No Fortunate Son

by Brad Taylor

  He said, “I will, because we might need to steal his food sooner or later, but I swear I’m going to kick his ass when we get out of here.”

  He saw her face fall and said, “What?”

  “I don’t think we’re getting out.”

  “Whoa. I don’t want to hear that. Hope is the one thing we have. You lose that, and you lose the will to live. We’re getting out. What about your friend? The predator?”

  She reached for the pendant she no longer had and her eyes watered. She said, “I don’t think he’s coming. He would have been here by now if he could.”

  “Then we make another escape attempt.”

  “Have you looked around? This is like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. We get out of here, and we’re probably going to be running for help right into some clan of people that are with these guys.”

  Travis spoke for the first time. “She’s right. I saw it on the way in. You guys were drugged and carried down. They let me walk. We’re out in the middle of nowhere.”

  Nick snarled, “If I want your opinion, I’ll squeeze it out of your head like a pimple.” To Kylie, “Don’t listen to him. We’re getting out.”

  Travis said, “I didn’t mean we weren’t getting out. I meant running out of here isn’t the right way to go about it. Look, I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t think they’d beat her, but she was putting lives at risk.”

  Nick said, “If what you say is true, and even if we manage to get out of this hole, we still have a run through the woods, then you put our lives at risk. She could have made it. Jackass.”

  “There are more than just us. They captured others, and if we were to escape, it would force an endgame on them. They’d probably be dead. What I did was hard but the right thing to do. You can’t see it, but it was.”

  “How the hell would you know that?”

  “I heard them talking while we got gas. While I was still in the trunk.”

  “So you heard this after her escape attempt. How is that the right thing? All you were worried about was getting a beating, you little shit.”

  “It still makes my decision right. It’s why I’m an officer. Because I can intuit the big picture.”

  “Funny, I was thinking the exact opposite, as in How on earth did this coward become a lieutenant?”

  Kylie interrupted, saying, “How many others? Where are they?”

  “I don’t know. I just heard that guy Seamus on the phone. They captured others besides us. They could be in a cellar a hundred feet over for all I know.”

  Nick said, “No way. It’s much easier to keep us together. If they’re real, they aren’t anywhere near here.”

  Almost to herself, Kylie said, “You’re right. It makes much more sense to keep us together . . .”

  Nick said, “And?”

  The fear returned to her face. She said, “And if they’re somewhere else, there’s a reason. They have something special planned.”

  38

  Kaelyn Clute heard her door open and curled up out of reflex. Boots clomped to her head and she felt hands on her body. A pair on her wrists and a pair on her ankles. She started to writhe, and a voice said, “Stop. We’re cutting you free.”

  She felt her restraints fall away, and she became afraid. Her hood was removed, and the man above her said, “Stand. Follow me.”

  She stood on wobbly legs, her gag still in place, and followed the man into the central den. The other walked behind her, making her glance over her shoulder out of reflex.

  She saw Mack on his knees, also cut free. He winked at her, drawing a slap on the head. He scowled at the blow but remained still.

  The man who struck him said, “We are going for a ride. Because of that, you will not be tied or gagged. I want to stress: Do not attempt to escape.”

  He held up a cell phone, saying, “We will be going in separate cars five minutes apart. These phones act as walkie-talkies. Instant communication. If either of you attempts anything, you will cause the other to die. Am I understood?”

  She saw Mack nod and followed his lead. The man said, “McKinley, you’re first. Remove the gag.”

  He did so, then said, “Where are we going? I want to stay with my sister.”

  “Tough shit. No harm will come to either of you, and you’ll meet at the end. It’s just a precaution.”

  McKinley looked at Kaelyn, torn, and she nodded at him. He said, “You’d better be telling the truth.”

  “Whatever, tough guy. Start moving.”

  Kaelyn watched him disappear, one man in front, one in the rear, then sat waiting with the final man. After a short time, his cell squawked with the command to follow. He motioned to her and said, “You first. Take a left and head toward the stairs. Don’t stop at the elevators.”

  They went down the stairwell and ended up in the ubiquitous Parisian courtyard. The man pointed to a nondescript Renault parked against the curb and said, “You get in the passenger side.” He held up the phone. “Remember what Braden said.”

  If he seemed concerned about using a name, he didn’t show it. Causing her more fear. She closed the door, and he said, “Buckle up,” in his lyrical accent. “Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  They drove north in the congested traffic, him weaving like a maniac and her trying to determine where they were. She caught plenty of rues but couldn’t decipher names until she was beyond them. Eventually, they crossed the Seine, and she recognized the Arc de Triomphe. An anchor.

  They drove away from it and headed northeast, and the neighborhoods began to become run-down. Eventually, they were traveling down small roads teeming with African immigrants. She saw a sign for an Islamic studies institute and committed the name to memory. Two turns later, and they were driving by an ornate Orthodox church.

  Another anchor.

  He put the building in the rearview mirror, then turned into a courtyard, honking at two men loitering in front of a wrought-iron gate. They shouted at him in French but moved out of the way. Parking behind another sedan, he exited and walked around to her side and pointed to an archway leading inside a dilapidated apartment complex.

