The Forgotten Soldier: A Pike Logan Thriller (6 page)

10

J
ennifer followed the security man up the winding staircase, feeling the adrenaline build. She started to wipe a sheen of nervous sweat off of her face, then realized it might help her story.

They broke into a large master suite dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows and glass doors facing the ocean. The man pointed across the bed to another door, one that slid into the wall. Jennifer grabbed her stomach and hurried through the room, saying, “Thank you. I might be a while.”

She slid the door closed, made a show of noise by dropping the toilet seat, then focused on the window. It was large enough.

She kicked off her Jimmy Choos and began to pull the Velcro off her skirt, the noise sounding as if she was tearing a bedsheet. She stopped and listened. Nothing. She looked at the wall and saw three light switches, one down. She flicked it and was relieved to hear a fan crank up, the noise enough to cover her transformation.

She peeled off the skirt, leaving her in what looked like a black leotard. She piled the clothes and shoes in the walk-in shower, not really sure what hiding them would accomplish. She slid the window open and stood on the toilet, slithering through legs first and hanging by her fingers from the sill. She glanced left and saw two security men on the paved drive, one smoking. Neither looking her way. She looked right and saw her target window, at ground level
and below the foliage. In between were two other windows she’d have to avoid. She surveyed the exterior, assessing what she had to work with. The building itself was constructed of stone, made to look like a real castle, with irregular bumps and ridges that were perfect for her skills.

A gymnast in a previous life, she’d worked a spell with Cirque du Soleil and found she had a talent for free climbing. Like a gecko, she could scramble up just about anything, and the Taskforce took full advantage of that skill. Here, she would need every bit of it, because going down a vertical surface was exponentially harder than going up. Instead of eyesight, she’d have to rely on feel.

She slid her toes to the right, searching for crevices and finding purchase. She followed with her hands, leaving the safety of the windowsill. She began the climb down, moving as fast as possible without slipping, curving around the castle toward her target.

Eventually, she was at the top of the foliage, and close enough to the ground. She pushed off and dropped, hitting softly in the mulch. She leaned against the rock wall underneath the bathroom window of her target room and did nothing but breathe deeply for a few seconds. She called on her tiny radio, “I’m down. Outside the bedroom.”

She heard Knuckles say a sentence, followed by “Okay, that’s good,” using his ordinary conversation with another guest as a means to let her know he’d heard.

She stood up and found the bathroom was actually sunk into the hillside a little bit, leaving the window a mere four feet off the ground. She rotated her butt pack around to the front and pulled out a red-lens penlight, shining it on the lock.

They knew the castle had a built-in security system, but also that it was disabled during the parties. What they didn’t know was the type of window locks in use. Jennifer was hoping it was like the one she’d left upstairs, a simple sliding lever on the left and right.

It was. She fished in her pouch again and pulled out a flexible
metal tool designed specifically for such breaches, and within two minutes, she was through the window and inside the bathroom.

She alerted Knuckles, then crept to the door and peeked out; the lights in the bedroom were off, but the illumination from the outside patio gave a soft glow. The room was empty, the drapes pulled closed across the sliding door. As her eyes adjusted, she saw a desk, a wide-screen television, and stacked neatly on the king-size bed, two dozen Faraday bags looking like Easter eggs waiting to be plucked.

She opened her pouch again, pulled out what Knuckles had called her Third Lung—a miniature scuba tank—and set it aside. She removed a device that had a round disk in the center, about two inches in diameter and one inch thick, with multiple cords extending from it.

Called an Octopus, its sole function was to access and copy the entire contents of a cell phone’s SIM card. Contacts, call history, text messages, surfed web pages, all of it would be duplicated by the Octopus—even deleted information—and it had a dozen cords coming out, with adapters for every conceivable type of cell phone.

She placed it on the bed and picked out packets four and seventeen—the ones from their surveillance earlier. She opened the Faraday bags and dumped out seven phones of various makes. She plugged them all in, punched a button on the center of the disk, then sat down to wait, knowing that some encryption protocols would take longer to break than others.

One minute in, proud of her work, she heard a call that caused a jolt of adrenaline.

“Koko, Koko, the host is getting antsy. He’s seen the security at the top of the stairs, and he’s asking questions.”

Uh-oh.

“Knuckles, I’m not done. I need another minute here, and probably ten to get back inside. I have to climb the wall again.”

“I don’t think we have that sort of time. Abort. Get out.”

Already moving, unplugging the phones that were complete and
shoving them in their respective bags, she said, “Interdict him. Slow him down.”

“I’m going to try. What’s your ETA? What do I have to work with?”

“Best case? Seven minutes.”

She unplugged the other phones, the last two still being drained, and placed the Faraday bags back where she found them. She scuttled back to the window, shoving everything into her pouch. She was outside in seconds, staring up at the wall.

She took a breath, found her first handhold, and hoisted herself off the loam of the ground. Starting the climb back.

