Chapter 13 Nightingale #2
At thirteen hundred, Vanguard and I met at a small pub in Tarbert and sat in a corner booth where no one would overhear as he walked me through the op’s parameters.
“Viper’s thorough,” he commented, sliding documentation across the table. “I’m Richard Sutherland, financial consultant. We met at a gallery opening six months ago and started dating a few weeks later.”
“It’s solid,” I said after scanning the cover story.
“Extraction plans are better.” He pulled up a diagram of Arran. “Three routes off the island if things go sideways. Helicopter on standby in Brodick, boat access at two harbors, car positioned for mainland escape.”
“Signals?” I asked.
“Standard. Weather comment for immediate extraction. Adjust your earring if you need backup but can stay in play. Finish your drink to exit a conversation naturally.”
We spent the next hour running scenarios—potential complications, backup plans, how to handle security, and where the safe points were inside Brodick Castle.
When we finished an hour later, it was time for me to return to Glenshadow to gather my things.
“Just so you know…” Vanguard’s eyes met mine. “I’ll have your back at that gala.”
“You know I’ll have yours.”
“And MacTaggert’s going to hate us both when he finds out.”
His words hit hard. He was right. Tag would never forgive me.
I put off speaking to Tag again until it was fifteen minutes before Vanguard would arrive. I found him in his study and poked my head in.
“Leila? What can I do for you?”
My stomach clenched.
“I wanted you to know I was leaving.”
His eyes were hooded. “Be careful.”
“Always.”
Vehicle lights appeared outside the window.
“I’ll walk you out.”
“That isn’t necessary—”
He was out from behind his desk and over to me before I could finish my sentence. “I insist.”
The walk to the SUV was torture. With every step I took, I thought about aborting the op and telling him the truth. But I couldn’t. I had to finish this. And while that might not happen tonight, whatever did take place would put us one step closer.
We were within a few paces of where Vanguard had parked when Tag stopped and turned to face me.
“Nightingale—” His hand lifted, reaching toward my face, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might actually touch me. Break through the distance he’d maintained since Dunravin. But then his fingers curled into a fist and dropped back to his side.
“I should go.” I cut him off before he could finish, before the words between us made leaving impossible. “I don’t want to keep Vanguard waiting.”
I picked up my bag and walked away, glancing over my shoulder to take one last look—that’s all I’d allow myself.
“You okay?” Vanguard asked when he drove out of Glenshadow’s main gate.
“I will be. Once this is over.”
Ninety minutes later, Brodick Castle rose against the twilight sky—six centuries of stone and battlements looking down on expensive vehicles owned by people with the kind of wealth that could move weapons across continents.
After checking into the hotel, we went to our separate rooms, where we’d transform ourselves into our alter egos for the night.
“We have about two hours before we need to leave for the castle,” Vanguard said when we reached my door at eighteen hundred.
“I’ll be ready.” I went inside and stood in the silence.
I started with the practical stuff, putting a small pistol in a thigh holster that would remain hidden beneath my gown. Then I put on the earring that was really a comms device.
Next, I began the transformation, first styling my hair in loose waves.
Then I applied heavier makeup than I typically wore.
The emerald silk dress Viper had chosen slid over my skin, and the accompanying jewelry glittered at my throat and wrists.
I studied myself in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman I saw.
There was a knock at the door, and when I opened it, Vanguard stood in the corridor, transformed into Richard Sutherland in an impeccably tailored tux.
“Last chance to back out.”
I picked up my clutch and checked that everything I needed was inside. “I’m not backing out. Let’s finish this.”
He offered his arm, and I took it, stepping fully into the Helena Moore persona. I closed my eyes for a moment, sending a silent message to Idris, but instead of my brother, Tag’s face appeared. Forgive me, I said silently.
We walked toward the castle’s entrance, where Dalgleish and his network waited and where I hoped to gather intelligence that would make this deception worth it.
A man in evening wear examined our invitations. “Ms. Moore, Mr. Sutherland,” he said before returning them with a courteous nod. “Welcome. The gala is through the next set of doors.”
The grand hall soared above us with rows of crystal chandeliers that cast warm light over guests whose jewelry was as real as mine was fake. Waiters circulated with champagne, and a string quartet played in the corner.
I scanned the room, picking up on conversations.
“Champagne?” Vanguard settled his hand on my lower back and offered me a glass.
“Thank you, darling,” I said, sounding far more like Helena Moore than myself.
We moved through the crowd, making small talk, laughing at appropriate moments, and playing our roles while searching for our targets.
I spotted Dalgleish near the center of the hall. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, and he was standing with Ian MacKenzie. Surrounding them were well-dressed men whose faces rarely appeared in photographs.
“There,” I murmured to Vanguard.
“I see them.”
We circulated closer, stopping first to speak with a banker from London, then an American tech investor, followed by a French diplomat’s wife.
Gradually, we worked closer to Dalgleish’s circle.
A woman examining a medieval manuscript gave me the opening I needed.
“The pieces here are remarkable,” I said. “Though I confess I’m more interested in modern acquisitions.”
“Are you a collector?” she asked in a heavy German accent.
“In a modest way. Contemporary European artists, primarily.” I offered my hand. “I’m Helena Moore.”
“You should speak with James—our host. He has excellent connections.”
Exactly what I’d hoped she’d suggest.
When she caught his attention with a subtle gesture, he excused himself and joined us.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, offering his hand.
The woman made introductions, then drifted away.
His eyes sharpened as we fell into a conversation about art that seemed more like a negotiation as he measured my knowledge and whether I was serious. All the while, MacKenzie studied me in a way that rattled me.
“I’m hosting a viewing next week at my gallery in Edinburgh,” Dalgleish said after several minutes. “Selected pieces, eager buyers only. Perhaps you’d be interested?”
“I’d be delighted.”
He gestured to the men beside him. “Allow me to introduce my colleagues. Ian MacKenzie, Vadim Karpov, Hassan Al-Rashid, and Chen Wei.”
Vanguard positioned himself nearby—close enough to intervene, but far enough to maintain pretense—while I shook each of their hands.
The plan was working—until I saw someone that stunned me speechless. Across the Great Hall, talking with two men in formal wear, stood Mr. MacLeod, the estate manager from Dunravin. What was he doing here?
“Ms. Moore?” Dalgleish’s voice summoned. “Are you quite all right?”
I forced a pleasant expression. “Forgive me. I thought I saw someone I knew, but I was mistaken.”
But when MacLeod’s gaze swept the room and landed on me, the flicker of recognition in his eyes confirmed it.
No amount of makeup, fancy hairstyles, or elegant gowns could hide my real identity. He knew exactly who I was, and I’d just blown my cover.