by Henry, Jane
“Not exactly,” Cormac says. “To be fair, he often tells us things way before anyone else knows. And if word ever got out he was confiding in us, that source would dry up faster than a bitch’s pussy.”
“Fine,” I mutter on a snort. I can always count on Cormac for his colorful use of irreverent, descriptive language. “I know, I know.” Always the diplomat, Cormac.”
We drive down the driveway and exit the estate, and I bang a left at the fork in the road. The road to the right will take us deeper into Ballyhock, toward the church and armory, but to the left takes us to the shore. Drive too far, and we’d head straight into the ocean.
“Might help to have at least an idea of what we’re looking for,” Cormac begins.
“We’ll know when we see it,” I respond. “And I’ll tell you.”
He snorts. “You’ll tell me? Maybe I’ll be the one that notes it first and tells you.”
I huff out a laugh. “Bullshite, but fair game, then.”
We took our time this morning, finishing our meeting. By the time we reach the path that leads to the lighthouse and park the car it’s early afternoon. There’s no paved road we can drive to the entrance, so we need to go the rest of the way on foot. I lock the car and pocket the key, eyeing the lighthouse ahead of us with suspicion.
What the hell will we find that has anything at all to do with The Clan? It’s odd, because we’ve never had any affiliation with the lighthouse keeper. None that I’m aware of, anyway. He kept to himself and was off his nut, and we have enough business to tend to without mingling with the local nutters.
“You notice anything strange?” Cormac asks, when we begin walking up the pathway to the entrance.
“Cormac, pretty much everything about this place is strange.” Stepping foot on the property that leads to the lighthouse feels like taking a step back in time, with the weather-worn shutters by the tiny windows, the well-worn pathway.
“Right,” he says, rolling his eyes. “But I mean more strange than usual.”
I shrug. “I’ve always thought it odd this place didn’t have a house. Where’d the old geezer sleep?”
Cormac shrugs. “Reckon he had a room inside. Some old lighthouses had limited space when built, so they don’t have a house. The inside was the only home they had.”
Not sure how I didn’t know that, but I’ve never been what one might call a lighthouse expert.
“Right,” I say with a nod. “But what would the old man have to do with what the Father said?”
“Not a feckin’ clue.”
We enter the lighthouse, surprised to find the entryway on the bottom floor open. I hit a switch on the wall, and the room illuminates. Frowning, I look at the details on the basement floor. I see nothing at all that would give us a clue. This floor has a toilet behind a door and a little kitchenette. It smells stale, as if no food’s been prepared in some time, though it’s neat and tidy. I look at Cormac and point to the spiral staircase. There’s no fucking way he’s going to hoist his massive body up that tiny staircase. He shakes his head, and I can’t help but smirk.
“You keep watch down here, and I’ll check upstairs.” I’m a larger man myself, but thinner than Cormac.
He grunts, but it’s really the only choice. The second floor has a small bookshelf and a tiny bed, neatly made with an ancient quilt that looks like it’s about to fall apart. I look through every nook and cranny, frowning when I find a small closet with some women’s garments in them. Did the lighthouse keeper have a wife? I’ll have to ask my father. These clothes are old-fashioned, so they likely don’t belong to anyone from the present day. But I didn’t know Jack Anderson ever had a woman?
By the time I get to the top floor, I’m feeling frustrated.
“Y’all right up there, Keenan?” Cormac shouts from below.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Alright. You?’
“Fine down here. I did see a little something you ought to look at when you get down here, though.”
“Be down directly.”
The top floor has a small, dilapidated loveseat, a tiny table beside it, and little else. I look in the closet on this floor and find a handful of men’s tattered clothing. I frown, looking at them. These must’ve belonged to the keeper.
The very top is where he did his work.
I peek around but see nothing out of the ordinary. I finally take my seat overlooking the ocean, giving myself the full vantage point he must’ve had. It isn’t until I’m seated here that I blink in surprise.
