The shipping container shook one last time. The low rumble of the truck’s engine cut out, the sudden silence the only reminder that I’d been hearing it for over an hour. A muffled car door slammed.
“Sounds like we’ve arrived,” Ian said before standing.
He motioned towards the double doors. I stood from the couch but didn’t move to the exit. Having opened it once while in the clutches of a crane a few stories up, I’d let Ian open it now. He chuckled as he passed.
“I told you it wasn’t a good time to open the door then,” he said, standing in front of said door.
“Then I’ll let you open doors from now on,” I replied as he spun the crank and pushed the double doors open. “You could use some practice pretending to be a gentleman. If there’s a puddle on the other side, you can carry me across.”
“I’m always a—” he began before freezing, mouth wide. “I’m almost always a gentleman. Except that one time I drugged and kidnapped you.”
The doors swung open and let the early evening sun inside, much brighter than the light inside. Once I blinked it away, a gravel driveway, overgrown with weeds weaved its way through thick forest, disappearing around a bend. Footsteps crunched on the gravel and I inched back.
“Let me get the stairs for you,” said a voice from outside, male, Scottish accent like Ian’s with a hint of something else, something on the tip of my tongue. “Hope the ride was smooth. I think that was the first time I ever drove a truck during the day, or with anyone in the back.”
A brown-skinned man rounded the doors. He nodded to Ian, teeth flashing white through his beard. Seeing it made me so glad Ian had shaved his. He fiddled under the shipping container. Metal clanked and squeaked as a set of stairs unfolded.
“You know I don’t trust anyone else knowing this location,” Ian replied and walked down the stairs.
At the bottom, he stepped to the side and held up a hand. Seemed he was really intent on playing the gentleman. I ignored it. Still in my too-tall heels, that decision almost cost me an ankle. The moment my foot wobbled, Ian’s hand inched closer, but he held back.
“Emma, Bashir. Bashir, Emma,” Ian said once I’d stepped to the ground.
“Nice to meet you, I mean officially.” Bashir nodded and collapsed the stairs.
“Officially?” I asked.
His voicehadsounded familiar-ish. Ian sighed as Bashir closed the door. The darker-skinned man smiled at Ian.
“Bashir helped me out the night we met,” Ian said before his friend could speak.
“Yeah and that black eye you gave me almost got me in trouble with my probation officer,” he replied and threw a mock punch at Ian. “I still owe you one for that.”
Ian watched as the realization hit me. He’d had his buddy menace us that night. It wasn’t a random attack. I laughed and Ian bit his lip.
“You really didn’t do your homework on me, did you,” I said, chuckling the whole time. “Right after I chewed you out for trying to white knight me, your sidekick attacks so you could white knight me?”
“Hey, I’m not a sidekick. I’m an ally, like an enemy of my enemy sort of thing,” Bashir insisted then smirked at Ian. “And he was pretty confident when we were watching you on the roof.”
I glared at Ian. Bashir cackled and walked around to the side of the truck. Ian held up a hand.
“You already know I was targeting you,” he said with a shrug. “I was watching the reception hall to make sure you showed up. Nothing nefarious, or more nefarious than anything else I’ve done.”
“Not much of a defense given you drugged, kidnapped and transported a defenseless girl across international borders,” I replied.
“Defenseless? You?” Ian chuckled and motioned around the back of the trailer. “I never expected modesty from you?”
I followed him and got the first view of the manor he’d been downplaying. The overgrown driveway opened into a small blocky parking lot, just as overgrown. A scooter sat next to a Ford hatchback, economy and at least a decade old by the looks of it, a far cry from the hotel’s luxury town car, my last ride. Still, it proved the best looking thing I could see.
The manor looked more a castle than a house. A wall of dull stone rose three stories behind the little Ford. A tower jutted higher at the left edge, but its top had crumbled away some time ago. Rain and wind had weathered the jagged remains to nubs over years, decades, maybe even centuries.
“Speaking of modest,” I said, still examining the manor.
Nature had reclaimed any lawn or gardens that might have been kept. Shrubs and small trees grew close to its walls, larger trees almost reaching the height of the surrounding forest.
No lights shone through any of the tall ornate windows. A few had no glass, some panes had been shattered but plywood appeared behind every one. More plywood covered the wide entranceway.
“The main house is not ready, we’ll be bunkering down in the servants’ quarters for the time being,” Ian said and pointed to a smaller, single-story stone building to the side.
