Kane
Scotland is cold, wet, and miserable, but I’m willing to endure anything if it means we find Chiara safe and sound. Milo sent a message to say Barrington landed at a small private airfield near Glasgow and was then ferried away in a convoy of vehicles. He arrived at his country estate in the Trossachs an hour later.
The security footage from the airport confirms Barrington had Chiara with him. From what Milo says, she was barely conscious. Drugged, I assume.
At least she’s not been hurt. From the grainy screen grabs Milo sent us, she appears uninjured, which is a relief.
Angelo’s not said a word to me since we took off. He spent the flight dealing with phone calls from the lawyers, his sister, and Lorenzo. Fina’s staying at the mansion to care for Chiara’s dog and the cat. Angelo seemed to think Horatio could handle them, but I pointed out Horatio was allergic.
Luckily, Fina adores animals. It’s also an opportunity for her to spend quality time with Matteo without worrying about being caught by Lorenzo.
Two men wait for us in the hangar, both dressed in black tactical gear. The taller of the two has closely cropped dark hair and a beard, while the other has longer hair and tats peeking out of his shirt.
The bigger guy offers Angelo his hand. “Declan Kelly, and this is my little brother, Ronan.”Irish mafia.
I vaguely remember seeing the younger guy at the Serpent. From memory, he likes a good fight.
Ronan grins. He hums to himself while twirling a knife around. Milo assured Angelo they could provide solid backup. I have no idea what favors Angelo has promised in return, but that’s his problem. All I care about is finding Chiara.
“Milo’s done some digging, and it seems Barrington has a special event planned for tomorrow.”
We reach a large 4WD vehicle plastered in mud. Declan tosses our bags in the trunk and motions for us to climb in.
“What kind of event?”
“An event where the buy-in is a cool million.”
Angelo grunts, not impressed by the figure. It’s pocket change to him. The casino hotels make that kind of money in an hour.
The vehicle follows a winding road into the mountains. Thick clouds descend until I can barely see the tall pines that line the sides of the increasingly rough road.
Ronan turns to grin at us.
“Barrington fancies himself as a hunter, the kind of big-game hunter who posts photos of himself standing over a rhino or elephant.”
“So he’s hunting big game up here?” It makes no sense. There are no big predators in Scotland. Stags maybe. But I can’t see anyone paying a million bucks to hunt a fucking stag.
“Not that kind of game, no,” Declan clarifies before taking a left-hand turn down a narrow rutted track. “Barrington’s in the people-trafficking business. He makes his money from shippingwomen over from Eastern Europe and Africa and selling them to rich men who want pliable playthings.”
Angelo grimaces. He won’t touch that trade, even though his father has no qualms about it. We don’t deal in prostitution either.
“What does all this have to do with my wife?”
Ronan’s grin fades fast. “For reasons we can’t fathom, Barrington has brought your wife to his estate in time for his hunting event. The last event involved rich fuckers hunting captives. Mostly women, although Barrington sometimes throws in a few guys to make it more inclusive.”
“Hunting women?” Angelo’s growl is enough to chill the atmosphere in the vehicle by at least ten degrees, despite the hot air blasting out from the vents.
“Yeah. Disgusting, I know,” Declan agrees, and from the way his fists clench the steering wheel, I believe the guy.
“And my wife is now a part of this event?”
“It would seem so.”
I grip the edge of my seat at Declan’s words and focus on breathing. I can normally control my emotions when placed in stressful situations. It’s something I learned to do from a young age. If I reacted to my deadbeat father’s punishments, he hit me harder.
I soon figured out that the best way to shorten the beating was to pretend it didn’t bother me because it took away some of his enjoyment.
Beside me, Angelo is on the verge of losing it. I hope these Irish fuckers have brought enough firepower to keep us entertained. The thought of shooting some sadistic Brits makes my heart sing. Nothing like a bit of retribution to get the blood pumping. And in this climate, I need something to keep me warm.
