Chapter Thirty-Seven
In which Ethan is ready to Fuck Some Shit Up.
Ethan…
My wife dozes off in my arms after her confession. I think it was cathartic for her, she’s breathing deeply with a tiny smile on her lips. I’m thinking this means she finally trusts me to help her.
The fierceness of her… keeping Carmella and her brother moving on one side of the world while she evaded that piece of shite on the other, working her arse off to take care of them.
I’m lookin’ forward to finding Gavin and cutting him into fifty tiny pieces. And this feck Tony, too.
My phone buzzes angrily on my bedside table. It’s Morrie. Sliding out from under Sloan, I covered her with a blanket and stepped out into the hall.
“Morrie, what do ya know?”
“Hey, Boss.” He’s got some kind of death metal blasting in the background. “I’ve been running through those bank transfer records from the cash app store. She was slick, she went through three different servers to get the cash, but I have a country of origin for you.”
“Excellent, good lad. Where?”
Thankfully, he turns down the music. “Costa Rica.”
“Can ya narrow it down?”
“Yeah, sure. But here’s why I’m calling.”
“Aye?”
“There’s a digital signature on every cash transfer,” he explains. “Meaning, I can see the signature once I narrow it down. When I’m watching the transfer history, I can also see if anyone else is flagging it.”
I crack my neck, one direction and then the other, trying to calm down the rising fury in my gut. “You’re telling me someone else is tracking the same transaction?”
“Yep,” he happily pops the ‘p.’ “Wanna know where they’re tracing it from?”
“This isn’t a fecking game show, Morrie.”
“Massachusetts,” he says. “That’s where she’s from, right?”
“Motherfucker,” I growl, eyes darting to the open bedroom door. Sloan is still asleep, curled up under the comforter. “If they know what we know, they’re on the way.”
“Most likely,” he agrees pleasantly.
“How long does it take to track down the source of the transfer in Costa Rica?”
“I can get it for you within twelve hours, I think.”
“The feck you say? Twelve goddamn hours?” I snap. I’ve got to get Nate and Carmella out of there before fecking Gavin sends his hit squad down.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I have to bypass some international banking regulations from here, which means a lot of fraud.” He sounds happy about it, but that’s Morrie for ya. “I’ll move as fast as I can.”
“All right.” My hand is tightening into a fist and it wants to go right through the wall, but it’s brick and I dinna need a busted hand at this moment. “I’m putting together a team. Keep me up on anything ya find, no matter how small, aye?”
“No worries, Boss.” The little bastard turns up the death metal before disconnecting the call.
It’s time for my wife and I to have a serious talk. But… I can let her rest while I put together an extraction team. It’ll have to be larger than usual because I dinna know who Masters will send after Nate and Carmella. I move into the living room to make some calls.
“Chieftain, I’m sorry to bother ya this early.”
“I’ve been awake for a while,” Uncle Cormac says, sounding exhausted. “Someone attacked one of our truck convoys last night in Birmingham.”
“Never a dull moment. I know why Masters is after his stepson. He tried to poison the kid first, and when it didn’t work, Masters had his wife murdered. Sloan got her brother out of there and that motherfecker’s been chasing them ever since.”
“It’s money, isn’t it?” he asks, “It’s always the fecking money.”
“Aye, their father put all his money in an ironclad trust for Sloan and Nate. The only way for Masters to get his hands on it is to kill them.” I’m pacing the living room. “Morrie’s tracked down the cash transfer to Sloan, it came from Costa Rica. Unfortunately, he says someone else hacked in and got the same information. Someone from Boston.”
“How many people do ya need?” That’s what I like about Uncle Cormac, he dinna feck around when it comes to handling a crisis.
“Ten. I prefer to work alone, but without any intel, I dinna know what we’re going up against. I’ll have to take Sloan and I need to make sure she’s protected.”
“You can use my jet. Michael will have everyone assembled at the airfield in two hours,” he says, “get in, get out clean, aye?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And don’t crash my jet!”
Ach. I’m never gonna fecking live that one down.
Time to wake my wife and tell her what we’ve learned.
Stopping to make some coffee, I carry in a mug for her, too.
Except, she’s not there. The bed is empty. Ripping open the closet, I see her new backpack is gone, along with my wallet.
The coffee mug shatters against the wall, sending a long stream of caffeine down the white paint.