Chapter 59 Mallory Plantation—Tavis #4
Braham pointed a decisive finger at a nearby shelf. “Charlotte left a fully packed medical bag before she dashed off to Houston, and don’t forget yer Dopp kits.”
Tavis added the weighty medical bag and the leather Dopp kits to the growing pile of gear. The air crackled with a silent tension, a shared sense of impending adventure.
“There’s plenty of room in Tony’s Chevrolet, but we can’t leave anything in the car. Auto theft wasn’t just a problem. It was a national pastime in 1927. We’ll be lucky if some slick-haired gangster doesn’t steal it right out of the hotel parking lot,” Clay said.
Braham dismissed the fear with a wave of his hand. “They won’t be able to jimmy the new locks. I had them changed. But they could always tow the whole chassis and sell it for parts.”
Tavis glanced at the wall clock. “Let’s rendezvous at the new barn in sixty minutes. If those damn Jetboots aren’t here by then, we’ll spend what time we have left reconstructing the boat accident.”
“I’m heading to the costume room to get the suit I wore,” Clay said.
“I’ll take Tony’s. We’re the same size,” Rick said.
“Remy’s for me.” Tavis paused, his thumb hovering over his phone before sending a text to Aislinn, wondering if he had enough time to meet her in their bedroom, and decided he didn’t.
He texted: We’re waiting for some equipment to arrive, and then we’re leaving from the new barn in about an hour.
She responded: Penny, Marcelle, and I’ll meet you there.
Don’t bring the kids. Ya know…in case you want to have your way with me.
Aislinn’s response arrived instantly—a cascade of a dozen ha-ha emojis.
He chuckled, rereading her text. He had loved her for most of his life.
He drew in a shaky breath, blew it out slowly, and then took a few more, trying to steady the frantic beat of his heart.
He had to come back to her. The mission demanded a singular focus.
Dwelling on the perilous dive ahead would only shatter his resolve.
Prepare. Prepare. Prepare.
“I’ll haul some of this gear over to the barn,” Braham offered, breaking the silence. “Might as well use the time we have to organize.” He turned and walked out, his steps heavy, though he left the equipment untouched on the table.
“What the hell?” Tavis’s voice was a low growl of confusion as he fixed his gaze on the door, his anticipation of Braham’s return a tense knot in his gut.
When the silence stretched, and the door remained stubbornly shut, Tavis put his restless energy to work, his movements precise as he sorted the jumbled pile into three manageable loads.
Then, the door swished open again with a whoosh, and Braham, with a glint in his eyes, drove a brand-new, rugged off-road golf cart directly into the room. The vehicle bore the familiar crest of the Mallory Plantation on the front and the cryptic initials MAM on its side.
“Where’d that come from?” Tavis asked.
“I just bought two of them,” Braham stated, smirking with pride. “Had this one fitted with state-of-the-art GPS. I can always pinpoint its exact location and, more importantly, the culprit who dares to borrow it.”
“Are you sure it’s yours? The initials look suspiciously specific to MAM,” Tavis observed, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“Michael Abraham McCabe,” Braham supplied, his tone even.
“Really. How come I didn’t know that little detail?” Tavis pressed, a genuine curiosity replacing his earlier tension. “And who on earth shortened your name?”
“Ye can thank Cullen for that,” Braham sighed, a hint of ancient affection in his voice.
“He didn’t like Michael or Abraham, said they sounded too formal, so we settled on Braham when we were kids.
It’s the only name I’ve ever answered to since.
Even President Lincoln called me Braham,” he added, a twinkle in his eye.
“What an honor,” Tavis said. “He could’ve called me ‘kid,’ and I would’ve felt special.
” Tavis began loading the supplies onto the back of the cart.
Braham remained the picture of calm authority in the driver’s seat.
The only items left on the stainless-steel table were pouches and brooches—easily tucked away in the inner pockets of their jackets.
“After ye get dressed and ready, meet me at the barn,” Braham instructed, his voice dropping to a serious tone. “My contact will deliver the rest of the essential gear there.”
“Who is this mysterious contact, this elusive figure who can buy or do anything for you at any time of the day or night?” Tavis asked with a hint of playful exasperation in his voice.
Braham merely mimed zipping his lips.
“What if we’re in a bind and you’re not around to work your magic?” Tavis challenged.
“Ye wait,” Braham stated simply, the finality of his words a clear boundary.
Tavis fought the almost instinctual urge to roll his eyes, a gesture of familiarity he would never allow himself when dealing with the core three—Braham, Elliott, or David—whose respect he held above all else.
Instead, he simply nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken rules of their world.
“I’ll ride over with ye,” Elliott’s voice rumbled. “Where’s my cart, by the way?”
“Meredith drove off with it,” Braham replied.
“Looks like we’ll have to order a few more.”
“I want a red one!” Tavis bellowed.
