Chapter 55 Mallory Plantation—Clay
Mallory Plantation—Clay
The conference room door had barely slammed shut behind Remy and Skye, the echoing thud a physical blow to the silence. Clay sat there, shell-shocked, struggling to parse the wreckage of a meeting that had derailed spectacularly.
He’d read the after-action report—an adventure involving Braham, Charlotte, and Jack.
Honestly, the rumored Mallory effect still felt like a faint mirage, something he couldn’t quite see, feel, or comprehend.
But the look in Kenzie’s eyes was real. If she believed this invisible force would shatter the world Remy and Skye were building, then Clay’s answer was simple: he’d vote no against the plan to return to New York City and recover Alistair and Sheena.
Quiet settled around the table. Every gaze remained fixed on the door, waiting for it to burst open, for Remy to stride back in and reclaim his chair, the familiar rhythm of his fingers drumming a soundtrack against the wood. Thirty seconds bled into a minute. A minute stretched to two.
After five minutes of silence, Elliott finally spoke with a catch in his voice. “I’ll corner Remy later, try to talk some sense into him. But for now, we need to decide if we’re going to send a team back to rescue Alistair and Sheena.”
Clay jumped right in, the words tumbling out—he’d been there, side by side with Remy on Marcelle and Bastien’s rescue mission.
“I admit the Mallory effect sounds like something out of a pulp novel to me, but Kenzie believes it could be a problem for Remy and Skye. If it threatens them, then my vote is no.”
“Me too,” Rick said, staring into his coffee cup.
Marcelle shrugged. “Clay brought me to the dance. If his answer is no, so is mine.”
A flicker of raw hope crossed Penny’s face. “I hate to give up on Skye’s parents. Can we… can we just table this for now, and circle back later when heads are cooler?”
Kenzie shook her head. “There is no later. Waiting will leave Skye suspended in limbo, and that’s not fair to her or Remy.
We have to decide now. Going back to 1898 to rescue Skye’s parents is a gamble with too many unknowns.
If we have any hope of rescuing Alistair from the Illuminati’s clutches, we have to shift focus.
That means going back to 1927 and rescuing him from Lake Michigan. ”
“Okay,” Penny conceded. “You have my vote.”
“And mine,” David added.
“Mine too,” Bastien chimed in.
“Count me in,” Kaitlyn said. “If Alistair has information, a key to dismantling the Illuminati, we have an absolute obligation to discover what that is.”
“If we do that, I’d like to lead the recovery team and take Tavis with me,” Rick said.
“Why?” Elliott asked, his gaze narrowing, a silent question hanging in the air between the two men.
“Ever since we met the Council in Jarlshof, I knew the story was far from over. If this bit of information brings us closer to putting it all behind us, I want to be part of it. I’m a former Marine and NYC detective, and Tavis is a former SEAL.
He and his brother are the most experienced travelers in the family.
This trip might just need Tavis or Mark’s experience.
And besides, Tavis, Mark, and I have been diving on offshore Virginia wreck sites to hone our skills.
We’re ready,” Rick said, a note of quiet determination tightening the lines of his jaw.
Clay leaned forward. “I want to go. I know my way around Chicago, the layout of Skye’s house, and the best clubs where members of the Illuminati might hang out.”
“You can’t go. You’re too visible,” Rick said, his tone clipped and final, shutting down the argument before it could fully form.
“If we run into Skye, she’ll remember you when you show up in 1928, and so will Capone.
Tavis and I will debrief you. By the time we leave, we’ll know everything you know about Chicago in the 1920s. ”
“I can help, too,” Marcelle said, her voice soft but firm, a balancing presence in the escalating tension. “I’ve taught classes on jazz, Capone, and the 1920s. Include me in your prep.”
Clay shoved back from the table and shot to his feet. “No! You can’t leave me behind. I have too much invested in this!”
“Clay, have ye ever killed a person?” David asked calmly, his quiet question slicing through Clay’s outburst.
“Of course not!” The very idea repulsed Clay, and his features twisted in distaste.
“Here’s the deal, and I’m not saying it’s right, but that’s the way we’re going to play it.
Ye’re not a soldier, ye can’t open a safe, and ye’ve never pulled anyone out of a lake, river, or ocean.
Ye’re not trained for this. Next year, ye might be, but ye aren’t right now,” Elliott said, his voice a low, unyielding rumble of finality.
“I won’t accept that,” Clay said, planting his feet firmly, refusing to back down.
“Soldiers go into battle, and they’ve never killed or cracked open a safe.
” Elliott couldn’t stop him from going for those reasons.
“Two people have already stormed out of here because of the situation we’re in. Don’t make it three.”
“Beware, Barclay, we’re not to be trifled with.” Elliott’s voice, a low, guttural growl, sliced through the silence.
“You’re a brilliant investigative reporter, but Capone is a predator, and you’re his prey,” David added, his tone a calmer counterpoint to Elliott’s thunder, yet heavy with a shared, urgent concern.
“That’s not until 1928,” Clay dismissed.
“And in 1928, the man will remember you and probably put a bullet in yer head on the spot!” Elliott exploded, slamming a palm on the table. “It won’t happen on my watch. If ye can’t accept that simple fact, then get yer stubborn arse out of this meeting.”
This could be the biggest story of Clay’s life—a lightning strike of destiny, and he was meeting a wall of resistance. In the past, when that happened, he always found a workaround.
