Chapter Eleven
In which Alec discovers the only thing worse than a case of blue balls are live bullets.
Alec…
This is torture.
The International Court of Justice would surely demand the death penalty for getting a man worked up to the point that the skin was nearly peeling off his painfully hard cock.
Fee had pulled out her mobile after we were so rudely interrupted by its shrill buzz, and looked at the screen with wide eyes. I barely got my tongue out of her mouth before she yanked away from me.
She abruptly climbed off my lap, disappearing back up the stairs without another word.
I waited for my cock to go back down and my security to finally pull their heads out of their asses and track me down, now that I could push the panic button on my watch.
My Patek Philippe did have sentimental value. It had belonged to my father, passed down to him from my grandfather, and then to me. However, its most useful feature was a panic button that set off a GPS alert to Charles, Gordon, my head of security, and my two IT menaces, Terrence and Lucy. Even if I’m in Ireland, they should have a team assembled and descending on this farm in a couple of hours.
It was clear that no one in this family knew who I really was. Foolish enough to kidnap a ‘titan of industry,’ which Fee had sneeringly called me. But abducting the head of the Davies Mafia? That would be suicide, and she was sharp enough to know it.
Groaning, I settled in, twisting to get as comfortable as I could while waiting to finally be free of this infuriating family.
My head jerked up when I heard a sound too familiar to me. Some people claimed that a gunshot sounds just like fireworks, but they’re wrong. There’s a piercing shrill to a bullet fired that echoes long after the trigger is pulled. Was Grandad shooting rats in the wheat? Picking off a rabbit for dinner?
Or, had the cavalry arrived?
I was fairly certain my third guess was correct when Grandad - Fintan, rather - loped down the stairs, red-faced and furious as he grabbed my shirt.
“Who the feck are ya, lad? There’s a team out there shootin’ up my farm. A strange kind of rescue if they’re wanting their fella back alive.” He gripped my shirt, eyes cold. “You’re not just a businessman, are ya now?”
“Cut me loose,” I said slowly, precisely. “They need to see me unharmed unless you want them to kill your family.”
Growling, he pulled out a vicious-looking blade and sawed through the ropes in record time before yanking my gun out of his waistband and aiming it at me. “Move, lad! They’re turning the hen house into feckin’ swiss cheese!”
“Give me my gun, old man. If they see you holding it on me they will shoot you in the head. My men’s aim is impeccable.”
Glaring at me, he defiantly stuffed it back in the waistband of his work pants. My hand shot out, yanking my pistol back out the instant he turned to head up the stairs. I nudged his back with the barrel as he froze, furious. “Who’s shooting, you or them?”
“A bit of both,” he huffed, grabbing his ancient shotgun on the way out the front door and looking like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to shoot me or use it to bludgeon me to death. “I shoulda known you’d point that fecking gun at me the minute you had it back.”
I chose to ignore the breathtaking hypocrisy of this statement. The high whine of a bullet hitting the wooden shutter behind us sent the two of us ducking behind a shrub.
“Why aren’t ya hollering for them to stop shooting, then?” Fintan said, “Aren’t these your people?”
A spray of gunfire made us duck and roll away from our cover as an automatic rifle tore the bushes to shreds.
“I don’t think these are my people,” I admitted grimly. “They’d take one or all of you hostage to get my location, but none of my guards would be peppering the farm with bullets without securing me first.”
“Then who are these arseholes!” He stood up, firing off a couple of shots before I yanked him down again. We both heard a howl that meant at least one of the bullets found its target.
This was a terrible area to defend. The front of the cottage was decorated with the occasional shrub and not much else. The goat pen was to the left of the house and they were bleating up a storm. The rolling pastures of select, organic crops would do fuck-all to use as cover and the ancient barn was behind the farmhouse with no way to get to it without being shot while dashing across the clearing.
I heard Fee cursing as she fired back from the kitchen window.
Bloody hell. I hoped they didn’t kill Martin, he’s the only family member I liked at this point.
Two men, professionally geared up in black tactical suits and bristling with weapons, rose from the shaky cover of the wheat field, racing for the farmhouse.
“Don’t kill them all,” I said, ignoring my own advice as I nailed one with a clean headshot. “We need someone to question.”