I had no idea one could see so much from here. For Christ’s sake, I want to kick my own arse for being so thick. The vastness of the ocean, the endless sky, the port of entry for every ship that comes our way, it’s all clear as day up here, clearer than any other fucking vantage point in all of Ballyhock.
Wait a minute.
He could see every fucking ship that came into the harbor. Every transaction on the shore. In great detail.
Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Our primary arms dealing means ship after ship dock right here, right under the watchful eye of the lighthouse keeper.
Is this what Father Finn wanted us to see? That we’ve been under the fucking microscope of a crazy old man for God-knows how long?
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Of course, we’ve covered our tracks and don’t do anything blatantly illegal without covering our arses, but we’re well-known in Ballyhock. Anyone who’d watch us closely would get suspicious. Local law enforcement’s under our pay, so they turn a blind eye, as long as we keep to our own code and morals. There’s a fucking reporter who’s kept her eyes on us. Has she been in touch with the keeper of the lighthouse? She’s been trying to do an exposé on us for years.
I shake my head. Simply realizing the position of the lighthouse wasn’t something worth calling a feckin’ meeting at daybreak, for Christ’s sake. And anyhow, the lighthouse keeper’s dead. Anything he knew about us I’m thinking he took the grave.
I go back down the stairs.
“Find anything?” he asks.
I tell him about the vantage point at the top of the lighthouse.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” he says with a shrug. “We’ve kept our noses and arses clean, yanno.”
I nod, but don’t reply. Something doesn’t sit well with me. The Father sent us here to find something, and my gut says we haven’t found it yet.
“You find anything?” I ask him.
“Wellll…” he says, his voice trailing off. “Not sure if it’s worth noting?” he says, then he walks over to the bed. “But look here.” He lifts the pillow. Beneath the white fabric lies a neatly folded old-fashioned nightgown. “You don’t think… well, either the keeper kept his wife’s nightie tucked under his bed, he wore it himself, and I wouldn’t put it past him, he was that off his rocker,” he suggests, his eyes twinkling, “or there’s an option C.”
“Which is?”
“There was or is a woman living here.”
I snort. “Bollox,” I say. “Ain’t a woman here, Cormac, you know that.”
He shrugs. “Something to consider.”
“I found nothing here,” I tell him. “Nothing that’s worth calling an inner circle meeting and sending us here, anyway. You?”
He shakes his head. “Naw.”
“Back outside then,” I say with a sigh. Perhaps I’ll pay Father Finn a follow-up visit. Honest to Christ, if we don’t find something soon, I’ll have no choice.
We both look around closely as we exit the lighthouse, sure that we’ve missed a clue somewhere. Something, anything at all that could clue us in. I see nothing at first, but as we pass the small garden with overgrown shrubs, I hear a noise. I turn toward a dilapidated shed on the perimeter of the lighthouse.
“Did you hear something?” I ask Cormac. He shakes his head. I hold up a finger to my lips for him to be quiet as I turn toward the shed. I hear it again as we stand outside the door, a sort of rustling, followed by a humming. I look at
him curiously.
We aren’t alone.
What have we here?
I’ve learned to walk stealthily, so without a sound I approach the shed and stand outside the door. I notice when I draw close that the door is slightly ajar. What the hell? No one should be here.
The humming stops. I look back at Cormac. Wordlessly, he goes to the other side of the shed and crouches, prepared for an ambush or defense if we’re attacked. I feel for the gun tucked into the waistband of my trousers. It’s loaded and ready.
I hold up my fingers to Cormac.
One.
Two.
Three.
I yank the door open on three. I jump when I hear a decidedly feminine scream, and just in time duck when something shiny bears down on me. My instincts primed, I fall to the ground, grab her, and roll, bringing the woman down with me. In seconds, I have her wrists pinned above her head, the gardening trowel she tried to hit me with still firmly in her hand. I pinch between her thumb and pointer finger. Yelping, she drops the trowel.
