“Let him go.” The voice is deep and commanding, like I’d imagine the commander of an army to sound. In my mind’s eye, I picture the newcomer with a sword and shield, like the men of old. Has someone come to intervene? One of the townspeople, perhaps, who heard the commotion?
“Who the ever-loving fuck areyou?”
“Doesn’t matter who we are.” There’s more than one, then. “I said, let him go. If you want a fight you’ll have one, out in the graveyard. Withme.”
The noises I hear next are confused and muddled. Curses and grunts, and to my shock, I see four huge, masked men dragging the others past me and straight out the door to the graveyard. No one sees me. No one even looks my way. One grabs Father MacGowen, and the door clangs shut behind them.
I should run. I should hide. But I’m far too invested in this now to leave, and there’s no way I’d ever leave my one and only friend bereft. I look around me for a weapon of some kind, but only see my mobile that’s fallen to the carpet in my haste. I can’t use my fists. I can’t even use my voice. But I can use what little I have. I pocket my mobile and run outdoors after them.
CHAPTER THREE
Leith
If not forthe promise of the sacredness of the church, I’d have broken Alastair Aitkens’ hand the moment I saw him touch Father MacGowen. It takes all my self-control to drag his sorry arse down the steps of the church—none too gently, I’d add—to the cemetery behind the church.
I toss him in front of a gravestone, watching as Clyde, Tate, and Mac rough up the other two.
“Now, boys,” MacGowen begins. “I don’t want bloodshed here on the church grounds. If you’ll please —”
“Go into the parsonage, Father,” Tate says firmly. “Go now or I’ll take you myself.”
He shakes his head. “Can’t do that, son,” he says. “I won’t leave you men out here unattended.”
We’re about to rough up the Aitkens boys, they’ll put up a fucking fight, and I’m not keen on him witnessing this. He’ll know who we are even though we’re masked.
“Go, Father,” I order. “Now. To the parsonage, straight away.”
He opens his mouth to protest, then shakes his head, mumbling a prayer under his breath, and heads to the parsonage.
I jerk my chin at Tate. “Bind them.” Clyde and Tate tie rope around the wrists of the two Aitkens lackeys. Alastair swears and curses in my grip, but I’m bigger than he is, and Mac’s standing right beside me, his arms across his chest, glaring at Aitkens. Aitkens turns his neck to try to look at me and tries to tear off my mask, but Mac gives him a solid punch to the gut. He doubles over in my grip.
Mac knees him, but before he can fall to the ground I haul him to his feet.
“Think you’re a fucking genius, coming here to fuck up the goddamn priest, hmm? Unarmed? Attacking a man of God? You ought to burn in hell for what you’ve done.” We all fucking will, but that’s beside the point.
I yank him to his feet, as Tate beats one of the men he’s bound. A swift kick and backhand and he falls to the ground. Aitkens and his men put up a fight, cursing and brawling, but they’re outnumbered. He whips his head back and nearly catches me on the shoulder, and when I duck, I see something behind a tombstone.Jesus.Is that a spy?
I’m distracted so badly, I lose my focus, and Aitkens kicks me in the gut.
I fall to the ground, blocking myself, and Mac lets loose a hard roundhouse kick, incapacitating Aitken.
Is that a girl? Crouched in the shadows? Bloody hell, she’s fucking taking pictures?
“Take him,” I mutter to Mac, shoving the arsehole at him, but just as I step toward her, another one of Aitkens’ men emerges from the shadows. Bloody hell, he must’ve been their back-up.
“Let them go,” he shouts, reaching for his gun. The girl in the shadows kneels between the two of us. He sees her when I do, shakes his head, and growls. He cocks his pistol, points it at her, and everything happens in a split second.
She covers her face with her hands in an effort of futile self-defense. I throw myself at him, tackle him to the ground, and before I even realize what I’m doing, draw my blade.
“She’s fucking got us on camera,” he says, lunging for her, but he can’t get past me.
“You touch her, you’re a fucking dead man.” Like I’d let anyone hurt a child on my fucking watch.
But he doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care, for he rolls beneath me, grabs his gun, and points it back at her. I drop my knife, grab him around the throat, and without thinking, twist his neck. There’s a sickeningsnap, and he slumps to the ground.
I don’t fucking care. It’s exactly what I intended to do.
I shove his body to the side, and someone shouts, but I don’t care. I turn to Aitkens’ men, holding their own man’s weapon.
