Chapter 47 Lachlan
LACHLAN
Four men. How did we get here? I’d been on edge since the boat died, my pulse hummed with restless vigilance.
Now, Natasha clung to me, her breath clouding the damp air.
What I wouldn’t give to make her disappear in this moment.
After those months wanting her here, beside me, I needed her far away from me. Safe.
Four burly shadows resolved into men with hard eyes and heavier intent.
The sort of intent that shot ice through my veins.
The one in the front grinned, his teeth glinting in the dim light. “Got a text on my mobile,” he said, voice gravel mockery. “Drop the lad. Fetch … the girl. Promised me free whiskey for a year.” He chuckled low. “Didnae take it serious at first. Thought the bartender was pullin’ me leg.”
“Look, we don’t want trouble,” I gritted.
“I read it again. Not just any lad”—his smile sharpened—“a MacKenzie.”
My jaw tightened. I stepped forward, placing space between me, them, and my lassie. My voice remained low, almost conversational, though it carried a dangerous calm. “You don’t want to fight me, mate.”
Man Two squinted, recognition dawning. “Bloody hell … it’s him. Not just any MacKenzie. The Dodger.”
“Och, yeah!” This from the third guy. “I knows ye, Lachlan MacKenzie. Guys, we don’t need to drop this MacKenzie like horrible midgies.” He shook as if afraid of those creepy flies pretty much every Scotsman, lass, and bairn hated. “We take his fingers—he never swings a bat again.”
They moved like a pack, circling me. I stepped into the first punch, slamming my fist into Guy Three’s throat. Take my fingers? As he doubled over, another was on me—punches wild and sloppy. I caught his wrist and twisted.
Snap. His howl split the foggy air, but another man was already coming after me.
I pivoted. My elbow shot back against his jaw, hard enough to rattle teeth.
He shook his head, then threw a hook toward my jaw.
I ducked and drove my fist into the attacker’s ribs.
Air swished from the man’s lungs. Another swung at my side, forcing me to pivot.
Guy Three sucked in just enough air. He charged, trying to take my legs.
We fell onto damp gravel. I rolled, smashing my knee into his rib.
Bone gave under the impact. More boots scraped on stone—another came up behind me.
I surged up and slammed my fist into his gut, driving him back against a tree.
I spat out blood and realized. I’d fought three. Where was …?
I blocked a jab. Absorbed a hook to the ribs and drove my fist upward into a jaw. Somewhere in the haze, a voice—her voice—called my name.
Natasha.
Damn. They’d been strategic. Three focused on me, while a fourth captured her.
As I spun around in the darkness, fighting off the men, kicking and punching, I searched for her.
Guy Three charged me. My body slammed against a tree trunk.
His friend grabbed my wrist and twisted it away.
A flash of metal caught my eye from Guy Three. Too late. Pain hit me.
Nae!
White-hot agony ripped through my right hand. My vision narrowed, black at the edges. My own finger hit the ground like something that didn’t belong to me.
“I’m obsessed by how yer fingers curve around the ball. That’s the part that does magic.” Though my eyes bit shut, I recognized that voice. Guy Three. “One more, then we saw yer legs.”
They wanted to take my hand. My legs. My career. My life. My woman.
I wrestled my left hand free. Punched the man and searched for Natasha. Not good enough. Friggen nondominant hand. They grabbed my arm again, and the blade bit before I ripped free with a roar. I shoved the man so hard he hit the ground.
Guy Three—I was beginning to hate this one more than the rest—sucker punched me in the stomach. I doubled. Through my peripheral, just a flicker, I glimpsed Natasha. As Guy Four dragged her away, she kicked, twisted, and slammed her heel into his shin.
The three men held me down.
One sawed at another finger.
Natasha struck her assailant’s jaw. Her teeth sank into his forearm when he grabbed her hair. The man cursed violently. My chest swelled with pride before the bastard backhanded her.
She crumpled, gasping.
Nae. I hated Guy Four more than Three. My restraint snapped.
Rage came first, then cold focus. I drove my forehead into Guy Three’s nose, bone cracking under the impact.
Blood blinded him, and I snatched the blade from his grip, shoving it into the fist that flew at my face.
The blade sank between two of his friend’s knuckles.