“Ye’ll have to wait until ye’re over sixty!” Elliott yelled back, a hint of his usual gruff humor returning just before the heavy door whooshed shut behind the departing cart.
For the past hour, Tavis had been subdued, a quiet that felt like a gathering storm.
He was obviously worried about their upcoming adventure, but there was more.
Remy? If Elliott was this rattled, was Remy’s condition worse than they initially believed?
Tavis’s thumbs moved instinctively, sending Aislinn a quick message.
Any news about Remy? Elliott seems worried.
Aislinn replied: He’s like a son to Elliott, and Remy is stuck in Texas. If Elliott could be with Remy, he’d feel better, but Remy won’t let him come. Bring Alistair back with you, and Elliott can take him to Houston to be with Skye.
Tavis responded, smiling slowly: How’d you get so perceptive?
I’m not. Kenzie told me.
Thank God there’s an active Women Warrior text chain!
Thirty minutes later, Tavis, Rick, and Clay zoomed into the new barn in a golf cart, the vehicle skidding slightly on the packed earth before they vaulted out and pulled their women into hungry, immediate embraces.
“I hardly recognize you,” Marcelle whispered against Clay’s neck.
“I like the mustache, but the slicked-back hair not so much.” She then gave him a loving kiss, which surprised Tavis.
The relationship appeared more serious than he’d originally thought.
That was a good thing, but down deep, Tavis wondered whether Marcelle was more infatuated with the people and surroundings than with Clay.
Bastien and Kaitlyn had joined the group for the sendoff but remained in the golf cart. Bastien wasn’t wearing a prosthetic. “I’m sorry I can’t finish the mission,” he said, his voice laced with quiet defeat.
“Charlotte said your infection would clear up in a few days. We’ll finish this for you, and there’ll be more down the pike,” Tavis said, his voice a reassuring rumble against the surrounding tension.
Tavis and Bastien clasped hands, a firm grip that spoke volumes, before pulling each other into a fierce, back-slapping hug. “Hooah,” Bastien ground out.
“Hooyah!” Tavis shot back.
“Oorah!” Rick added, his voice slicing through the air.
Braham tossed the keys to the vintage Chevrolet to Tavis, the jangle a counterpoint to the quiet intensity. “I packed a half-dozen bottles of The Macallan and a box of cigars. To show yer appreciation, bring back Tony’s vehicle.”
Tavis’s grin turned wicked as he snapped a crisp salute. “Yes, Michael. I’ll do my best.”
Aislinn wrapped her arms around Tavis’s neck, clinging to him as if to anchor him to the spot. “I’ll be waiting right here. Come back in one piece. If you don’t, I’ll go back and undo what happened to you. And to hell with the Mallory effect.”
The kiss Tavis gave her was not just a physical act, but an urgent, desperate release of deeply held emotion. A cold knot tightened his gut. He didn’t have good feelings about this trip. He was reluctant to leave her, but masked his unease, desperate not to let his fear bleed into her resolve.
She held his face between her hands. Her thumbs traced the firm line of his jaw. “I heard what you intend to do. It’s not worth risking your life for.”
“This is for Remy. He’s my brother, the same as Mark, the same as Rick, and the same as Clay.
I’d walk through fire for them, and I promise to be careful.
” He crushed his lips to hers again, pouring every ounce of his soul into the kiss, praying she felt that in this moment, she was the sole, blazing focus of his universe.
He pulled away, the separation a physical wrench. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Tavis climbed behind the heavy wheel, the leather seat groaning in protest. Rick slid into the shotgun seat, while Clay squished into the back with all the bulky gear.
Each wore their talisman, a silent badge of shared history and fate: Rick had the O’Grady amethyst, Clay had Archibald’s moonstone, and Tavis carried the diamond that felt weighty in his hand.
“Everybody ready?” Tavis asked, his voice tight with anticipation.
“Wait. Ye forgot these.” Braham picked up a worn, leather-bound box and stepped over to the idling car. “Ye can’t leave without these. Don’t drink it all at once, mind ye.”
“Thanks, man.” Tavis slid a cool metal flask into the inner pocket of his tweed jacket. “I’m driving. It’ll have to wait until I get there.”
“Not me.” Rick opened his flask, took a generous, throat-burning swig, and then winked at Penny. “Let’s get the hell on the road.”
Clay held up his own flask, the silver gleaming in the barn’s lighting. “To a successful mission.”
Rick turned in his seat and clicked his flask against Clay’s with a soft clink. “To our success.”
“While you two drink, I’m getting this party started.” Tavis opened the diamond brooch and murmured the Gaelic words: “Chan ann le tim no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an’ gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama.”
Within seconds, a thick fog, smelling faintly of ancient earth and sea salt, billowed around them, instantly filling the confined interior of the vintage Chevrolet. Tavis was off on another adventure, vanishing into the roaring twenties—which might be his most dangerous trip of all.