Chapter 15 Nightingale
NIGHTINGALE
The champagne glass nearly slipped from my fingers. My grip tightened before the crystal could shatter against the marble, but my pulse hammered loud enough that I wondered if Dalgleish could hear it.
Mr. MacLeod stood under an archway that led to a room adjacent to the one we were in. Instead of the work clothes I’d seen him in at Dunravin, tonight he wore a perfectly tailored dinner jacket and had the bearing of someone who belonged with people who bought weapons disguised as art.
I forced myself to maintain a pleasant expression while my mind raced. MacLeod being here confirmed Dunravin was compromised. The tunnels we’d found, the warnings he’d given us—all of it took on new meaning.
After asking if I was all right, Dalgleish continued talking—something about a Flemish painting he’d recently acquired.
I responded appropriately while tracking the estate manager’s movement through the crowd.
He stopped to speak with Vadim Karpov, the Russian arms dealer whose specialty was former Soviet weapons.
Their conversation was brief but familiar.
MacLeod moved on to Hassan Al-Rashid, the Syrian broker known for moving chemical weapons precursors through legitimate pharmaceutical companies.
Chen Wei had drifted toward another group near the bar, and I caught sight of Ian MacKenzie near the terrace doors, watching everything with the alertness of someone expecting trouble.
MacLeod’s exchange with each man followed the same pattern—a handshake, a few words, a subtle nod. He was confirming something with each of them.
“The piece is from a private collection in Prague,” Dalgleish continued, oblivious to my divided attention. “The previous owner was quite reluctant to sell until I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“How persuasive of you,” I murmured, watching MacLeod signal to someone near the service corridor.
“Would you excuse us for a moment?” Vanguard’s voice was smooth as his hand settled on the small of my back. His fingers tapped twice, paused, then tapped three more times—our signal asking what was wrong.
“Please don’t let me keep you,” Dalgleish said, stepping away.
Vanguard leaned in close enough that his breath warmed my ear. “Problem?”
“The estate manager from Dunravin is here. One o’clock. Closely cropped gray beard.”
His eyes cut across the room, found the target, and returned to mine with the same question I was asking myself.
“Coincidence?” His tone said he didn’t believe in those any more than I did.
“Not sure yet.” I touched his arm, feigning affection while my fingers found his pulse point—rapid but controlled. “It is disconcerting.”
“We should consider extraction,” he murmured against my hair.
“Not yet. I need to know what Dalgleish knows.”
Our host returned a few moments later, his silver hair catching the chandelier’s light. He wore the same smile, but something in his eyes had shifted. The warmth had vanished, leaving behind the look of a man recalculating the odds. MacLeod must have signaled him somehow.
“Ms. Moore, it occurred to me that you might be interested in seeing a few of the pieces I’ve installed in the castle’s private gallery. They are available only to the most discreet collectors.”
The invitation sounded casual, but his body language screamed trap.
His weight had shifted to the balls of his feet, ready to move.
His right hand stayed close to his jacket, where a shoulder holster would sit.
Behind him, I counted three men in servers’ uniforms who’d stopped circulating with their trays.
Vanguard’s hand tightened on my elbow. He felt the shift in the room’s temperature as I had.
“What a kind offer.” I forced warmth into my voice while my mind ran through the escape routes. The main entrance was forty feet away through a crowd. The terrace doors were closer, but MacKenzie still lurked there. The service corridor might work if we moved fast enough. “Perhaps another time.”
“I insist.” Dalgleish gestured toward the archway where I’d first spotted MacLeod, then grasped my arm with more force than necessary. “This way.”
Vanguard’s hand fell away from my elbow as Dalgleish yanked me forward.
Behind us, I heard a brief scuffle—a grunt, the meaty sound of impact, then something heavy hitting the floor.
They’d separated us, and from what I’d heard, not gently.
I caught a glimpse of one of the fake servers wiping blood from his knuckles as he rushed by us alone. Vanguard’s blood, most likely.
I tracked the footfalls coming from behind us. The gait was wrong for servers—too balanced, too ready. These were soldiers.
Dalgleish stopped at a heavy wooden door located in an area where the corridor grew darker as it narrowed. Medieval torches provided the only light, their flames casting shadows on the stone walls. When he turned to face me, his expression switched to sinister.