“I’ll create a disguise,” Clay pitched, words tumbling out with newfound energy.
“Change my hair color, wear a fake mustache, thick glasses, and talk with an accent thicker than molasses. I’ll carry a stinky cigar, put lifts in my shoes, pad my jacket until I’m unrecognizable, and even affect a limp.
Capone won’t know me from Adam. Come on, Elliott.
You trusted me enough to send me with Remy to rescue the LeBlancs and Robertsons.
Why am I suddenly a greenhorn? It makes no sense.
I was just in Chicago, walking those dangerous streets in 1928.
I might not have killed anyone or cracked a safe, but I know Chicago in the 1920s.
That makes me a valuable piece in your puzzle.
” Clay had pleaded his case, but it hung in the air, a prayer that might not be answered.
Elliott and David exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between seasoned warriors.
After a beat or two that stretched time thin, Elliott finally nodded, the tension easing slightly.
“Show me yer disguise. If it’s good enough, we’ll consider it.
In the meantime, start briefing Rick and Tavis. ”
The door swung open, and Clay braced himself for Remy’s confident strut.
Instead, Tavis filled the frame, and for the first time, his appearance struck Clay like a powerful surge.
Tavis had finally cut his unusually long hair, and the tight T-shirt he wore emphasized his muscular arms and broad chest.
Perhaps because Clay had spent hours absorbed in sketching the man—cataloging every angle of his physical presence, every fleeting expression—he was now attuned to the similarities.
But a question needled at him. Why had he missed them in David?
It took a few heartbeats to realize the answer.
It was the eyes. Tonight, Tavis’s were glacial blue and piercing, while David’s usually warm brown eyes had taken on a shadowed, inky darkness.
“What’s up?” Tavis asked, his voice cutting through the thick air. “Elliott sent a message for me to get my arse in here.”
“I’ll sum it up in thirty words instead of a few thousand.
” Clay launched into his retelling, beginning with the flight to Chicago with Remy and ending with the explosive moment Remy and Skye had stormed out of the room.
“That’s it in a nutshell.” The retelling ended up being several thousand words, a torrent of confession and detail, but no one counted the overflow.
Tavis didn’t miss a beat, his expression hardening with decision. “Sure, I’ll go. When do we leave?”
“As soon as we can suit up and get the hell out of here,” Rick said, already pushing back his chair.
Braham stood, a man of action, and headed toward the door.
“I’ll start putting yer gear together. I got the windshield fixed on Tony’s Chevrolet.
Ye can take it with ye. It’s parked in the barn, ready to roll.
Roisin cleaned and repaired the clothes that Bastien, Clay, and Tony arrived with.
They’re hanging in the costume closet and should fit ye.
If not, she can make swift alterations.”
Elliott fell into step behind Braham. “Put on yer disguise, Barclay, and make it good—good enough that I won’t regret letting ye go into the field.”
Rick leaned across the table, his gaze a low, intense glare fixed solely on Clay. “Do anything to screw this up, and I’ll leave you there to rot.” A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face, breaking the tension. “Relax. You’ll be okay. Tavis and I will babysit you.”
“Gee, thanks, Rick,” Clay said, the sarcasm thick enough to choke on.
The others cleared the room with sudden urgency, as if they’d heard the dinner bell and were rushing off to a feast. Only Clay and Marcelle remained seated amidst the quiet.
“Where’s everybody going?” she asked.
Clay glanced at the partially closed door, his attention snagged by the low voices beyond. “Eat, watch a ballgame, play in one, or look for Remy.”
Marcelle’s brow furrowed slightly. “Why didn’t they ask you?”
“They knew I had work to do before the team could leave,” he replied, a hint of weariness in his tone.
“And I don’t think anybody will search for Remy.
If they found him, they’d have to explain what the group decided and why.
Right now, no one wants to upset him and Skye more than they already are. ”
Marcelle offered him a bittersweet smile, her eyes reflecting a swirl of concern and understanding. “Are you sure you want to make another trip?”
Clay didn’t answer right away. This would only be his third one.
Four, if you counted his and Marcelle’s lateral trip.
Tavis had gone on too many to count and had lived in the past under intolerable conditions.
That didn’t stop him from going again. And Rick had been on two dangerous adventures.
Archibald might have traveled more than Tavis and had even gone into the future. How could Clay not want to go?
“Anytime I’m chasing a story, I’m uncertain,” he admitted.
“But this time, I’m familiar with the terrain and the people.
I should be fine. I’ll come home with pages of sketches and a story to tell.
For an investigative journalist, the only thing better than a good story is the attention of a beautiful, talented, and smart as hell trumpet player. ”
He stood, pulling her gently to her feet, and kissed her—a deep, lingering kiss that promised his return.
She raised a wry eyebrow, the gesture a mixture of amusement and affection, and a palpable heat sparked between them. “Go. Have fun. And try to come back in one piece.”
Her acceptance caught him off guard. “I’ll do my best.”
She clasped hands with him, their fingers intertwining, and they headed toward the door. “We should work on your disguise. Do you know where the supplies are?”
That was a question he would normally text Remy to ask, but he guessed at an answer. “Maybe in the costume room.”
“Let’s go look. I have an idea. Will a red cloak, horns, and a pitchfork work?”
He grinned, the playful light in her eyes infectious. “If it will help me get a story, I’m willing to try.”