Cameron rises, stretching his back with a groan and lights up the huge monitor on the wall at the foot of the table, beginning totype on his keyboard. “We MacTavish are notorious for disaster and drama,” he says, “but there's been a steady escalation over the last three years. And nearly all of them have come as a surprise to us. Even though we have averyextensive intelligence network specifically designed to combat this kind of menace and yet it keeps happening.” He’s bringing up report after report, analyzing the recent breaches on the monitor.
“We're losing face with our allies,” I say grimly. “This fresh round of shite today in Boston is shaking our alliance with the Morozovs for the second time in less than a month; half the cannabis imports burned were theirs.”
“Aye,” Lachlan says agreeably. “We've never looked weaker."
“Thank ye for that inspiring observation," Dougal says acidly. "The closest we've been hit to home…” He looks over at me reluctantly. “Is the breach with Martha Graves.”
“That is in the past,” I ignore the question in his eyes. “We knowwhyshe did it. It grinds on me still that we had a former mafia wife and heir here in my house, with my bairns…” I take a deep breath. A good Chieftain dinnae throw chairs and smash holes in the wall, no matter how much he might want to.
“We have kept Martha on lockdown and Sophie is under extremely close surveillance as well." I say. The negative reports are still popping up on the monitor and I want to pull my gun and shatter it off the wall with a well-placed bullet.
A good Chieftain also dinnae shoot up his conference room.
“Dinnae ye say that Martha was opening a bake shop?" Lachlan asks. “Meaning she's out and off the estate?”
“Aye. With a construction crew and security team hand selected by myself with listening and video devices in every corner of the cottage and the shop under construction. There's been nothing.”
Dougal and Cameron look at each other, neither one wanting to ask the obvious question.
Cameron throws himself on the sword. “And what about Sophie?”
“Michael's been keeping her on a tight leash, though I'd never put it to him like that unless you want to be the first uncle he's ever punched in the throat," I say. "The lad is uncommonly fond of her.”
“We've all seen this coming,” Dougal says with a grin. “It was no surprise."
“She has a full security contingent as well,” I continue, “and has not been allowed to return to her internship here in the legal department. She's under constant supervision and again, there has been nothing suspicious in any way.”
“Here’s the question I’ve not heard answered,” Cameron says slowly. “Has it ever been established how Robert Taylor found them? I mean, Martha’s tracks were very thoroughly covered; our own security sweep at the time dinnae pick anything up. Neither one of them has any sort of profile on social media. So after ten years, howdidhe find them? According to what Martha said, he had Sophie under surveillance. There were pictures, aye? He knew where she went to school, where she lived. How did he get the information?"
"A good point, that,” I agree. “Finding the answer might lead us closer to who's in the center of this." We go over the reports from past disasters, we question the chain of command, who was responsible for each one. Finding the commonality between them is maddening. Because the only thing they all have in common is family. One of us, or one of our sons or daughters were in charge.
“It’s getting late.” I rub my eyes. “Head home, see your wives. I’m sending a report to Alec and Alastair about today’s meeting. Maybe they can find a loose thread we’re missing.”
They drift out, my brothers, slapping my back or shaking my hand, quiet words of confidence, aside from Lachlan.
Of course.
“Be a man of action, oh mighty Chieftain,” he says, grinning like the wee bastard he is. “Give me the word, and I’ll start obliterating every crime family on our enemy’s list. I’ll keep killing ‘em until it all quiets down again, aye? I’ve got some Stingers missiles I bought off a warlord in-”
“Encouraging, brother,” I say sourly. “Now get the feck out before I throw a bottle at your head. And I dinnae want to do it because it’s my last bottle of Redbreast. Ye selfish bastards drank the rest of it.”
He waits until the lift doors are about to close before he shouts, “Just trying to be helpful, mighty Chieftain!”
Pouring myself a drink, I force my attention back on the monitor. The reports and analytics of our failures scroll on the screen, telling me nothing.
“Sweetheart, thank god you’re here.” Mala is standing in the conference room, panting, fingers gripping the doorway.
“Love, why are ye here, then?”
“You know how your mother - the Lady Elspeth - has always said, ‘It’s better to be lucky than good?’”
“Aye, it’s a wise viewpoint when you’re the matriarch of a crime family,” I say, walking over and cupping Mala’s cheek. Her eyes are glittering, feverishly bright.
“Well tonight, my darling, I’m changing the motto,” she says. “It’s good to be lucky. Come on, you’ve got a prisoner to interrogate.”
Only a fool would take his dirty work to his legitimate place of business, but it happens every now and then, when expedience is more important than caution.
The sub,subbasement of MacTavish International isn’t on any of the building plans, it doesn’t exist in any city records. The lift doors open to a long, narrow concrete hallway, and it’s so well sound-proofed that our steps dinnae echo, theythud,a dull sound absorbed into the flooring.
