Chapter Four
In which Ethan is on the hunt. And it's kind of sexy.
Ethan…
Michael complains bitterly about the abrupt end to our “boy’s weekend,” as I drop him off back at the MacTavish private jet.
“This one is going to be mine when Da retires,” he says, petting the wheel on the Gulfstream G600.
“Given how you’re stroking that jet like it’s a stripper’s arse, I don’t want to know what else is going on in that twisted mind of yours,” I say dryly. And the clan thinks I’m the eccentric one?
“How close are you to finding the girl?”
I scroll through some notes on my phone. “She was last seen in Milan, my sources dinna think she’s left the country yet. I’ve got visual recognition software running on all visa checkpoints.”
“She must be smarter than Daddy dearest thinks since she’s scarpered off a year ago,” he says. “It’s still fecked up that he wanted her dead if ya couldn’t bring her back.”
“She knows something that he dinna want out there,” I agree. “Gavin Masters plays the above-board businessman so well, he must be desperate to be rolling through his mafia buddies, asking for a favor.”
“I’d heard something about an arranged marriage, but I thought it was with another one of his rich white country club arseholes.”
Since the MacTavishes not only belong to the oldest country club in Scotland but actually bought it back in 1952, I dinna think Michael should be ripping on rich white boys, but he’s gettin’ out of my hair, so I nod, smile, and shove him up the flight stairs.
“Awa’ n bile yer head,” he calls with a grin. “Oh, and don’t kill her!”
“Yer Da sells Avon,” I flip him off before getting back into my car.
I’m leaving Lisbon from this same private airfield, but in a less ostentatious jet. My Bombardier Global 5500 is technically owned by one of the MacTavish shell corporations, nothing that can be traced back to me. I learned to fly when I was sixteen because ya just never know what you’re going to have to use to make your escape. I finish my pre-flight check and then return to my notes.
“If ya ran from Milan but you’re still in the country…” tracing through my maps, “ya want somewhere with a metric tonne of university kids so ya fit in. A place with a lot of bars and shops where ya can get paid under the table…”
I dinna think I’m psychic, but there is something about this job, of hunting down my prey, that sharpens my awareness somehow. I can find my way into the mindset of the poor bastard I’m stalking and I’m usually right.
Naples, it is.
The Bagnoli Waterfront is sparking with energy tonight.
Hundreds of twenty-somethings are laughing, talking, and drinking as they stroll past the brightly colored buildings on the waterfront.
A pretty girl shouts at me, “Hey, bello, come in and try the cheapest shots on the block!” I smile and shake my head as I amble past. The smell of sangria and fried ravioli reminds me that I haven’t eaten today.
It’s warm for late spring and the street is crowded, but whether it’s common sense or some subliminal cue, people step away from me as I walk. I’ve taken so many lives now that I wonder if their deaths stick to me, like a psychic stain I’ll never wash away. Maybe I’ve turned into the demon they call me.
The fecked-up thing is, I enjoy what I do. I’ve never killed anyone who dinna have it coming. I’ve never regretted finishing a job. But to kill a girl? And the bastard requesting it is her father? I can understand why Cormac wanted to see her first.
She’s here. Close by. I can feel it.
Grabbing an outdoor table at the next cafe, I flip through her pictures sent with the file. I’ve already checked, she had very little social media before she ran, just some pictures out with friends, a couple with her prick of a Da, and her mother. She’s tense and forcing a smile in those pictures, leaning away from Gavin, who’s attempting to radiate good cheer for the camera.
Sloan is beautiful in that well-bred, nice girl way; short dark hair with expensive highlights, lean, athletic figure, no doubt from summers away at tennis camp or some shite. I dinna like nice girls. I like bad girls, who know what they want and I enjoy giving it to them.
But in the few close-up pictures, her eyes catch my attention. Wide blue eyes, almost an odd violet shade. No matter how well she tries to hide it, they’re angry as feck. If eyes are the windows to the soul, she wants to burn the world down around her and spit on the ashes.
After the sun sets and foot traffic gets heavier, I stop by a family friend’s club. Free booze and some information about the locals seem like a grand place to start.
Awa’ n bile yer head - Scottish slang for fuck off
Yer Da sells Avon - Scottish slang for your family sucks