“Jesus.” Kieran runs his hand over his hair. “Uncle, wit the feck?”
Seconds pass until Ewan shows himself, still in the threshold of his plane. He plays with the cuff links of his suit.
I’m staring at a dead man as he prattles. “Ye murdered one of me guards, Little Brody. Ye aren’t a respectable lad, nae. Not to my daughter. Not to me.” As the fourth Russian moves around the side of the plane, Ewan gestures toward his second guard.
“Uncle . . . Wit the . . .” Kieran moves before me as the second minion lifts his gun.
In one deft, fluid movement, Kieran disables the blockhead. He shoves the AK 47 down and places a .9 mm that I hadn’t seen between the Russian’s eyes.
Kieran shouts, “I’m trying to fecking grieve here! Nobody’s following clan laws today.”
For a split second, I’m jarred by Kieran’s loyalty. The machine gun of the nearest guard sails toward me. Kieran double taps the Russian he stopped. I grip the center of the barrel of the arsehole next to me. Holding tight, I press downward just as the lad shoots. The recoil burns the palm of my hand as my shoulder slams into him. A kill shot penetrates the cement. I’d not brought a gun. However, I fist a tartan clan crest knife and anchor it upward into the vulnerable meat beneath his chin. Kieran twists the neck of the third Russian.
The fourth Russian, who was doing the sweep, has yet to turn around. Blythe sneaks up on him. A bullet splatters through the front of his forehead.
At the sight of my cousin, cold fury descends on Kieran’s face. He mutters, “Well, I didn’t expect this, ‘ello, Blythe. How are ye?”
“Very well,” my cousin snarls, pointing an M16 at Kieran’s flexing jaw. Ten more clan members, including Camdyn, sweep in through both doors holding AR rifles and handguns with extended mags. Kieran’s eyes flicker pure malice between the lot of us. He growls at me. “I helped ye, Brody. Ye fecking set me up!”