When Cormac calls an end to the meeting, Cameron and Dougal disconnect before the second syllable of “Goodbye” is heard.
“Lachlan, hang on,” he says.
Groaning silently, I growl, “Aye.”
He’s staring at me through the monitor, trying to use the Invincible Cormac Stare, as Cameron calls it. Cormac uses this stare to terrorize our enemies, drive them before us like sheep, hearing the lamentations of their women…
I’m immune.
“What’s going on?” he says, all stern and Chieftain-like.
“It’s a side project. Information is the most valuable asset in our business, aye? I have a promising lead. It’s just that for now, promising. Give me a week or two.”
He’s running his finger along his lower lip, refusing to break our staring contest. “That’s fair,” he sighs, “I’d give the same to Dougal or Cameron. Come back with something brilliant.”
“It’s bloody good,” I boast a bit, just because I enjoy his irritated expression when there’s something I know that he doesn’t.
“We’ll speak next week,” he warns before ending the call.
Sorting through the little pile of photos I’ve collected, I study the one of the King family again, all together and happy. They’d had no idea what was coming for them.
My pretty little Aria was very thorough when it came to Uncle Bastard’s whereabouts. He’s lazy, he’s always at the same places on the same day, lunch with his scotch-swilling buddies on Wednesday and Friday, and meetings with his mistress on Tuesday and Saturday.
Jesus Christ, what a boring gobshite.
***
Cameron may have been the clan’s executioner, but when he married Morana and got all soft, I’d taken over most of the dirty work. This isn’t the first arsehole I’ve killed, but it’s the first hit that Cormac didn’t order.
“Give me a hint, boss.” Steve, my pilot, looks at me warily. “I have to file a flight plan. Give me a direction. Any direction.”
Shrugging, I scratch the stubble on my cheek. “Something along the Eastern seaboard.” Lounging in the co-pilot’s chair of my Bombardier corporate jet, I watch him punch in the coordinates.
“And wherearewe going?” His expression is bleak resignation. I’ve done this to him before. Multiple times.
“Halifax Harbor, Nova Scotia.”
“As you wish,” he says. “Flight time is 5 hours and fifty-six minutes, thank you for flying MacTavish Air, the deadliest airline in the industry.”
“Captain Steve?”
“Aye?”
“Stop taking the piss out of me,” I say, clapping him a bit too hard on the shoulder.
Wincing, he rolls his shoulder. “I’m sure Camille, who comprises our lovely flight crew today would be happy to serve you dinner. Or a foot rub. Or anything that gets you out of my cockpit.”
Heaving myself out of the co-pilot’s seat, I shake my head with deep disappointment. “No one likes a bitter, sarcastic pilot, Captain Steve.”
“No one aside from your family,” he mumbles. I graciously choose to ignore him. He’s a former RAF pilot who saw his fair share of combat. He’s got nerves of steel, though apparently not a sense of humor.
***
A successful assassination is about two things; timing, and luck.
It doesn’t matter how much I plan ahead, or how thorough the intel is, anything can go wrong at the last minute. The target is tipped off, or they decide this is the day they’re switching everything up, or they stop walking to sneeze just as I pull the trigger. Sometimes, I have to take the shot when I can get it.
So far, Uncle Bastard is following his boring-arse routine. A very short stop at his mistress’s place. Her apartment is in a modern high-rise close to the harbor, so at least he’s putting her up in style.
