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 British 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.