There’s a scatter of chairs and a couple of couches in one of the rooms, the kind that can be wiped (and sometimes hosed) down. Sitting on one of them is Martha Graves. She’s holding her purse on her lap, staring blankly at the wall. Gary, one of our guards at the estate, is holding a bottle, trying to get her to take it.
“Miss Martha, can ye drink some water? It’ll help, I promise ye.”
Pulling a chair over, I sit in front of her. “How are ye doing, then?”
She blinks slowly before looking at me and then a worried Mala, who sits next to her.
“I’m fine, thank you, Chieftain. I didn’t get any blood on me, so…”
Mala squeezes her hand. “Tell Cormac what happened.”
Chuckling humorlessly, Martha says, “Robert Taylor happened. I don’t know how he got past your guards. Even the construction workers have been keeping an eye on me. It’s pretty obvious. But Robert, he…” She takes the bottle of water from Gary and gulps half of it. “He cornered me in the new walk-in freezer, hewas dressed as a delivery guy. He told me that I was taking him to Sophie, so he could get us out of Edinburgh. That you were planning to kill us both.” She gives an incredulous little huff. “That rat fuck really thought I would believe him?”
Mala looks startled. I dinnae think we’d ever heard Martha utter a single curse word. And this in a household of profanity-spewing MacTavishes.
“So, I shot him,” Martha says, opening her bag and handing me a Magnum .357. “My aim was a bit off, I haven’t practiced for years, I got him in the shoulder. But as my dear, departed husband would say, it’s likely softened him up for you.”
If I dinnae think it would terrify her, I’d lift Martha off her feet in a rib-creaking hug right now.
“He’s in Room Three,” Gary offers. “I was on her guard duty today at the shop. Taylor sent in three men to distract us while he went after Miss Martha. We took them down and got the steel door opened.” His head drops. “I thought you’d been shot, ma’am. Here I’ve been so shitty to ye and ye were innocent after all.”
She pats his arm. “You did just fine. Thank you.”
The third door on the right opens to a scene straight from a horror film, which is intentional. Setting the tone is important when it comes to breaking bodies and vows of loyalty as quickly as possible. There’s the metal chair in the center of the room, over a drain, of course, bolted into the floor. There ars meat hooks and two mechanic’s rolling cases repurposed to hold tools used for unimaginable purposes.
Strapped tight to the chair is Robert Fecking Taylor, the murderous head of the Graves Syndicate.
His face is bloody, one eye swollen shut and a rough bandage over his right shoulder. Surging forward, he’s snapped back by his bonds, cursing, no doubt, under the duct tape over his mouth.
Taking out my phone, I canna help my grin. It lacks the gravitas I try to maintain, but it’s the wee moments of satisfaction that make life grand.
“Lachlan, are ye still here?”
“Aye, just getting into my car.”
“Can ye join us in the sub-basement?” I grin, watching Taylor rock back and forth. “I’ve got a wee bit of a gift for ye.”
When Lachlan comes through the door, his face lights up like he’s a bairn on Christmas morn. Pulling off his suit jacket, he strolls over to the racks of tools, selecting a power drill. I pull out a fifty-pound note, slapping on the table. “Fifty pounds ye get it out of him within four hours.”
Mala snorts, “One hundred pounds Lachlan gets it out of him in two.”
My brother chuckles, squeezing the trigger on the drill, enjoying the high whine. “If you’ve got a spade bit here, I’ll have it for ye in one. Oh, and a couple of shots of adrenaline because he’s gonna scream, wet himself and then pass out. It's a pattern.”
Taylor has had twelve years to rule over the mafia he murdered Jonathan Graves for. He should be difficult to break. Watching his expression as Lachlan fits the long bit with a viciously sharp end on his drill, though, I’m thinking he’s gotten soft.
“Technically, I think I’m winning,” Mala says, seated on the clean chair. We’re at an hour and twenty minutes. Taylor’s missing several fingers and an eye, Lachlan just forced him backinto consciousness with another shot. He’s always honing his craft, my brother. His latest trick is removing a few ribs and leaving a soft, wet spot to punch as his victim screams.
“If it’s under two hours, I win on a technicality,” Lachlan argues.
There’s always a moment when a man breaks. When he knows he’s going to beg for a quick end, that he’ll say anything to get it. Taylor is chuckling, a weak, rusty sliver of a sound through the missing teeth in his mouth.
“You fucking idiots. You trusted her. She’s been playing you for years.” His head lolls bonelessly until I grab his hair, forcing him to look at me.
“Give me the name and I’ll make it quick.”
He does, a death rattle from swollen lips.
“Feck. Me.” Lachlan runs his bloody hands through his hair.