“Son of a bitch,” Cormac mutters as I get to my feet, dragging the girl with me. We can’t see much of anything in the dark interior of the shed, so I drag her out into the open.
Jesus, she’s a wild little thing, kicking and spitting at us like a feral cat. Her long, thick hair hangs down her back to her waist, and for a moment I wonder if she’s playacting or some kind of an actress, because she looks as if she’s stepped right out of another decade. Her clothes are faded and worn, and definitely out of fashion, her feet bare. But she wears no makeup, no jewelry. I hold her out in front of me so she can’t hurt me and give her a little shake. I have no more freedom to observe or speculate, as the girl’s still fighting to get away.
“Enough of that, now, lass,” I say in what I hope’s a calming voice. “We aren’t here to hurt you now, see?”
“Liars!” she screams. “My father told me about men like you! That you’d come for me, that you’d hurt me!”
Her father? What’s this, now?
Well, who knew? She has an American accent. What’s an American girl doing traipsing around these parts?
“Stop fighting us, and it’ll go better for you,” Cormac says. Though I know he’d as soon cut off his own hand than strike a woman, he knows how to use his bulk and deep voice to intimidate. Standing in front of her with his arms crossed, he draws his brows together and glares at her. “Still, now, woman.”
“Let. Me. Go!” she screams, then she twists so quickly out of my grasp she slips out and falls toward Cormac. I grab for her. In one swift move, she kicks Cormac right between the legs, and he falls to the ground, wheezing.
Aw, hell no. I’ve had enough of this.
I’ve got her back in my grip before she can do further damage, or worse, run. “Enough,” I order, giving her a shake, and when that still doesn’t still her, I spin her out and give her arse a good, hard slap. She gasps, and it seems a bit of the fight goes out of her.
“Enough with you,” I tell her. “We’ve not come to do you harm, see. For Christ’s sake, stop the attack, or we will be forced to hurt you.”
Cormac’s on his knees now, still wheezing, his face ruddy and contorted. She got him good right between the legs, the little vixen. Though I won’t tolerate her cheek, I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from grinning. There’s not much that would take a big man like Cormac to his knees, but she hit her mark.
I hold her back to my chest and wrap an arm around her front, holding her to me so tightly I feel her struggling for breath.
“That’s a good lass,” I say placatingly. I don’t want her to know she affects me. I want her to realize she hasn’t ruffled my feathers, that I’m in control. She smells clean and sweet, like garden wildflowers damp from rain, and even struggling, I’m vividly aware of her curves, her soft skin, her gentle feminine allure.
She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, nothing like the women at the pub or in our family, nothing at all like the brash girls I went to school with when I was a child. With her high cheeks and wide eyes framed in thick lashes, she looks almost otherworldly, as if she’s got the blood of the fae in her veins.
“Let me go!” she screams.
“Well now,” I say evenly. “I do that and you’re apt to run, and we can’t have that, can we? Hardly had a chance to get to know each other.”
I look toward the shed and note a length of rope on the floor. Holding her tightly with my left arm, I leave Cormac gasping for breath, and walk her to the shed. I reach for the rope. I’m experienced enough in restraining a prisoner, that it’s an easy matter to tie her hands behind her back and secure the rope tightly.
“Don’t you dare!” she howls, hopping around on her bare feet to get out of my grip, but she can’t get out of the bonds. I’ve no idea what we’ll do with her, but I see no choice but to toss her in the back of the Jag and take her back for questioning. It’s when I’m securing the final knot, my eyes adjusting to the dim light in the shed, that I see something that captures my attention.
What the hell is it? Since she’s still kicking at me, I seat her firmly on the grass outside the shed, admittedly with a little more force than necessary. I’ve got to get the little hellcat under control. Her brows are drawn together, her cheeks flaming red. The girl’s got fire licking through her limbs to defy two grown men as she has. Cormac’s on his feet now, eyeing her warily.
