Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
I jerk my chin at Tate. “Bind them.” Clyde and Tate tie rope around the wrists of the two Aitkens lackeys. Alastair swears and curses in my grip, but I’m bigger than he is, and Mac’s standing right beside me, his arms across his chest, glaring at Aitkens. Aitkens turns his neck to try to look at me and tries to tear off my mask, but Mac gives him a solid punch to the gut. He doubles over in my grip.
Mac knees him, but before he can fall to the ground I haul him to his feet.
“Think you’re a fucking genius, coming here to fuck up the goddamn priest, hmm? Unarmed? Attacking a man of God? You ought to burn in hell for what you’ve done.” We all fucking will, but that’s beside the point.
I yank him to his feet, as Tate beats one of the men he’s bound. A swift kick and backhand and he falls to the ground. Aitkens and his men put up a fight, cursing and brawling, but they’re outnumbered. He whips his head back and nearly catches me on the shoulder, and when I duck, I see something behind a tombstone. Jesus. Is that a spy?
I’m distracted so badly, I lose my focus, and Aitkens kicks me in the gut.
I fall to the ground, blocking myself, and Mac lets loose a hard roundhouse kick, incapacitating Aitken.
Is that a girl? Crouched in the shadows? Bloody hell, she’s fucking taking pictures?
“Take him,” I mutter to Mac, shoving the arsehole at him, but just as I step toward her, another one of Aitkens’ men emerges from the shadows. Bloody hell, he must’ve been their back-up.
“Let them go,” he shouts, reaching for his gun. The girl in the shadows kneels between the two of us. He sees her when I do, shakes his head, and growls. He cocks his pistol, points it at her, and everything happens in a split second.
She covers her face with her hands in an effort of futile self-defense. I throw myself at him, tackle him to the ground, and before I even realize what I’m doing, draw my blade.
“She’s fucking got us on camera,” he says, lunging for her, but he can’t get past me.
“You touch her, you’re a fucking dead man.” Like I’d let anyone hurt a child on my fucking watch.
But he doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care, for he rolls beneath me, grabs his gun, and points it back at her. I drop my knife, grab him around the throat, and without thinking, twist his neck. There’s a sickening snap, and he slumps to the ground.
I don’t fucking care. It’s exactly what I intended to do.
I shove his body to the side, and someone shouts, but I don’t care. I turn to Aitkens’ men, holding their own man’s weapon.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I say, getting to my feet and pointing the gun at them. “You fucking go before you join him.”
I jerk my chin to the others to release them, and my men instantly obey. Aitkens’ men run and don’t look back, the fucking bastards. My men would never leave one of our own behind. Ever.
“Fucking hell, you weren’t supposed to kill any of them,” Mac says, shaking his head. He scrubs a hand across his jaw, and looks from the cemetery to the church. “But I suppose you picked a damn good place to do it, eh?”
“Aye,” Clyde says. “I know exactly where to keep the body. We’ll send our men down tomorrow to dig a grave. Help me take the body, Tate.” Tate and Clyde drag the body past a large, gnarly oak tree to a small hut, then disappear.
“Why’d you fucking kill him?” Mac says.
“He was going to kill the girl.”
Mac frowns and his brow furrows as he looks past me, then all around me. “What girl?”
Bloody hell. I look to where she was just a minute ago, and realize she’s gone. She’s a silent, wily one.
“She saw me kill him.”
“Aye, but yer masked.”
“Doesn’t matter, does it? She’s a fucking witness, and she took pictures.” I shake my head. “Find her.”
It’s only the two of us, so we comb the dark graveyard lit only by moonlight.
“Likely to find a fucking werewolf on a night like tonight,” Mac mutters. He’s maybe half joking, but superstitions run strong in Inverness, and werewolves are right up there with the Loch Ness.
“Oooh, shaking in my fuckin’ boots,” I mutter. I swing my light and see something that catches my eye. The door to the church is askew. I nod to Mac and slowly walk toward the open door, confident we’ve found our wee spy. MacGowen did what we told him and headed to the parsonage, not the church. I hold up a finger to Mac, and slowly creep up to the entrance.