Back in Edinburgh…
"Let's walk it back, aye?" Cameron says, calm and controlled. "We'll narrow the clues down."
The circle around me is the one that has been here since I first took over the mantle as Chieftain of the MacTavish Clan. My brothers Cameron, Dougal, and Lachlan are seated around the conference table in my office. Our brothers Alistair and Alec are on standby in London, ready to fly out at a moment's notice.
Ye have to accept it, brother," Dougal says heavily. "It's someone within the family."
Shut your fecking mouth!' Lachlan is halfway out of his chair. "Do ye hear what you're saying?'
Aye, I do, ye fecking bampot!' Dougal snaps. "We have narrowed down every other possibility. Ye canna have this many security breaches and lapses, an endless stream of betrayal and feckups without a central figure being involved in all of them.' He looks at me sympathetically, but not soft. "And I'm thinking you know it because we're the only ones here in this room.'
Cameron rises, stretching his back with a groan and lights up the huge monitor on the wall at the foot of the table, beginning to type on his keyboard. "We MacTavish are notorious for disaster and drama," he says, "but there's been a steady escalation over the last three years. And nearly all of them have come as a surprise to us. Even though we have a very extensive intelligence network specifically designed to combat this kind of menace and yet it keeps happening." He's bringing up report after report, analyzing the recent breaches on the monitor.
"We're losing face with our allies," I say grimly. "This fresh round of shite today in Boston is shaking our alliance with the Morozovs for the second time in less than a month; half the cannabis imports burned were theirs."
"Aye," Lachlan says agreeably. "We've never looked weaker.'
"Thank ye for that inspiring observation,' Dougal says acidly. The closest we've been hit to home…" He looks over at me reluctantly. "Is the breach with Martha Graves."
"That is in the past," I ignore the question in his eyes. "We know why she did it. It grinds on me still that we had a former mafia wife and heir here in my house, with my bairns…" I take a deep breath. A good Chieftain dinnae throw chairs and smash holes in the wall, no matter how much he might want to.
"We have kept Martha on lockdown and Sophie is under extremely close surveillance as well.' I say. The negative reports are still popping up on the monitor and I want to pull my gun and shatter it off the wall with a well-placed bullet.
A good Chieftain also dinnae shoot up his conference room.
"Dinnae ye say that Martha was opening a bake shop?' Lachlan asks. "Meaning she's out and off the estate?"
"Aye. With a construction crew and security team hand selected by myself with listening and video devices in every corner of the cottage and the shop under construction. There's been nothing."
Dougal and Cameron look at each other, neither one wanting to ask the obvious question.
Cameron throws himself on the sword. "And what about Sophie?"
"Michael's been keeping her on a tight leash, though I'd never put it to him like that unless you want to be the first uncle he's ever punched in the throat,' I say. The lad is uncommonly fond of her."
"We've all seen this coming," Dougal says with a grin. "It was no surprise.'
"She has a full security contingent as well," I continue, "and has not been allowed to return to her internship here in the legal department. She's under constant supervision and again, there has been nothing suspicious in any way."
"Here's the question I've not heard answered," Cameron says slowly. "Has it ever been established how Robert Taylor found them? I mean, Martha's tracks were very thoroughly covered; our own security sweep at the time dinnae pick anything up. Neither one of them has any sort of profile on social media. So after ten years, how did he find them? According to what Martha said, he had Sophie under surveillance. There were pictures, aye? He knew where she went to school, where she lived. How did he get the information?'
A good point, that," I agree. "Finding the answer might lead us closer to who's in the center of this.' We go over the reports from past disasters, we question the chain of command, who was responsible for each one. Finding the commonality between them is maddening. Because the only thing they all have in common is family. One of us, or one of our sons or daughters were in charge.
"It's getting late." I rub my eyes. "Head home, see your wives. I'm sending a report to Alec and Alastair about today's meeting. Maybe they can find a loose thread we're missing."
They drift out, my brothers, slapping my back or shaking my hand, quiet words of confidence, aside from Lachlan.
Of course.
"Be a man of action, oh mighty Chieftain," he says, grinning like the wee bastard he is. "Give me the word, and I'll start obliterating every crime family on our enemy's list. I'll keep killing em until it all quiets down again, aye? I've got some Stingers missiles I bought off a warlord in-"
"Encouraging, brother," I say sourly. "Now get the feck out before I throw a bottle at your head. And I dinnae want to do it because it's my last bottle of Redbreast. Ye selfish bastards drank the rest of it."
He waits until the lift doors are about to close before he shouts, "Just trying to be helpful, mighty Chieftain!"
Pouring myself a drink, I force my attention back on the monitor. The reports and analytics of our failures scroll on the screen, telling me nothing.
"Sweetheart, thank god you're here." Mala is standing in the conference room, panting, fingers gripping the doorway.noveldrama
"Love, why are ye here, then?"
"You know how your mother – the Lady Elspeth – has always said, It's better to be lucky than good?'"
"Aye, it's a wise viewpoint when you're the matriarch of a crime family," I say, walking over and cupping Mala's cheek. Her eyes are glittering, feverishly bright.
"Well tonight, my darling, I'm changing the motto," she says. "It's good to be lucky. Come on, you've got a prisoner to interrogate."