Fintan did some fancy shooting of his own, taking the other man out at the knees as he screamed, flopping on the ground like a beached trout.
“Fee!” I shouted. “How many do you see?”
“At least six,” she called back. “With the three you just shot and the arsehole whose intestines are decorating the goat pen, I reckon we’re down to two or three. They came blazing up the road, guns already out and firing, the bastards. Your men are utter pieces of shit! ”
“These are not my men!” I said, “I’ve never seen them before. I know every man and woman who works for me.”
“Ya manky prick, who did ya piss off, then?” Fintan said. “Because this poxy mess is no rescue attempt!”
“Next time…” My eyes narrowed, waiting for movement behind the gunmen’s jeep. “You should do some research on your enemy before kidnapping them.” A man raced out from behind the vehicle when I shot out the radiator and two tires. The idiot tried to make a run for it, heading back down the dirt road. “Would you like to take the shot?” I invited Fintan, who gave me an unsettling grin.
“Aye, I would in fact.”
I arched an eyebrow with respect as he nailed the man in the small of his back, throwing him forward, face first in the dirt. Fintan was about to rise triumphantly when I pulled him down again.
“Hold off, there’s always one who waits for you to get in range when you think it’s over.”
My gaze swept back and forth, looking for movement. Ah. There, behind the goat pen. The black goat was angrily bleating and kicking the boards with her sharp hooves. I learned just how spiteful those little bastards were during my tour today.
Shite. “Where’s Martin?”
“He’s off in the south field,” Fintan answered, eye to his rifle scope. “Testing the soil.”
“Good.” I was surprised to realize that I meant it. The last man was getting hammered by the goats, and he gave up, trying to sprint for the farmhouse and receiving my bullet to his head for his trouble.
“I always thought a strike team would be more… effective,” Fee said, joining us at the front door. “These tools are a bit disappointing.”
“Goddamn amateurs.” I strode over to one of the men holding his shattered knee by the goat pen and kicked him in the ribs. “Who sent you?”
“Rescue at- attempt,” he gritted out. “Here to save you.”
I hadn’t laughed this hard in months. Maybe years. “You’re too fucking stupid to be on a recovery mission.” My fist tightened around his throat as I jerked him up off the ground, his booted feet dangling.
“He’s not in a position to answer your questions when you’re swinging him around like a side of beef.” Fee came up behind me, still clutching an ancient-looking shotgun.
Ignoring her, my fingers tightened against his carotid artery. “Who. Sent. You?”
His face was nearly purple by the time he gasped out, “Mr. Lee Ville! He’s been searching for you since you disappeared!”
My business partner in the computer server compound venture was an asshole of the highest level. He’d boasted to me more than once that he was never worried about, “getting his hands dirty to get the job done.” Since he knew about the other side of my business, I’d assumed he was puffing himself up. Charles dryly referred to him as Big, Bad Murder Daddy from then on because he knew it would make me laugh.
“Shooting the place up, along with potential innocents was your plan, you stupid fuck?” I shook him hard, like a terrier with a rat.
“Well, we’re not that innocent,” Fee mumbled.
“The only person who gets to kill you is me,” I told her.
“A romantic, you are.”
“Back to business.” I shook my captive again, noting that his struggles were growing weaker, likely due to the blood streaming from his thigh. Fintan’s aim was excellent; the bullet must have shattered his femur. Very painful. “What were your orders?”
“R- R- rescue you!” the man choked out. “I swear!”
“We got company, lad.” Fintan grimly watched three more vehicles speed up the road, stirring up the dirt into choking clouds of dust.
Turning, I slammed my hostage’s head against a fencepost and knocked him out, I needed both hands free. “Get back indoors! We’ll have better coverage.”
The first car door flew open before we could take a step toward the farmhouse. “What the hell mess did you get yourself into this time, you bastard!”
Closing my eyes, I groaned silently. Charles had called Alastair. And wasn’t my former best friend enjoying this moment? The only thing that could make this moment worse would be… ah, there they are, the idiot MacTavish brothers, pouring out of their armored Range Rover as if it was a clown car.
“Who’s this?” Fee snapped, not lowering her shotgun.
“Put it down,” I said, pushing on the barrel. “I know them.”
“Really now?” Fintan eyed the herd of men thundering up the drive.
“Unfortunately, yes.”