“Nice leather work. Did ya make it?”
“Nae. My husband bought it for me from one o’ the clan members who does leather work.”
“Imma need an introduction. This is damn fine work.”
“I thought my axes were ridiculous and outdated.”
“They are. The leather’s not.”
I chuckle at him, and he helps me into the harness, fitting it over the vest. Once he’s satisfied, he picks up several weapons. “Do ya know how to shoot?”
I nod. “Och, aye. It’s just nae my first choice. I’d rather use a blade.”
“Yeah, ya look like one of those crazy fuckers that can take out a roomful with a steak knife.”
He hands me the rifle, and I sling it over my head and arm like he does. Sliding several cartridges toward me, he shows me where to stow them.
“Ya ready?”
“More than. I need to get to my boy.”
“If I were lucky enough to have one, and someone took him, I would be too.”
“Ghost?”
I turn. Cato is there next to Mack, and the cocky little fucker seems nervous, almost submissive. I would have sworn Cato was a Dom, but the way he stands now, glancing between Ghost and Mack, I’m realizing he’s a switch. Looking between the three o’ them, I curse. We dinnae have time for a love triangle.
Ghost turns and looks at him, a soft breath snorting out o’ his nose. He stalks out o’ the room, past the boy, shooting Mack a look. I follow the guy out, stopping briefly in front o’ Mack.
“Is this landing on my doorstep?”
“I dinnae ken what yer talking about, Laird.”
“Hmmm. We’ll see. Tell Jane and the others to get the house ready for Tavish. All the candy and chips he can eat.”
“Ye’ll spoil him.”
“He will need it and deserve it after surviving what he’s going through. So, let me be clear, the name o’ the assignment is Spoil Tavish.”
“Aye, Laird.”
I leave him standing with Cato and follow Ghost. It’s fucking ironic that the guy helping me shares the same name as the members o’ the Society.
When I catch up to Ghost, he’s grumbling, but he turns it off when he realizes I’m next to him.
“Ye good?”
“Fine,” he says and jogs off toward the boats.
Looking at them, I remember how loud the boat was that took Tavish away, so I ask, “How’re we getting close to the yacht with these things?”
“Cato’s going to create a distraction.”
“What kind o’ distraction?”
“A drone strike.”
Getting information out o’ any o’ them is damn near impossible, and I cannae take much more o’ it. I need plans. The plans need plans, and those plans need plans. This has to fucking work, because the alternative is Tavish being repeatedly raped and beaten, and I dinnae want that for anyone, and definitely not my boy.
