Chapter 22 Lachlan
LACHLAN
Montana and I had returned to the Airbnb, dirt-smudged and tired to the bone from digging graves in heat-baked soil, wordless.
He’d gone his way. I’d gone mine. I showered, scrubbed blood and desert sand off my skin.
My mind looped the fight. When I strolled downstairs to the kitchen, I didn’t know what I was after.
Water? Because the dinner we never had bubbled my stomach.
When I saw the box of empty black lawn bags on the tile floor—the same ones we’d used to wrap the bodies—I froze. My bubbling stomach flopped. Turned over. I’d stashed those under the sink. Had I forgotten to shove them farther inside? Or was I just seeing them again everywhere now?
I couldn’t remember.
Not that it mattered.
At some point, Montana had grunted his way onto the stool beside me at the island and popped open two beers. One for him. One for me. He didn’t speak, just slid the bottle across the counter.
Bubbles climbed the deep amber liquid, turning into foam. Cold. Comforting. I should take a pull. Couldn’t lift the bottle.
My mind remained in the desert, in the dust, under the stars where I’d left two bodies. The second man had been unconscious before the third ghost vanished like smoke. You killed a man, Lach.
The first died when he hit his head. The second?
My hands trembled as I lifted the bottle.
I managed one shallow sip, but the liquid coated my tongue like guilt.
A loud snap echoed in my mind. Before cracking his neck, I’d asked him questions while Montana held him down.
He’d claimed not to know anything. I didn’t believe him.
Frustration flared.
And I reacted.
Too fast.
Too hard.
Too final. The MacKenzie way.
Montana’s voice cut through the haze. “Lach?”
I muttered, tone low, hoarse. “The third one was trained.”
“Bruh, I get that.” He roughed a hand over his face.
In one blink, I saw the dirt again. I closed my eyes hard. Opened them.
“We gotta figure this out, bruh.”
“I know. Guy Two. He didn’t have an accent.” I finally took a swig of beer.
“Russian accent?” Montana asked.
Nodding, I dragged a hand through my damp fauxhawk, jaw clenched. “You think Natasha’s father wants me dead, that bad?”
Montana frowned. Until now, he’d made it clear where he stood on the half-a-million-dollar rock. My promise to Natasha. The bawbag was never serious. Cocky? Aye. Funny? Given the circumstances, nae. But now there was a weight to his voice. “Did the soldier speak?”
I opened my mouth, ready to tell him no, that the bastard had saluted me, when my phone lit up on the counter. A soft buzz. Natasha.
Picking up my beer, I muttered, “Noooo.” Exhaled so hard the glass bottle whistled.
She’d called when we were in the middle of nowhere, dumping the bodies. I couldn’t take it then. Couldn’t fake normal. I had texted five words:
Don’t come tomorrow. Explain later.
Man, that sounded like a brush-off.
The phone had vibrated when I’d dropped it into my pocket and returned to digging. One ping, then a second. Never got around to checking it. Just took my shower, washed off the blood. A coward.
Now, a third message came in. The screen glowed.
“You better answer that girl.”
“I know,” I groused. I reached for it and clicked into our correspondence to start from the top.
NATASHA: So don’t come tomorrow? K. Can’t wait for your explanation.
Her tone sounded strained. Disappointed. Or confused? Then the next message from earlier landed a harder blow.
NATASHA: Then I’ll grovel about Greece, Lach. I’m texting Nan for a Dundee cake recipe. She’s gonna want something in return. Like baby pictures of me. Consider that every time your coach digs into you because of Greece.
That first text wasn’t sarcasm. She was concerned. The second? Regret. Sympathy. An apology in which she took the blame and friggen offered to bake my favorite Scottish Dundee cake.
Natasha Resnova was too good for me. How had I forgotten the lassie was more than my weakness?
She was my best friend. All those smaller moments in the beginning?
Then almost two years of craving her, falling madly for her.
She didn’t push. Manipulate. She just showed up for me. And this night made me forget our bond?
The third message—sent a minute ago—hit while I reeled over misjudging her first text.
NATASHA: Going to sleep now. And yes, I sent her an embarrassing picture of me toeing my first birthday cake. Wish I didn’t feel so guilty. But whatever it is, I love you, Lach.
My breath caught.
I wanted to tell her.
Had already planned to.
But not with some half-sarcastic Did yer da try to off me? layered with my thickest brogue to soften the blow.
No. Not that.
Forget pointing fingers. I’d state the facts.
Three men came for me. Two were dead. A third, trained. Efficient. Silent.
I picked up the phone, ready to type out something—something real, something tender. But my fingers didn’t move because I felt awful deep down for killing a man, killing in frustration. That wasn’t me. That was Little Brody. Camdyn. Jamie … in some instances, before he became a Marine.
Not me.
I was Lachlan MacKenzie. Boy Five. Not particularly funny—unless I had to go toe-to-toe with my mate, Montana, but I charmed millions. Made others crush empty beer cans to their heads as they slapped their hands to make their Dodger-painted bellies quiver like Jello shots.
Boy Five was cool. Loved by kids and adults. I just needed to move my fingers and assure her of my love and that we’d hash out this situation.
Later.
Montana leaned forward, watching me. “Brah … looks like you’ve seen a ghost. You honestly think her dad—”
Ding-Dong.
The doorbell sliced through the moment. We both turned to the sound. This was the part that scared grown men. Even Serial killers. Someone … finding out.
My eyes flicked to the iron wall clock. 1:47 a.m.
I groaned and pushed off the stool. “Who the hell is that?”
Montana raised both hands. “No clue, man.”
I rushed toward the door in my flannel pajama pants. The sharp banging caused me to skip the hoodie. Whoever it was, they wanted attention. Noise, chaos. Didn’t need the cops around here tonight.
I yanked open the door.
And that was when a woman launched herself into my arms.
The brunette reeked of perfume and desperation. Her arms looped around my neck, and her mouth crashed.
I caught a flash of light.
Click.
A camera.
Somewhere in the shadows.
Crap.
I’d been set up.
Again.
By Vassili.