I yanked it, snarling through the pain and awkward hold, without all my fingers.
“My hand, my bloody hand. What the—”
As the man screamed, I swung the knife’s hilt into the other man’s temple. His eyes rolled back as he crumpled. While their mate lay clutching his hand, I slid the knife across a blood-blinded Three’s throat.
“Och, you killed me bràthair! Me bràthair.”
Exhausted but moving, I dropped low at the last second. Propelled him over my shoulder. Air burst from his lungs as he hit concrete. I turned around and stabbed the knife between his spinal column.
“Now you’re with your bràthairs. In hell,” I growled between ragged breaths. Despite the pounding in my skull, I caught movement at the edge of my vision. Man Four dragged Natasha down a grassy slope.
“Tash!” On instinct, I squeezed my throbbing right hand into a fist. Blood poured from the severed area.
The last man hauled her, one arm crushing her waist, the other clamped over her mouth.
I scooped my finger from the stones, shoved it into my pocket, then took off like I had when MLB scouts watched my high school games.
The fourth bastard carried Natasha toward a stony pub. Next to it sat a car. I figured locking the doors to the pub wasn’t his aim. Besides, I’d rip the door off the hinges to get to her. The car? Aye. He’d use those set of wheels.
If I failed.
As I ran down the slope toward them, Natasha twisted over his shoulder, got a hand free, and clawed his face. Her teeth sank into his neck, and he grunted. Aye, that’s my girl.
For a heartbeat, pride cut through the pain. She was a fighter.
“Get off me!” she snarled.
Another backhand cracked across her face, and she stumbled down the knoll.
I was about thirty yards away when he scooped her limp body up and shoved her into the passenger side.
The man jumped into the driver’s seat and revved the engine.
I launched myself forward before the car rolled back. One arm hooked through the window, locking around the bastard’s neck.
He tried to punch me through the window. Natasha, dazed as she was, yanked the gear from reverse to park. I dragged him halfway through the window before slamming him onto the gravel. His head bounced once. My left fist—bloodied and raw—slammed again until his head lolled sideways.
I staggered upright, lungs burning. My vision was tunneling again. Losing blood.
A ringing phone sliced through the pounding in my ears.
“It’s his phone.” Natasha groaned, pressing her palm to her cheek. “Ouch.” She winced.
I glared at the unconscious heap. He was the first to approach. The one who got a text. I climbed into the driver’s side and answered the phone. Placed it on speaker and tossed it into the cup holder. “Hello?” I growled through clenched teeth.
“That slight Scottish accent sounds familiar.” Lorenzo sighed. “So, you’re not the one I propositioned.”
Did he have a tracker? My … wet, not working phone? Really? Still useless to me, but he could find us anywhere? But wait? He didn’t have that forced Italian accent.
Natasha was partially out of it from the punch to her skull, moaning. My left hand held her hand clumsily. “You said I played games, Lorenzo. Natasha does not want you.”
“Did she say that?”
“I don’t want you!” she squeaked, blinking her eyes. Stronger now, she snapped, “Leave us alone.”
“Back off,” I said, voice iced over. “Come see me, Lorenzo. Leave your gun. Fight me like a man. Clearly, you can track my phone, so keep doing that.”
“My fight isn’t with you, Lachlan. And, Natasha,” he said, his tone now oozed with that sick, false Italian sweetness. “I’ll give you another chance to answer that question when I have you in my arms.”
Though the pain in my hand turned my stomach, I kept my voice calm, dealing with this maniac. “Grow a pair, bawbag. Fight me like a friggen man!”
I started to mash the Off button when Natasha grabbed the phone. “Why are you doing this? I-I’ve been kind to you, Enzo.”
I hated that she called him that.
He chuckled low, oily. “Your kindness has not gone unnoticed.”
Shaking my head, I mouthed for her to end the call, shoving the gear into drive. But his voice came in—different now. Clipped. Echoing as if …
“Your father wronged my father. Louis ‘the Legion’ Gotti. But your kindness? That’s why I didn’t retaliate, Natasha. Are you ready to come with me? Get out of the car—” Lorenzo paused. His breath echoed with the closeness of two cellphones near one another.
He was nearby.
“Get out of the car, Natasha. Now!” the maniac said with a snarl.