We arrive in Inverness Centre and park. I frown at the weapons I have in the boot and decide on a discreet Glock and a knife. As much as turning her on at the sight of violence appeals to me, might be a bit easier if it doesn’t come to that.
I call William, our Clan brother who will lead me through the logistics of everything. “He’s here?”
“Aye, brother. At the bar. Bartender’s been paid well, show him your ink but be quick about it. You don’t want to linger.”
We don’t. In, out, on the plane.
I hang up the phone and take Fran’s hand. “We’ll not cause a scene. We’ll ask our questions and take it from there. Follow my lead.”
She nods without a smart mouth for once. Good. Maybe she’s learning.
Probably not.
“So I can’t slap his face for you? Pity,” she says with a frown, her eyes alight.
“Maybe if you’re a good girl.”
She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “I do believe I love you, Tate Cowen.”
My chest warms and I give her a teasing wink as I open the door.
There’s no doubt in my mind I love her, but I won’t declare it for the first time at the threshold of a damn pub. She deserves more than that.
It’s dark and dank in here when we enter, dim light from yellowed bulbs at the bar and by the pool tables, but not much else. I quickly survey the premises. Exit to the right, under a gleaming fluorescent sign, likely takes us to an alley or dumpster. Handful of blokes playing pool, one lassie on a lad’s lap to the far left, too preoccupied with what they’re doing to worry about me. Bartender a sturdy but older chap.
And fucking Fergus, sitting to the right, a pint nestled in his hands. Hands that touched my woman. I want to break Every. Damn. Finger.
He doesn’t look up as we approach him. Discreetly, I roll up my tee, and the bartender’s brows shoot up a fraction of a centimeter. He eyes me, gives a wee nod, then jerks his head to the exit. He wants us to take this outside if we need to. I nod back.
I take the seat beside Fergus and tug Fran onto my lap.
I’m not here to play games.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” the arsehole mutters. “Knew she’d end up spreading her legs for you.”
“Nice to see you too, Fergus,” I say, as Fran seethes beside me.
“Least he has something to bloody spread for,” she mutters. I give her a quick pinch to the thigh to warn her to be quiet.
He reaches his hand to her, but I stop him mid-stretch, my fingers on his wrist. Is he serious? “Touch her and I fuckin’ slit your throat. Right here. Right now.”
I mentally reach for the blade and imagine exactly how I’d do it.
We’d lose an informant, and it’d be bloody messy to clean up before our flight, but it’d be worth it.
A beat of silence.
“What do you want, Cowen?”
“What did you take from her?”
“Didn’t take bloody anything.”
“Who did you contact?”
“No one.”
“So we’re gonna do this the hard way.”
