“Not a thing.”
She nods, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed, she’s that intent on unravelling the mystery. “Can you call your connections in Boston, see if anyone in a homeless shelter went missing that night?” she asks Tiernan. “You never saw the bodies of my guards, Tiernan. You saw the mutilated bodies of men who wore the uniform, didn’t you?”
“Aye,” he says with a groan. “You’re right.”
“And who arranged for my guard to meet me in Boston?”
“Calum, but you can trust him.”
Fiona’s eyes come to mine.
“That will be my next call,” I tell Tiernan. “You look into what your sister said, and I’ll call Calum.”
I call Calum, but dread already suffuses my limbs. I know what he’s going to find when he investigates.
There was no guard watching Fiona in Boston. It was a set up from the beginning.
Our enemy’s in Ballyhock.Chapter 21FionaIt all makes sense now. It’s like I can see every part of the puzzle with the vivid recollection of someone who’s studied this for ages.
Lachlan hangs up the phone with Calum, and shakes his head. “Bloody hell, lass. You were right. Calum did some investigating, seems the guard he assigned that night were told to take the night off in a message they thought was from him. Wasn’t him, though, he apologized his bloody arse off. Every one of his guard’s fine.”
The phone rings. Tiernan. “You were right,” he said. “Same bloody night your supposed guard got attacked, two men went missing from a shelter. Haven’t found their bodies yet.”
“It’s just a hunch,” I say. “But we need to investigate the guard here at Ballyhock. I think you’ve been infiltrated. I don’t think the threat’s in America. Think about it. Those blokes I met with Aisling, they were likely just the lackeys of whoever’s here, aren’t they?”
Lachlan’s pacing. “Of course. And when were we actually attacked? When we set foot back on Ballyhock.”
“They were the crest,” I tell him. “I know it. They made a mistake leaving it that first day I saw it, though I’ve been a fool not to see it before now. Who do they have in the interrogation room right now?”
“Don’t know.” He gives me a stern look. “How did you know we’ve anyone in the interrogation room at all?”
I roll my eyes at him, only making his stern look darken. “Lachlan, stop pretending I don’t know who you are,” I tell him, and for some reason, I feel lighter than I have in days. Weeks. Months. Ever?
“Lachlan,” I say, reaching for his hands and giving them a squeeze. “I know who you are. I know who all of you are. And I love you. I wrestled with this, of course I did. And I know I’ll wrestle with it still. But you need to know that I understand, I accept, and I love you as you are.”
He reaches for me and holds me to him in an embrace. I pull away after a few seconds.
“Lachlan,” I say earnestly. “We need to go down to the interrogation room. And you need to tell Keenan. His guard’s been compromised.”
“Bloody hell.” He calls Keenan, but the line rings and rings with no answer. He looks out the window but of course there’s nothing to see, not yet. “You fucking stay right by my side,” he says. “Don’t push me, Fiona.”
“I won’t,” I tell him, “I promise. Now go, Lachlan.”
He draws his gun when we open the door to our apartment.
No guard.
Bloody hell, who’s here? Who’s compromised us?
We walk down the stairs to the main lobby area of the house, and it feels eerily quiet here. Lachlan looks to me and I to him. “We don’t usually take women below to the interrogation room,” he says, holding my gaze. “When we get down there, I swear to God, Fiona—”
I roll my eyes. “I know,” I tell him. “I get it, okay? I promise, I won’t fuck up.”
He walks with his gun drawn, toward the stairway that leads to the basement. He loops an arm around me, and we open the door. Voices come up the stairs, and he moves with purpose now. At the bottom of the stairs stand two guards. They nod to him respectfully. Normally, he wouldn’t even think twice, but this time he’s been warned.
“Gentleman,” Lachlan says sternly. They nod back.
“You,” he says, jerking his chin at the man to the left. “Show me your ink.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
Lachlan goes sterner than I’ve ever seen him, his eyes narrowed with fury, his temper barely in check. “Take off the jacket,” he orders. “And show me your motherfucking McCarthy ink.”
“Lachlan!” I shout, as the guard to the right pulls a gun. “No!” But Lachlan’s quicker than either of them and was prepared. He loops an arm around me, drags me to the ground, sweeps the legs of one guard who crashes to the floor while he pulls the trigger on the second. In seconds, he’s got one disarmed and the other holding his arm, howling in agony.