It’s rare Cormac gets angry, but he’s full throttle now. He wags a finger in her direction. “You do a thing like that again, I’ll break my ‘no hittin’ women’ rule and redden yer arse properly,” he mutters. At his threat, I look at him sharply.
No fucking way. The only person punishing this little vixen will be me, and with pleasure.
“Hell no, you won’t.”
Cormac looks at me in surprise but quickly nods, deferring. He knows.
I’ve put my hands on her. I’m heir to the throne. This victory prize belongs to me, and me alone.
“Cormac.” I jerk my chin at him, and he looks my way, at the books stacked in my hands. “Look what I’ve got.”
“Put those down!” she screams. “No! Don’t you dare touch them. They don’t belong to you!” Seems a gag would do well.
I ignore her and lift a record book, rifling through it. It takes me a moment to decipher what I’m reading, and when I do, my anger rises. As I look through the numbers and notes, my blood pumps hot and furious in my veins. I clench my hands so tightly on the book I’m looking at, my hands shake with fury.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter. “For Christ’s sake.”
She’s got details on every fucking transaction The Clan has made in neat, handwritten rows.
The names of the men we’ve hired.
The payouts we’ve gotten for every arms sale we’ve made.
The names of every affiliate we’ve interacted with, and the list goes fucking on.
She’s got every inside detail on every fucking transaction we’ve made going back to last year.
How could we have not known a spy was right under our very noses? What she’s planning on doing with this information is a mystery to me, but it’s no fucking good she has it.
Father Finn was right. She’s a fucking danger to us.
We found what we needed at the lighthouse.
Jesus.
“We need to bring her back with us,” I tell him. “This little lass has some explaining to do.” She howls and rages like a feral kitten. I frown at her. The girl needs taming, and I’m happy to be the man for the job. “But for Christ’s sake, let’s gag her first.”
Chapter Four
Caitlin
I can’t believe I’m in the back of a car, bound like a hog-tied beast, and that they manhandled me. He hurt me. He hurt me. He had the nerve to strike me, and I think he bruised my chest with his iron grip. The ropes bite into my wrists, and if I move them in any way, the sting worsens, chafing my skin.
Where are they taking me? I’m already fu
rther away from home than I’ve ever been in my life. Though I know what a car is, of course, having read about them, I’ve certainly never been in one. It scares me a little, the way I’m being jostled around, and when we hit a particularly rough patch, my head slams against the car door.
I try to scream, but the gag they’ve got wrapped around my mouth prevents me. My eyes water, from both the pain and the utter helplessness I feel being taken away from everything that’s familiar and comfortable in my life. I’m in danger. My father was right. The first day I ever set foot outside my home, and I’m taken hostage by two men.
They took my father’s things with them, the metal boxes and reams of notes, though I don’t have a clue what any of them are. Do they think I’m somehow responsible for them? God, of course they do. How could they not? They found me in possession of them.
Do the documents somehow pertain to the men that came? Is that why my father wanted to keep me safe, and why he kept the notes hidden in the garden shed?
When they take the gag off me, should I tell them those are my father’s possessions?
Or is it better if they think they are mine? Would the knowledge give me better… what’s the word… negotiating strategies?
I’m so outside my element, I’m not even sure what I think. It doesn’t help I’m still famished, weakened and lightheaded.
“Christ, Keenan, where the fuck did she come from?” the big man in front asks under his breath, as if I won’t hear him. So the driver’s Keenan.
“Hell if I know,” the one on the left says. I’ve never interacted with any man other than my father before, and it saddens me these two are bad men. I’d have liked my first interaction to be a good one, if I’m now alone in the world, and destined to be forced to deal with people. Who are these men? Criminals, likely, if I’m to judge by the ease with which they kidnapped me.
Where did they come from? Why? Though probably older than I am, I’d guess they’re still young. And if I have to admit it, they’re both highly attractive men, especially the one who carried me to the car.