  He opened the door, saying, “Inside there. Take it slow. No sudden movements. Show me you want to obey. Don’t make me guess.”

  She walked through an arch. Stung by the smell, she hovered in the shadows, waiting on a command. He turned on a flashlight and pointed to a graffiti-stained stairwell. “Fourth floor.”

  She walked forward, gingerly picking her way, the small cone of light dancing behind her. They reached the fourth floor and he said, “Right.” She started moving, wondering if she was walking to her death. Wondering if it wouldn’t be better to run now. She passed one door and reached a second, having the thought taken from her by a command.

  “Stop.”

  He knocked on the door, and the man called Braden opened it. He said, “Come in.”

  She hesitated.

  Louder, he said, “McKinley, tell her to come in.”

  She heard, “Kaelyn, I’m here.”

  The relief was so great she thought she would collapse. She stumbled through the door and walked inside, embracing Mack. Braden broke them apart, saying, “Look. All we’re doing is providing proof of life. Your people want you back, and we want to give you to them, provided they pay a price.”

  She saw Mack steel himself and wanted to stop him from talking. Wanted to acquiesce to whatever they asked. Then felt ashamed, as a Navy officer, that she would.

  Mack said, “What price? I won’t participate in this as some propaganda stunt. I don’t know what you are trying to do, but it won’t be with my help.”

  He looked at her with a sense of regret, and she nodded, saying, “Neither will I.”

  Braden sighed. “Look, all we’re doing is extorting money. I need proof of life from you. I’d like to make it dramatic,
but I can do it however you want. Your participation is a foregone conclusion.”

  Mack said, “Bullshit. What’s all of the RDX for? The det cord running around the room? We’re dead anyway.”

  For the first time, Kaelyn saw a myriad of small packages on the walls, all staggered symmetrically. A deathtrap she didn’t comprehend, but she understood her brother’s words. She went pale.

  Braden pulled a pistol and aimed it at Kaelyn’s head. He said, “Do it your way, then. Tie him the fuck up.”

  The two men descended, and Kaelyn sprang toward Mack. Braden grabbed her wrist and jammed the barrel into her head. “Don’t. You aren’t dying today unless you fight.”

  She watched, helpless, as her brother was beaten into submission, the two men punching like machines. No joy or anger. Just work. Eventually, he was flex-tied hand and foot.

  Braden said, “Now your turn. Would you like to fight?”

  Internally, she knew she should. Knew it was required, if only to preserve her own image of what was heroic. She did not. She told herself it was because she needed her strength to escape, if the opportunity presented itself. Needed to prevent any damage that would harm that chance. It was the truth, but it did nothing to salve her feeling of cowardice.

  She went to the floor and in short order was tied just like her brother. Braden said, “Put on the hoods.”

  She lay in the darkness for a moment, hearing scuffling around.

  Braden’s voice: “Okay, get them parallel. You need to be off camera when you pull the hoods. Do not get in the way of the lens. Don’t worry about talking. There is no audio.”

  She touched her brother in the back, a stroke to let him know she was there. A shadow appeared above her head. Braden said, “Get them on their knees.”

  A hoist, and she was up.

  “Okay, on the count of three. One . . . two . . . three.”

  The hood was ripped away, and she saw Braden with an iPhone, taking video. She glared at him and realized she’d given him exactly what he wanted when he said, “Perfect.”

  The hoods returned, and she heard Braden say, “Put them in the bedroom. Cinch them tight. This is home for a while.”

  She heard the words and realized the man had told the truth. They wouldn’t be killed today. But tomorrow was a short twenty-four hours away.

  39

  Braden exited into the courtyard, dialing Seamus through the VOIP application, and Seamus answered with a flustered tone.

  “Hey, it’s Braden. You sound like you’re in the gym working out.”

  “I’m on the M7 fighting through the Muppet tourists. Frog called today. Our black friend is in town and wants to meet.”

  “Now? It’s a week early.”

  “Yeah, I know. This shit has been one short circuit after another. Nothing I can do about it. I’m on my way to Dublin. What’s up with you?”

  “Got the Snapchat. They’re tucked in tight. It’ll look good.”

  “You sure you got the geolocation feature on?”

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s there. I tested it on Google Maps before I took the video. It spotted me right where I was supposed to be.”

  “And it’s on Wi-Fi? Not the cell network?”

  Braden let a little aggravation come through. “Yes, just like you told me. How about a little trust?”

  “Sorry. We have to give them just a taste. Make them work for it. Make them feel smart. We can’t be obvious.”

  “Well, I did what Kevin said to do. I can’t tell you how smart it is.”

  “It’ll be good enough. Where are the captures?”

  “In the apartment.”

  “They under control?”

  “Yeah, but that Marine recognized the explosives. He knows this won’t end well.”

  “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “No. Not as long as I keep people there. We had to smack him around a bit, but they’ll do what’s necessary to survive.”

  “Do they know what’s planned?”