Only a fool would take his dirty work to his legitimate place of business, but it happens every now and then, when expedience is more important than caution.
The sub, sub basement of MacTavish International isn't on any of the building plans, it doesn't exist in any city records. The lift doors open to a long, narrow concrete hallway, and it's so well sound-proofed that our steps dinnae echo, they thud, a dull sound absorbed into the flooring.
There's a scatter of chairs and a couple of couches in one of the rooms, the kind that can be wiped (and sometimes hosed) down. Sitting on one of them is Martha Graves. She's holding her purse on her lap, staring blankly at the wall. Gary, one of our guards at the estate, is holding a bottle, trying to get her to take it.
"Miss Martha, can ye drink some water? It'll help, I promise ye."
Pulling a chair over, I sit in front of her. "How are ye doing, then?"
She blinks slowly before looking at me and then a worried Mala, who sits next to her.
"I'm fine, thank you, Chieftain. I didn't get any blood on me, so…"
Mala squeezes her hand. "Tell Cormac what happened."
Chuckling humorlessly, Martha says, "Robert Taylor happened. I don't know how he got past your guards. Even the construction workers have been keeping an eye on me. It's pretty obvious. But Robert, he…" She takes the bottle of water from Gary and gulps half of it. "He cornered me in the new walk-in freezer, he was dressed as a delivery guy. He told me that I was taking him to Sophie, so he could get us out of Edinburgh. That you were planning to kill us both." She gives an incredulous little huff. "That rat fuck really thought I would believe him?"
Mala looks startled. I dinnae think we'd ever heard Martha utter a single curse word. And this in a household of profanity-spewing MacTavishes.
"So, I shot him," Martha says, opening her bag and handing me a Magnum .357. "My aim was a bit off, I haven't practiced for years, I got him in the shoulder. But as my dear, departed husband would say, it's likely softened him up for you."
If I dinnae think it would terrify her, I'd lift Martha off her feet in a rib-creaking hug right now.
"He's in Room Three," Gary offers. "I was on her guard duty today at the shop. Taylor sent in three men to distract us while he went after Miss Martha. We took them down and got the steel door opened." His head drops. "I thought you'd been shot, ma'am. Here I've been so shitty to ye and ye were innocent after all."
She pats his arm. "You did just fine. Thank you."
The third door on the right opens to a scene straight from a horror film, which is intentional. Setting the tone is important when it comes to breaking bodies and vows of loyalty as quickly as possible. There's the metal chair in the center of the room, over a drain, of course, bolted into the floor. There ars meat hooks and two mechanic's rolling cases repurposed to hold tools used for unimaginable purposes.
Strapped tight to the chair is Robert Fecking Taylor, the murderous head of the Graves Syndicate.
His face is bloody, one eye swollen shut and a rough bandage over his right shoulder. Surging forward, he's snapped back by his bonds, cursing, no doubt, under the duct tape over his mouth.
Taking out my phone, I canna help my grin. It lacks the gravitas I try to maintain, but it's the wee moments of satisfaction that make life grand.
"Lachlan, are ye still here?"
"Aye, just getting into my car."
"Can ye join us in the sub-basement?" I grin, watching Taylor rock back and forth. "I've got a wee bit of a gift for ye."
When Lachlan comes through the door, his face lights up like he's a bairn on Christmas morn. Pulling off his suit jacket, he strolls over to the racks of tools, selecting a power drill. I pull out a fifty-pound note, slapping on the table. "Fifty pounds ye get it out of him within four hours."
Mala snorts, "One hundred pounds Lachlan gets it out of him in two."
My brother chuckles, squeezing the trigger on the drill, enjoying the high whine. "If you've got a spade bit here, I'll have it for ye in one. Oh, and a couple of shots of adrenaline because he's gonna scream, wet himself and then pass out. It's a pattern."
Taylor has had twelve years to rule over the mafia he murdered Jonathan Graves for. He should be difficult to break. Watching his expression as Lachlan fits the long bit with a viciously sharp end on his drill, though, I'm thinking he's gotten soft.
"Technically, I think I'm winning," Mala says, seated on the clean chair. We're at an hour and twenty minutes. Taylor's missing several fingers and an eye, Lachlan just forced him back into consciousness with another shot. He's always honing his craft, my brother. His latest trick is removing a few ribs and leaving a soft, wet spot to punch as his victim screams.
"If it's under two hours, I win on a technicality," Lachlan argues.
There's always a moment when a man breaks. When he knows he's going to beg for a quick end, that he'll say anything to get it. Taylor is chuckling, a weak, rusty sliver of a sound through the missing teeth in his mouth.
"You fucking idiots. You trusted her. She's been playing you for years." His head lolls bonelessly until I grab his hair, forcing him to look at me.
"Give me the name and I'll make it quick."
He does, a death rattle from swollen lips.
"Feck. Me." Lachlan runs his bloody hands through his hair.
Mala's pale. "That can't- that's not possible."
I'm already on my mobile, dialing my head of security. The call goes to a message.
This dinnae happen. My call is always answered at any time of the day or night.
"Lachlan, call Lucas, we need her found now." With a frown, he dials my son-in-law's number. It rings through to a message. Lucas always picks up.
"I'm thinking she already knows," Mala says. "She could be anywhere. Boston, New York-" The blood drains from her face. "Tokyo. She's in Tokyo."