But as I reach for my jacket, my gaze falls on the photo one more time. Kian O'Donnell doesn't know I was watching tonight. Doesn't know I documented his transaction with an unknown individual. Doesn't know the new chief of police is exactly the kind of stubborn, determined officer who won't let corruption slide just because locals think it's tradition.
He disappeared into mist with something large moving within it, which should be impossible. But I have it on camera, which means it happened. And if one impossible thing is real, how many other impossible things am I missing?
The rational part of my brain whispers that I should request a transfer, file a report, get as far from Stormhaven as possible before whatever I witnessed tonight decides I'm a problem worth solving permanently. Before I end up like Murdoch, another "accident" that nobody questions too closely.
But I'm a MacLeod. We don't run from fights just because they're dangerous. We don't abandon justice just because it's inconvenient. And we certainly don't let smugglers operate with impunity because local politics say we should look the other way.
I learned that lesson in Glasgow, watching a human trafficker walk free on a technicality after we'd busted his operation. Evidence suppressed, witnesses recanted under pressure, lawyers who knew every loophole. Six months later I found him setting up a new operation. Girls as young as twelve being prepped for shipment overseas.
I learned that sometimes the law fails, and when it does, you have a choice: let the monsters win, or become something the law can't quite categorize.
That choice haunts me, but it doesn't keep me awake at night. If I have to make it again, I will.
I pull on my jacket and head for the door, but something makes me pause at the threshold. That prickling sensation on the back of my neck. The one that's kept me alive through dangerous investigations in Glasgow's worst neighborhoods. The one screaming at me now that I've been noticed.
Someone knows I was at the docks tonight.
And judging by the way O'Donnell's eyes seemed to find my hiding spot despite the darkness and distance, I have a very good idea who.
CHAPTER 2
KIAN
My tiger prowls beneath my skin, restless and agitated in ways I haven't felt since I left Ireland. Since I crossed a line the clan couldn't forgive.
The warehouse door closes behind me with a hollow thud that echoes through the cavernous space. Dim lighting casts long shadows across crates and salvaged cargo—the legitimate business that keeps authorities from looking too closely at what else moves through this building. My footsteps echo on concrete as I head toward the small office tucked in the back corner, the only truly private space in a structure designed for storage and secrecy.
She's still out there. The cop who watched me take the payment from Dimitri. The woman whose scent cut through salt air and diesel fumes to lodge itself in my brain like a splinter I can't dig out.
My tiger snarls, pushing against my control. Wanting out. Wanting to hunt. Wanting to find her and determine if she's predator or prey, threat or something else entirely. The smart move is eliminating the problem before it grows. I've done it before—made people disappear when they threatened what I was building. Dublin had a detective once, got too close to anoperation I was running through the docks. He left in pieces scattered across three different harbors. No body, no case, no problem. The Russians expect that kind of solution. They respect it. And part of me, the part that crossed lines the clan couldn't forgive, knows it's the cleanest option.
I force the beast down, though it takes more effort than usual. I focus on what matters. Facts, not instinct. Strategy, not reaction.
She was at the harbor entrance. Hidden in shadow, watching with the patient stillness of someone trained in surveillance. Close enough to see the transaction, far enough to maintain operational distance. Professional positioning. Calculated execution. Everything about her screamed law enforcement despite the darkness concealing her features.
Everything except her scent. My tiger caught it again, that trace of heather and determination, of Scottish strength wrapped in mainland sophistication. Female. Human. Authority. But underneath those surface notes, something that makes my tiger recognize her as important in ways I don't have words to explain.
I shake my head, dismissing the distraction. Scent means nothing. Getting out of this alive means everything. And a cop watching my smuggling operations represents a threat I need to neutralize before she becomes a problem I can't solve.
My laptop boots up with a soft hum, screen glowing blue in the dim office. The internet connection is clean, routed through enough proxies to make tracking difficult, monitored by software that will alert me if anyone tries to trace my searches. Paranoia keeps criminals alive. Carelessness gets them caught.
I pull up search engines and access the police databases through backdoor credentials I'd rather not explain, fingers moving across keys with practiced efficiency. New chief of police, Stormhaven. Recent appointment. Mainland transfer.
The results load, and I lean back in my chair, studying the face that fills my screen.
Catriona MacLeod. Young enough to still have fire in her eyes, experienced enough to be dangerous. The official photo shows someone who could pass for younger if she smiled more. She doesn't smile in the picture. Instead, she stares at the camera with the kind of direct challenge that makes suspects confess and criminals reconsider their life choices.
Strong features. Practical beauty she clearly doesn't bother enhancing. Hair pulled back severely, no makeup softening the angles of her face. Eyes that miss nothing, judging everything, offering no mercy for those who cross the line she's sworn to protect.
The predator within rumbles approval, which makes no sense whatsoever. This woman represents everything threatening to my continued freedom. Admiring her is idiotic. Wanting to see those eyes up close, to test whether they hold the same intensity in person as they do in this sterile photograph, is worse than idiotic. It's suicidal.
I scan the text beneath her photo. Decorated officer. Glasgow Police Force. Specialized in organized crime investigation. Successfully dismantled operations across Scotland, leading to convictions of major players in trafficking, smuggling, and racketeering operations.
Absolutely perfect. Stormhaven gets assigned exactly the kind of cop who built her career on taking down people like me.
Further research reveals more unwelcome details. No disciplinary actions on her record. No complaints from suspects about misconduct or aggressive tactics. No whispers of corruption or willingness to accept bribes. Multiple commendations for integrity and dedication to duty.
She's squeaky clean. Incorruptible. The exact opposite of the kind of law enforcement I've learned to navigate throughcareful bribery and manipulation. I've bought cops, blackmailed prosecutors, and when those options failed, I've made problems vanish in ways that keep me awake some nights. Not many nights—I sleep fine with most of what I've done—but some. The ones where I had to choose between my survival and someone else's breathing. I always choose myself. The clan exiled me for it, but at least I'm still alive.