“Ms. Moore.” He practically seethed. “Or should I say, Agent Nassar?”
“You’re mistaken.”
One set of footsteps behind me stopped.
“Come now, lass.” MacLeod’s words were heavy, weighted with reluctance. “We both know that’s not true.”
Our eyes met for a moment, and I saw regret there, but also determination. Whatever had brought him here, he’d made his choice long ago.
Ian MacKenzie emerged from the shadows behind MacLeod, his expression cold and calculating. “We’re wasting time. An extraction team could arrive at any time.”
“They won’t.” Dalgleish’s confidence was absolute.
I calculated exits, distances, and odds.
One corridor stretched behind me with MacKenzie and MacLeod blocking it.
Dalgleish stood in front, and an unknown number of other adversaries lurked nearby.
I had no good options for escape. My weapon remained strapped to my thigh, but even if I could reach it, I’d be dead before I could raise it to shoot.
“Where is Mr. Sutherland?” I asked.
“Your partner is being dealt with,” said Dalgleish, confirming my suspicion. “Mr. Sutherland—or should I say Morse?—won’t be joining us. He’s currently unconscious in a storeroom, though whether he stays that way depends entirely on your cooperation.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing permanent yet.” Dalgleish’s cold expression never changed. “But head wounds can be so unpredictable. Without proper medical attention in the next hour or so…”
He let the threat hang between us.
My hand moved toward my clutch. If I could just trigger the beacon—
“Dinna do that, lass.” MacLeod’s voice carried a warning.
But I was already moving. I made the choice in a heartbeat, finding the small bump through the silk and leather.
When I pressed hard with my fingertip, the device gave the slightest vibration, and I knew the signal had been sent.
As I triggered it, I let my clutch fall to the floor with the clasp open so our backup team from MI6 would at least know the location I’d sent the alert from.
“What did you just do?” Dalgleish lunged forward, but MacLeod was faster.
I saw the syringe too late. The sharp sting in my neck was followed by frost spreading from the injection site. My legs buckled as the drug hit my system—something fast-acting, probably midazolam or another benzodiazepine.
As my vision fractured, I managed to pull off my earring and let it fall. It hit the stone with a tiny sound that seemed to echo in my fading consciousness.
I tried to fight, but my body had stopped obeying as I was lifted and carried.
Tag, I’m sorry. For lying. For going around you. Please find me.
Darkness pulled me under—absolute and final—and everything went black.
My consciousness returned in layers of pain. My skull pounded while my mouth stayed dry, and my vision swam when I tried to open my eyes. The smell of mildew told me I was still at Brodick, that they hadn’t moved me far.
Stone walls rose on all sides when I forced my eyes to focus, and narrow windows showed darkness outside.
Zip ties cut into my wrists behind me, while my ankles were bound to the legs of a heavy wooden chair.
It was made of solid oak, probably weighing more than I did, and bolted to the floor—someone had prepared this space for holding prisoners.
My neck ached where the needle had gone in, and bruises were forming on my arms where they’d grabbed me. But nothing was broken and nothing was bleeding, which meant they wanted me alive, at least for the time being.
A table against the far wall held a computer terminal. Its screen showed what looked like deployment codes and geographical coordinates—Scotland, Northern England, Wales with red marks indicating major cities like London, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Manchester, and Cardiff as target zones.
I pulled against the restraints, testing their strength.
The zip ties were law enforcement grade, designed to hold up to two hundred and fifty pounds of pressure.
I could break them given time and leverage, but doing so would make noise and alert my captors.
The chair’s construction prevented me from getting the angle I’d need anyway.
Waiting and assessing what I was dealing with before making my move would be better.
Voices filtered through a door that muffled the conversation. Multiple men spoke with accents heavy enough to place them as local, but the words themselves stayed just out of reach. I did recognize one voice—MacLeod’s. He sounded agitated, like he was arguing with someone.
“—I told you this was moving too fast—” His voice rose enough to carry.
“You’re in no position to question the timeline.” Another Scottish voice, cultured and icy.
Footsteps sounded outside the door, and a key turned in the lock.
My spine went rigid, I pulled my shoulders back, and lifted my chin. Every line of my body declared that I was still dangerous, still a threat, still someone who would fight given half a chance.
The door swung open.