11

K
nuckles saw the host talking to security, but wasn’t unduly concerned. They’d done nothing to spike, and nobody at all had paid them a second glance, with most buying his CEO story, hook, line, and sinker. His concern grew when the host pointed up the spiral staircase, clearly asking why one of the security men was in the master bedroom.

A diminutive man of about sixty, with close-cropped gray hair and skin the color of coffee, the host wouldn’t appear to be a threat, but Knuckles saw how the security man kowtowed to him, nodding his head repeatedly, then talking into his sleeve. Clearly, the host held a power far exceeding his physical stature.

Knuckles excused himself from his conversation, not wanting to pull his directional microphones away from the targets still seated on the couch, but feeling something amiss. He called Jennifer, getting the readout on the length of time she had left. And felt the first bit of adrenaline begin to flow.

He watched the host carefully, checking for a change in demeanor. The man at the top of the stairs came down and talked to him, then pointed at Knuckles. Into the radio, he said, “It’s reached a boiling point. Status?”

He heard a grunt, then, “Climbing. Can’t talk.”

He started moving toward the host, saying, “Give me a time.”

“Five. Need five.”

Shit. That ain’t going to happen.

He walked up to the host and stuck out his hand, introducing himself and using his CEO title as he had previously. The host said, “I don’t remember that company being invited.”

Knuckles gave his most charming smile and said, “Well, here we are! And it’s a great party. There’s nothing like coming down to the Caymans on business. Hoping to get some diving in—”

The host cut him off. “Who is upstairs in the bedroom?”

“My date. We ate at a hole-in-the-wall in George Town, and I think some of the conch was bad. She’s been on the toilet most of the afternoon.”

The host nodded and said, “Would you mind showing me your invitation?”

Knuckles said, “Sure, sure,” then made a show of searching the pockets of his tuxedo. He came up empty, extended his hands, and said, “I don’t know. Maybe I left it with the man out front.”

The host flicked his head at one of the guards, and he disappeared. The host said, “Let’s go check on your date. I don’t want any medical emergencies.”

He started up the staircase and Knuckles said, “She’ll be fine. It’s just Montezuma’s revenge.”

The host ignored him. The security man who had come from the top of the stairs held out his hand, telling Knuckles to follow. Knuckles began to climb, keying his radio and saying, “We’re coming up the stairs.”

The host said, “What?”

Knuckles said, “Nothing,” and heard Jennifer grunt, “I’m not there, I’m not there.”

Shit.

They reached the master suite, walked around the bed to the sliding bathroom door. The host put his ear to the door, listening for a second, then knocked, saying, “Miss, miss, are you all right?”

No answer.

Knuckles pretended to be concerned, leaning forward and knocking on the door himself. He said, “Jennifer, is everything okay?”

No answer.

The host pulled the handle, finding it locked. He turned to the security man and said, “Open this. Right now.”

The guard turned and scurried downstairs. Knuckles made a show of banging on the door, acting as if he was about to panic, shouting her name. Creating enough noise to cover her return—if she made it.

The guard came huffing back up the stairs, carrying a small crowbar. He pushed Knuckles out of the way, jammed it in between the crack of the door and the wall. He cranked back hard. The doorjamb split, and the snap of noise spiked Knuckles into the next zone. No longer concerned with the charade, he now went into combat mode, preparing for a controlled dose of violence.

In the split second between the man jamming in the crowbar and the door exploding open, Knuckles sized up the two men, determining positioning and his next actions. He knew he’d have to take out the security guy first but couldn’t become so engaged that the host escaped back downstairs. He had to take them both out before an alarm was raised. Which meant some serious damage to the guy holding the crowbar. There was no time for a nice submission.

The security man pried the crowbar loose, then slammed the door into its sliding well, the wooden protection rolling back with a finality that only Knuckles understood. Knuckles stutter-stepped forward, winding up for a temple strike, and a shriek filled the air.

His arm cocked, the muscles a millisecond away from putting the guard out for the night, Knuckles caught a glimpse of Jennifer and a tangle of clothes.

She screamed, “Get out of here, asshole!”

They all stumbled back, the host looking mortified. Into the
damaged doorway, he said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He turned to Knuckles and said, “I apologize profusely.”

Knuckles looked indignant, and Jennifer came through the door, holding her skirt and flashing her eyes.

She said, “What in the world is going on? I can’t use the bathroom without you guys breaking in? Who’s in charge of this damn event?”

The host bowed his head and said, “My sincerest apologies. We thought there was a medical emergency. We thought . . .” He let his comments dribble off, looking to Knuckles for support.

Jennifer glared at the host and said, “Tell that to the next woman you barge in on.” She looked at Knuckles and gave an imperceptible nod, saying, “I’ve had enough of this party. Honey, let’s go.”

She stormed toward the stairs, and the men followed, the host saying, “Please, don’t make a scene. I’m sorry. We only had your best interests at heart.”

They reached the bottom and were met by the security man who’d left previously. He leaned in and whispered to the host. He nodded, his face hardening.

Knuckles took Jennifer’s hand and headed to the stairwell leading to the bottom floor, and to their escape. He heard the host’s voice float above the crowd.

“Wait. Could I have a word before you go?”