Chapter 32
Brody
Kieran, a lad I once went to school with, meanders over slowly and grips the bars of the fence. He’s a fecking tattoo fetish, just like my wee bràthair Camdyn. Except this nugget’s obsessed with Gaelic symbols, which are confined to one sleeve and a silly paddy tatt on his neck. I’ll not snub him for being half a fecking Irish Paddy. His piercing eyes narrow in a scrutinizing once-over, regarding the two of us.
“Kieran, help me!” The guard begs, turning his head.
“Nae.” Kieran rakes his fingers through his long hair. “I don’t see this. It’ll be yer word against the Surgeon’s word. Unless our mate here does a sloppy job of cutting ye.”
“I only offered him one side. A smirk of sorts.” I shoot up a brow. A wee bit of blood warms my knuckles. “But if I botch up the job, then it’ll look like someone else did it. And this idiot, who’s ‘bout to vomit on himself, ain’t gonna be taken seriously.”
“Aye, Brody, our mate here said ye weren’t thinking logical.” Kieran tips his square jaw. “That settles it. Mutilate one side of his cheek or do the entire thing, just lacking yer usual skills—brilliant. Nobody will believe Brody MacKenzie did this.”
“Na-na-nae!” The guard caves in on himself. With his hands still wrenched around the bars, he slowly slides to the ground.
I gesture toward the gate. Kieran calls me cousin in Gaelic, opening the gate. When the wheels give no slack, he wrestles with it.
“Och, this needs a bit of elbow grease, aye?” Kieran clicks his tongue.
“Nae. It’s him.” The second I touch the guard, who’s screamed himself unconscious, he unwraps his arms from around the gate. Staying low, he rolls a few paces away from me.
Kieran shakes my hand. Och, thank God, he’ll try to talk some sense into his uncle. Ewan had nae sons. I’m standing beside the only henchman on Ewan’s payroll who would die for him as the MacKenzies have vowed. His only male blood relative under a certain age.
“Brody, yer gonna hate me, mate.” We stroll past super cars that clash against the rustic home. “I was gonna offer ye food, drink, and stall ya, then maybe remind ye I’m a man of my word.”
“Where’s Ewan.” I stop walking. “Ye promised yesterday.”
“I did. But he ain’t here.”
My eyes trail over the home that’s ten times the size of my own and just as empty. Ewan’s the most hated man in Scotland.
Kieran’s chest falls in defeat. “I arrived minutes ago. Traffic. Anyway, Ewan fecking left.”
“Glasgow?” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Nae. Gone, gone.” He gestures with his hands. “Like another continent.”
“Boston?”
“Nae. Mate, this is bad. I had Ewan promise to be here last night. Gave his bloody word!” He runs a hand along the stubble at his chin, dark eyes narrowing as if in thought.
While we’re standing in the lengthy lot, the sun, which had shown its presence this morning, disappears behind clouds.
“Ye need a bevvy?” Kieran forms his hand into the image of a beer and clicks his tongue. “C’mon, we could use a couple of bevvies.”
I fold my arms. This ain’t the same lad I once snuck drafts with back in the day, not anymore. “Ring him for me. The idiot will not answer me.”
“I’m fecking trying here, Brody.” Kieran stuffs his hand in the pocket of his jeans to retrieve his cellphone. “I almost slipped about Erika having nae interest in any person who could give him heirs.”
“Kieran, he’s nae sons! Shite, ye are his heir!” I snap. “Ye do everything for the lad.”
“I’m not a McFarland, Brody.” His boot kicks the ground. “My mam—”
“Feck the patriarchy lesson!” I shout, feeling bad for his deceased mam, who was Ewan’s sibling. “Listen, if I gave Erika a bairn, he or she would be MacKenzie.”
“Listen to wit ye said.” His eyes light up.
“Uhhh . . . Erika.” I rewind my words in my brain. This negotiating thing isn’t for me. Why didn’t the lad have someone for us to murder, maim, or torture? We’re henchmen! Ewan’s forgotten that all-important fact.