21. The MacTavish Threat
THE MACTAVISH THREAT
CALLUM
"We need to double-check Richard's possible involvement in the campaign before Connor's engagement party."
Late July has wrapped Seattle in a blanket of unexpected heat, turning my usually crisp morning commute into a sweltering ordeal.
Even this early, the temperature has already climbed past seventy degrees, promising another record-breaking summer day.
My declaration gets no response because I'm alone, having arrived at the office before even the most ambitious early birds.
The solitude is intentional—I need time to think without distractions, particularly the distraction of a particular Marketing Director who's occupied entirely too much of my thoughts lately.
The dinner with Karina's family had been unexpectedly enjoyable, despite Fiona's transparent matchmaking attempts and pointed questions about Karina.
Or perhaps because of them.
The evening had revealed aspects of Karina I hadn't seen before.
The way she anticipated her mother's needs without being asked. Her shorthand communication with her sisters.
Her genuine interest in Charlie's anime obsession despite clearly knowing nothing about the subject.
And then there was our moment in the study...
I drag my mind back to the matter at hand.
Our investigation has yielded compelling evidence of two distinct viral campaigns—the original, relatively benign "Kilted CEO" hashtag, and the explicit "Kilted Casanova" content that followed.
Karina's sister had confirmed different digital fingerprints in each, with the explicit content showing sophisticated coding techniques tied to MacTavish systems.
But we still don't have concrete proof of the second party’s involvement, just circumstantial evidence and gut instinct.
And with Richard back in the picture, I’m starting to see Karina’s point of view clearer.
Can’t be a mere coincidence.
But that's not enough to present to the board before Connor's party.
My phone buzzes with a text from Karina:
In the secure conference room. Found something in the code signatures that might link to Richard
I peek at my watch.
It's not yet 7:30, and she's already working.
That makes two workaholics in the building.
Three minutes later, I push open the door to our smallest conference room—affectionately nicknamed "The Bunker" due to its lack of windows and reinforced security features.
Inside, Karina has transformed the space into what resembles a detective's evidence board.
Printouts of code, social media posts, and what appear to be network traffic logs cover the walls.
A timeline spans one entire side of the room, with red and blue markers indicating different events.
She doesn't look up when I enter, focused intently on her laptop. Her hair is piled in a haphazard bun, several pens stabbed through it like unconventional hair sticks. She's wearing jeans and a faded "Reagan High Robotics Team" t-shirt—clearly not planning on being seen today.
"Good morning," I say, causing her to jump slightly.
"Jesus!" She clutches her chest. “What did I tell you out making noise when you enter rooms? Remember how we discussed tell-tale signs? Shuffling your feet. Clearing your throat. Throwing a kilt. Something."
"I opened the door."
"Like a normal person, not a ghost." She gestures at the room. "What do you think?"
I take in the elaborate display. "I think you've either had too much coffee or not enough sleep."
"Both, actually." She stands, stretching in a way that rides her shirt up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above her jeans. I force my eyes to remain on her face. "But it was worth it. Look at this."
She directs me to one wall covered with geolocation data.
"Remember how my sister traced the coding signature to MacTavish servers?
Well, I've been digging deeper into the relay points, and look at this.
" She points to a printout. "Multiple posts originated from Reykjavik—specifically, from a luxury hotel's IP range during the exact dates Richard was staying there. "
I examine the data, an uncomfortable weight settling in my stomach. "It's still circumstantial."
"Yes, but combined with everything else?" She shuffles through papers, producing a side-by-side comparison of posts. "The language pattern in these explicitly sexual posts matches Richard's writing style. The same overuse of adverbs, the same sentence structure. It's him, Callum."
I study the evidence silently, a strange reluctance churning inside me.
The logical part of my brain—the CEO, the strategist—knows we need to pursue this lead, to gather conclusive proof and take appropriate action.
Yet something else, something deeper and less rational, pushes back against that imperative.
"We need more," I say finally.
"I know. I'm working on it." She sinks into a chair, studying me. "But there's something I don't understand."
"What's that?"