  “Of course not. But they suspect. Even a chicken suspects when you show it the axe.”

  “Keep them under control. We’re close. The diversion goes, the Serbs get their jewels, the Americans spin around in confusion trying to figure out how we set a trap, we kill a hostage, and then the money will flow. I promise, the money will flow.”

  “When do I send the Snapchat? I have to let Ratko know. He has to be ready.”

  “I don’t know just yet. Let me figure out what the fucking Somali has in mind. Probably tomorrow. Are the Serbs in town yet?”

  “No, damn it. I told them I would give them a warning. They aren’t here and won’t execute tomorrow.”

  “Okay, fine. Calm down. Give them two days.”

  “I will, but you’d better be ready to execute. They’re not of a mind to give us favors.”

  * * *

  Seamus hung up the phone and threw it into the car seat next to him. He crossed the M50 and headed into downtown Dublin on Long Mile Road. He wove about, getting closer to the River Liffey. Wanting to ensure he was on his own, and clean from any surveillance, he wound around St Stephen’s Green until he found a parking spot on the south side. He sat in the vehicle for a moment, checking the ebb and flow of traffic, looking for a correlation of someone parking because he had. He saw nothing, feeling a growing satisfaction for what he was about to accomplish.

  Better men than him had defended this sacred ground in the 1916 Easter Uprising, and he would make them proud. They had sacrificed themselves in a futile attempt at rebellion against the English crown, and their deaths had been the catalyst for the freedom of the first twenty-six counties of Ireland. He would be the catalyst for the final six.

  He exited quickly, entering the park through a central gate, getting lost among the tourists. He moved purposely through it, taking the winding paths seemingly at random to prevent anyone from anticipating and jumping ahead of him.

  He circled around, reaching a central bridge spanning a neck of water connecting two lakes. A choke point. He crossed it, then sat on a park bench on the other side, surveying his back trail. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  He exited the green at the northwest corner, walking through a large stone archway and into a shopping district full of tourists, the lane jammed with stores of all types.

  He continued north, hoping the Africans weren’t drawing too much attention.

  When Frog, his Croatian arms contact, had initially set up the introductions, they were supposed to meet in London, a much more hospitable area for Somalis to blend into the population. But that was also supposed to be next week.

  Frog had told him the Somalis had arrived in London and were anxious to conduct business. Seamus had said there was no way he could break free to go to London, and the next thing he knew, Frog had coordinated for one to travel here. To Dublin.

  It was the last scenario Seamus wanted. He had no desire to be connected to the Somali in his own land. The risks were too great for someone remembering, and so he’d been forced to think about where to meet. To find a place where they could at least reasonably blend in and also limit the risk of running into someone he knew. He’d decided to send him to a pub. Not just any pub, but the biggest tourist trap pub in Dublin. The Temple Bar.

  The streets surrounding the Temple Bar area were once the quarter for locals to go to drink the night away—as the signs proclaimed, the “cultural center of Dublin”—but as happens in every city of note, tourists began going for the “local” atmosphere. Soon enough, the locals went elsewhere, leaving the tourists the victor.

  At six in the evening, the bar would be packed with people from all over the world, and with any luck, the Somali would—if not blend in—at least not be noticed because the tourists wouldn’t understand how strange it was. The only ones looking would be the waitstaff, and they’d se
en plenty of strange events at the Temple Bar. Most involving vomit.

  He threaded his way through the alleys, eventually reaching Temple Lane South. He walked toward the Liffey, passing pub after pub, all proclaiming authentic Irish something or other. Irish stew and music, or T-shirts full of leprechauns, and the tourists of the world over ate it up.

  The original Temple Bar after which the area was named owned a corner and, like most Irish pubs, was chopped up into a multitude of different rooms. He’d instructed Frog to tell the Somali to head to the beer garden in back, away from the live music, both so they could hear each other and to get away from the drunks he knew would be slobbering to sing along with the Irish verses.

  He entered and was immediately accosted by the noise. Even in the dead of winter, the place was packed, so much so it reminded him of a railroad car full of cattle, the people jammed in so tight there was no room to move. On a small stage, a man sang a ditty, and the bar responded with the chorus.

  Not exactly the place the authorities would expect for planning a revolution, but then again, England missed all the same connections in 1916.

  40

  Seamus waded into the crowd, fighting his way to the bar. He reached it and waited. A barkeep came his way, and he said, “Guinness. Also, I’m looking for Dermot.”

  The bartender nodded and began his pour, shouting over his shoulder.

  Dermot was the man who’d done the legwork to find their original safe house in Dublin. A man not unused to helping out the cause, even if he professed not to know what was being done. Seamus had leased the town house with his grandfather’s name and had thought that would be the end of the relationship with Dermot. After Frog’s call, Seamus had contacted him for another favor.

  The beer arrived at the same time as Dermot. Seamus waited until the barkeep was gone, then said, “Well? Seen anything out of place?”

  Wiping down a pint glass, Dermot smiled and said, “Yeah. Your two friends are in the garden. Looking like they’d rather be dead.”

  “Two? There’s two of them?”