And then I did the most foolish thing, a rookie’s mistake. I was out of bullets. And I stood up.
“Hey, motherfucker. Ya’lls been a real thorn in my side.”
Lee Ville in all his false Texan finery had a Desert Eagle aimed at my head, the gigantic gun making his hand look like a child’s. A chuckle bubbled up before I could stop it.
“What the fuck are you laughing at?” he shouted angrily. “I’m about to blow a hole in your chest that I could drive an 18-wheeler through!” Still ranting, he stepped over his headless man, getting closer. “This was going to be so easy! You being my entry into UK construction projects! Then you get all pissy? Those guys I sent to the farm didn’t even kill you and you mess with my business? This is what happens when I outsource critical operations. My gun here is going to cut you right in half, you stupid motherf-”
The tip of his big cowboy boot caught in the stubbled roots in the field and he tripped, falling to his knees. I clubbed him over the head with my rifle, grabbed his ridiculous pistol, and I shot him.
No need for a long goodbye. He was an asshole.
Chapter Twenty-Six
In which things turn out in a very MacTavish way.
Fiadh…
The level of noise dropped abruptly, and I knew that meant one side or the other had all but won.
I didn’t move, not yet.
There were conjoined bleats of furious victory from Noreen and her bad-tempered consort Pilib Dubh. Since there was no sound of anyone shooting them I assumed that meant our side was the winner.
“Hey, Da,” I opened the door to the farmhouse basement and leaned in. Down there was a group of well-dressed people who were crowded in but who seemed to be enjoying themselves nonetheless.
I’d been crouched in front of the door, the overturned table both blocking me and giving me a rest for the massive, fuck-off gun I had trained on the door. “Noreen made it alright.”
“That’s good,” his tired voice called up the stairs. “But I am still very mad at you and Alec. Especially Alec. You do crazy things all of the time but I expected better from him.”
“How’s he doing, Sorcha’s sister-in-law?” I called. One of the Mrs. MacTavish’s had some medical knowledge, though I wasn’t sure which one. There were a lot of them.
“Fine enough, Sorcha’s not-quite-sister-in-law. Your papa is a tough man, and the shot was more a graze than anything. He’sgoing to be sore, and I’ve given a few stitches. The Lady Elspeth had a small bar set up down here and he’s pouting into his whisky, now that he knows you and Alec are safe and he can afford to be mad at you both.”
“Thank Christ.”
“The name’s Isla, but I’ll answer to the Lord and Savior if you like.”
I gave a weak laugh. Then asked, “How about Cameron?” When they had hauled the Glaswegian behemoth in I was sure he was dead, there was that much blood on him, but for the way his wife was reading him the riot act for being an idjit first class getting in the way of a bullet like that.
Cameron yelled up the stairs, “Cameron is fine and Cameron is coming back up no matter what anyone related to Cameron by blood or marriage says. Mother. Mala.”
He stumped up, looking pale and in pain and very much the idjit Scotsman, of which I have more than a few on my Ma’s side of the family. His wife was doing her tiny, furious best to keep him upright.
“I think we won.”
He looked at me seriously, those familiar yet not green eyes intent, “That was never a question. Our family hasn’t lost a bride yet and we never will.”
“Right.”
By the time we made it outside the clean-up had started. The Lady Elspeth had thought of everything, bringing an extra crew who had spent the afternoon hiding in the larger barn. They came out with tarps and extra-large garbage bags and got to work.
Most of the damage had been done to the wedding decorations rather than the farm proper. Flower petals soaked in blood and champagne littered the ground, some of those nice willowchairs were burning, and the cleaners had turned them into the start of a bonfire that a few of the guests were using to warm themselves by. It was getting dark and the damp was rising.
The worst destruction, certainly the nastiest, was wrought by Grandad himself. He’d knocked over part of one of the chicken runs while he was turning some of the Bonas to mulch.
Seeing me, Grandad walked over, trying to look casual. “Martin?”
“He’s fine. Mad at me, and even Alec, though.”