"Why isn't Richard in jail?" The question is gentle but direct. "He embezzled funds. Tried to steal my identity. There's clear evidence. But instead of facing charges, he's vacationing in Iceland and attending Duncan MacTavish's parties. Why haven't you pressed charges?"
The question catches me off guard, even though it's perfectly reasonable.
Anyone in Karina's position would wonder the same thing.
"The board felt it would be damaging to company reputation," I reply, the explanation sounding weak even to my own ears. "The recovery of funds made criminal charges unnecessary from a financial perspective."
"That's a very practical answer." She tilts her head, those perceptive eyes seeing more than I'm comfortable with. "But it doesn't explain why you specifically intervened. The board minutes show you personally recommended against pursuing legal action."
I stiffen. "You've been reading confidential board minutes?"
"I'm preparing for potential questions at Connor's party. I needed context." She doesn't look remotely apologetic. "You stopped the investigation personally. Why?"
I turn away, moving to study the timeline on the wall rather than meet her gaze.
The truth is, I'm not entirely sure myself.
The decision had felt necessary at the time, an instinctive reaction rather than a calculated choice.
"It's more complicated than just embezzlement," I say finally.
"Complicated how?"
"Richard is family." The words emerge stiff. "And family matters aren't always straightforward."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She stands, moving to join me at the timeline. "I don't think that's true. I think there's more to this than you're saying—maybe more than you're even admitting to yourself."
I feel my jaw tighten. "You're overstepping, Ms. Peters."
"Am I?" She doesn't back down. "Callum, last night you had your hand in my underwear. I think we're past professional boundaries, and definitely past formalities."
The blunt reminder of our encounter cuts through my defenses.
She's right, of course.
The lines between us have blurred beyond recognition.
"My father lost everything when I was sixteen," I say abruptly. "The family business, our estate, generations of heritage—all gone through poor investments and refusal to modernize."
"You mentioned that before."
I nod, keeping my eyes on the timeline. "My mother left soon after. Couldn't handle the reduced circumstances. My father... didn't take it well."
"How 'not well'?"
"He drank." The admission comes reluctantly. "Heavily. Richard was too young to really understand what was happening."
I fall silent, unsure why I'm telling her this, yet unable to stop now that I've started.
There's something compelling about Karina's presence, something that makes the reinforced walls around certain memories feel suddenly permeable.
"You protected him," she says softly. "From the full truth."
"Someone had to."
I don't elaborate on what that truth entailed.
The nights spent making sure my father hadn't choked on his own vomit.
The creditors I'd faced down alone. The silent meals where the ghost of our mother hung in the air between us.
My jaw ticks. “It became a habit, I suppose."
"One you haven't broken."
"Apparently not." I shake my head. "But that's irrelevant to our current situation. What matters is gathering concrete evidence linking Richard to MacTavish and the explicit content."
Karina watches me for a long moment, clearly seeing the deflection for what it is, but she lets it go. "I'll keep digging into the Reykjavik connection."
"Good." I gesture to another section of her evidence board. "What about the MacTavish angle? Anything new there?"
She accepts the subject change with a grace I'm grateful for.
"Actually, yes. I've been tracking MacTavish's PR moves in the weeks leading up to the first explicit posts.
There's a pattern of him reaching out to Richard's professional contacts in Seattle—people who might have useful information or connections. "
"Such as?"
"Three former Abernathy Corp employees who left when you took over. Richard's golf buddies from the country club. And—" she hesitates, "—me."
This gets my full attention. "Duncan contacted you?"
"Not directly. One of his VPs reached out about a potential consulting opportunity, right around the time the first explicit posts appeared. I declined, obviously."
"You never mentioned this."
She shrugs. "It didn't seem relevant at the time. Headhunting attempts are normal in our industry. But now, looking at the pattern..."
"It suggests they were gathering information from anyone who might have insights into Abernathy's operations." I frown, processing this new information. "Or anyone who might have reason to hold a grudge."
"Exactly." She returns to her laptop. "I'm cross-referencing known contacts who received similar outreach with network activity during the posting timeframes. If we can establish a clear connection?—"
Her cell phone rings, interrupting her explanation.
She glances at the screen and grimaces. "Sorry, it's my sister. Mind if I take this?"