth. I don’t know what to say.”
She heard a scuffling, then his voice much closer. “Kylie, they won’t. Just pretend like I said. The Secret Service prevented you from getting too involved. You don’t know how anything works, because you were kept away. I’m sorry I ever did this to you. I’ve never gotten involved with anyone for this very reason. I just . . . just couldn’t help myself with you. I’m sorry.”
She heard the words and felt a warmth, despite the circumstances. “I appreciate what you did. You didn’t have to.”
She heard nothing for a moment, then, “No. I did. And not because I feel responsible. Strange to have it come out here, I suppose, but I’d have liked to have a few more dates with you.”
She smiled in her hood, the conversation taking her away from the situation. “Maybe we could do that. Why are you going by the name of Seacrest?”
“It’s my mothe
r’s maiden name. Secret Service thought it would help protect me. Guess that was a crock of shit.”
They sat in silence for a moment, then he said, “You know, I do blame you. Who else in this whole damn country drinks rum and Coke? Nobody. That’s what caught me. My favorite drink.”
She turned her head in the hood, focusing on his voice, wanting the connection. The only thing she had. “I got that from a friend of my uncle. That’s all he drinks.”
Then she remembered who the friend was. “Hey, my uncle is a pretty important guy. And his friend is a holy terror. When I come up missing, they’ll start to hunt for me.”
Nick chuckled and said, “Kylie, I’m the vice president’s son. You can’t get any more important.”
“No, you don’t understand. My uncle is in the military. He does something all classified. He isn’t important in a political way. He’s . . . he’s . . . just . . . I don’t know what he is. But he’s someone these guys don’t want to meet.”
She heard the condescension in his voice. “Well, maybe he’ll do something. Can’t hurt.”
Kylie focused on the face of her uncle, drawing strength from it, knowing what he would do. She reached her hand to her neck and rubbed a gold pendant on a simple chain. Shaped in a circle, it looked like a thick golden washer. Stenciled around the rim was a Bible verse. Romans 3:8. It was a gift from her uncle, and just having it made her feel secure, as if he were watching over her right this minute.
She remembered his friend she’d met at picnics and unit parties, full of volcanic heat and restrained violence. Remembering how she’d been scared by him and drawn to him at the same time. Unlike the men a floor above, he was a predator. And he would come. She was sure of it. She lay down, feeling the first sense of calm since the ordeal had started.
More to herself than Nick, she touched the pendant and said, “He’ll come. And these fuckers are going to pay.”
