Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Leith
If not for the promise of the sacredness of the church, I’d have broken Alastair Aitkens’ hand the moment I saw him touch Father MacGowen. It takes all my self-control to drag his sorry arse down the steps of the church—none too gently, I’d add—to the cemetery behind the church.
I toss him in front of a gravestone, watching as Clyde, Tate, and Mac rough up the other two.
“Now, boys,” MacGowen begins. “I don’t want bloodshed here on the church grounds. If you’ll please —”
“Go into the parsonage, Father,” Tate says firmly. “Go now or I’ll take you myself.”
He shakes his head. “Can’t do that, son,” he says. “I won’t leave you men out here unattended.”
We’re about to rough up the Aitkens boys, they’ll put up a fucking fight, and I’m not keen on him witnessing this. He’ll know who we are even though we’re masked.
“Go, Father,” I order. “Now. To the parsonage, straight away.”
He opens his mouth to protest, then shakes his head, mumbling a prayer under his breath, and heads to the parsonage.
I jerk my chin at Tate. “Bind them.” Clyde and Tate tie rope around the wrists of the two Aitkens lackeys.
Alastair swears and curses in my grip, but I’m bigger than he is, and Mac’s standing right beside me, his arms across his chest, glaring at Aitkens.
Aitkens turns his neck to try to look at me and tries to tear off my mask, but Mac gives him a solid punch to the gut. He doubles over in my grip.
Mac knees him, but before he can fall to the ground I haul him to his feet.
“Think you’re a fucking genius, coming here to fuck up the goddamn priest, hmm? Unarmed? Attacking a man of God? You ought to burn in hell for what you’ve done.” We all fucking will, but that’s beside the point.
I yank him to his feet, as Tate beats one of the men he’s bound.
A swift kick and backhand and he falls to the ground.
Aitkens and his men put up a fight, cursing and brawling, but they’re outnumbered.
He whips his head back and nearly catches me on the shoulder, and when I duck, I see something behind a tombstone. Jesus. Is that a spy?
I’m distracted so badly, I lose my focus, and Aitkens kicks me in the gut.
I fall to the ground, blocking myself, and Mac lets loose a hard roundhouse kick, incapacitating Aitken.
Is that a girl? Crouched in the shadows? Bloody hell, she’s fucking taking pictures?
“Take him,” I mutter to Mac, shoving the arsehole at him, but just as I step toward her, another one of Aitkens’ men emerges from the shadows. Bloody hell, he must’ve been their back-up.
“Let them go,” he shouts, reaching for his gun. The girl in the shadows kneels between the two of us. He sees her when I do, shakes his head, and growls. He cocks his pistol, points it at her, and everything happens in a split second.
She covers her face with her hands in an effort of futile self-defense. I throw myself at him, tackle him to the ground, and before I even realize what I’m doing, draw my blade.
“She’s fucking got us on camera,” he says, lunging for her, but he can’t get past me.
“You touch her, you’re a fucking dead man.” Like I’d let anyone hurt a child on my fucking watch.
But he doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care, for he rolls beneath me, grabs his gun, and points it back at her. I drop my knife, grab him around the throat, and without thinking, twist his neck. There’s a sickening snap, and he slumps to the ground.
I don’t fucking care. It’s exactly what I intended to do.
I shove his body to the side, and someone shouts, but I don’t care. I turn to Aitkens’ men, holding their own man’s weapon.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I say, getting to my feet and pointing the gun at them. “You fucking go before you join him.”
I jerk my chin to the others to release them, and my men instantly obey. Aitkens’ men run and don’t look back, the fucking bastards. My men would never leave one of our own behind. Ever.
“Fucking hell, you weren’t supposed to kill any of them,” Mac says, shaking his head. He scrubs a hand across his jaw, and looks from the cemetery to the church. “But I suppose you picked a damn good place to do it, eh?”
“Aye,” Clyde says. “I know exactly where to keep the body. We’ll send our men down tomorrow to dig a grave. Help me take the body, Tate.” Tate and Clyde drag the body past a large, gnarly oak tree to a small hut, then disappear.
“Why’d you fucking kill him?” Mac says.
“He was going to kill the girl.”
Mac frowns and his brow furrows as he looks past me, then all around me. “What girl?”
Bloody hell. I look to where she was just a minute ago, and realize she’s gone. She’s a silent, wily one.
“She saw me kill him.”
“Aye, but yer masked.”
“Doesn’t matter, does it? She’s a fucking witness, and she took pictures.” I shake my head. “Find her.”
It’s only the two of us, so we comb the dark graveyard lit only by moonlight.
“Likely to find a fucking werewolf on a night like tonight,” Mac mutters. He’s maybe half joking, but superstitions run strong in Inverness, and werewolves are right up there with the Loch Ness.
“Oooh, shaking in my fuckin’ boots,” I mutter.
I swing my light and see something that catches my eye.
The door to the church is askew. I nod to Mac and slowly walk toward the open door, confident we’ve found our wee spy.
MacGowen did what we told him and headed to the parsonage, not the church.
I hold up a finger to Mac, and slowly creep up to the entrance.
“Och, aye,” I say to Mac as I push the door open.
Crouched against the corner sits the girl, her knees up to her chest, chin on her knees.
I expect her to say something, to shout or scream, to do anything but what she does.
She stands and looks at me in silence. It’s then I realize she’s no girl but a woman.
A small, unassuming woman, but she’s no child, and she’s fucking gorgeous.
A thick mane of wavy, dark brown hair, pale skin with flushed cheeks, and sky-blue eyes framed with long black lashes.
Her intelligent eyes are both stunning and haunted.
We have no time, yet I want to stand here and memorize every perfect detail.
“Jesus, get over here,” I tell her, grabbing her by the hand. My plan is to drag her with me, to yank her away from the sanctuary of the church and prevent her from turning us in. How, I’ve no idea, but I’ll figure it out.
When our fingers touch, her eyes widen in surprise at the same time vivid awareness courses through me. Sudden warmth sends a tingle through me, and for one wild second I wonder if she’s heaven-sent. We’re standing on sacred ground. Has she been sent from above?
Everything around us suddenly seems brighter, more intense. The scent of incense, the flickering red light beside the tabernacle. I blink and shake my head, certain it’s all my imagination. It’s a strange evening, and we’re in a strange place.
She doesn’t fight me. She doesn’t do anything at all except walk mutely by my side.
Mac goes to the other side of her and we hold her between us.
“Give me your mobile,” I order. Again, she obeys without a fight, sliding it onto my palm.
“Why were you here?” Mac asks.
She stares straight ahead and doesn’t speak. One beat passes, then two, and I feel anger pooling in my belly at her stubborn refusal to respond.
“He asked you a bloody question. Answer him.”
Still, she looks straight ahead and doesn’t respond.
I growl at her, keeping my temper in check with effort. My adrenaline’s been pumping hard through my veins for a fucking hour, and I have no patience for this.
I grip her arm. “I saved you from murder tonight, but nothing will save you from my palm across your arse if you don’t answer.”
Mac scowls when she doesn’t answer, and shakes his head. “We’ll take her back, then?”
I nod. “Aye. No choice. We’ll have to make her both talk to us and ensure she speaks to no one else.”
She blinks, and a tear rolls down her cheek, but still, she doesn’t fight. I’d expect her to kick or scream or do anything but walk mutely beside us, allowing us to lead her to our car. We parked underneath the shadow of the oaks to avoid being seen.
We look around to make sure we aren’t followed, but Aitkens’ men have long since gone, and both the Cathedral and cemetery are secluded enough, no one else has come or seen us. It’s a bloody miracle with the racket we’ve made, but the only damn witness we have is walking beside me.
I open the door and shove her in, considering putting her in the damn boot for a moment.
She can’t be allowed see where we’re taking her, and we can’t risk anyone seeing her beside us in the car either.
I can’t, though. I’d berate one of my men for being soft with a bloody witness, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
Christ. It’ll be a tight damn squeeze to have her in the back beside Clyde and Tate.
I shake my head. That’s not happening. There’s no fucking way I’ll have her sit between the two of them. Clyde will drive us home and we’ll blindfold her so she doesn’t see the way.
“Where are they?” Mac mutters, as we wait in the car for Clyde and Tate to return.
I shake my head. “No fucking idea. They weren’t supposed to bury the damn body tonight.” She shivers when I say body. Did she not realize I’d killed him?
We’ve contacts with the men who dig graves here at the Cathedral, a good fucking convenience.
Other mobs throughout the country dispose of their bodies by messy, covert means.
Some of ours are buried alongside heroes and civilians at the cemetery, marked with bogus markers, of course.
And no one’s ever been the wiser. We keep our contacts paid well.
I suspect Father MacGowen’s raised a brow a time or two, but as Clan chaplain, he knows better than to ask questions. He knows he won’t get an answer.