Chapter 5

Two yearsago - Age 33

Rainbows glisten on the pavement where the rain-dampened oil spots catch the light. Darkness descended hours ago, but still, I wait.

For what?

Evil.

And nae, the kind that goes bump in the night.

No.

What I'm waiting for is the kind o" evil that hides in plain view. It walks among us. It looks like a savior, like a friend, when really it's yer downfall. Yer enemy. So insidious and devious, no one would ever think to warn ye away.

This evil is cloaked in goodness, disguising itself in the hallowed halls o' the world's most prestigious institutions. It wears the robes o' selflessness. It is our helpers, our leaders, our do-gooders.

They are anything but. Instead, it takes and destroys. Ruining everything it touches.

So why am I standing here waiting for evil to arrive?

For vengeance. I will clean the world o' the evil that took everything from me.

As I wait and watch, time passes. The hours since twilight increase, stretching out like a cat after a long nap in the sun. Unlike the cat, I remain motionless.

Stiffness invades my body from the stillness. The hoodie I'm wearing is damp from the misty drizzle that fell earlier, reminding me o" home. The thick fabric is heavy and uncomfortable. I've been here since before the sun came up—nearly twenty-four hours, and I've barely twitched a muscle, only moving when I have nae other choice.

I shift my weight slowly, moving at a snail's pace so as nae to attract attention. Blood rushes through me as I settle into a new position. My limbs tingle and burn, but I ignore them.

People pass by—scurrying about the city, going about their business. Some glance toward where I'm hidden, their gaze darting around for whatever caused that sinister feeling that crept up their spine. But most o" them hurry by, unaware o" what lurks in the shadows.

The average person looking between me and the evil I hunt wouldn't choose me as the protector o" the innocent, vulnerable, and less fortunate. I don't look the part. That's okay. I'm nae doing this for them—at least nae entirely.

The sounds o" the city surround me, echoing off the buildings towering above as I stand in their shadows. Hidden from view. Cloaked in darkness.

Finally, after hours, what I've been waiting for has arrived. The purr o" the luxury sedan cuts through every other sound. A smile graces my face. If the info is right, I'll be a verra happy man tonight.

These last few moments are torture. Waiting to see if the one I seek steps out o" the vehicle has me coiled tight as a spring. When the driver exits the car, I know I've found my man.

Rupert Fisher is big, broad, and a bastard through and through. He is the only man allowed to drive to my target. Rupert checks the area twice before opening the rear passenger door o" the sleek, back penis replacement. That car in this neighborhood stands out like a sore thumb.

Moments later, the man I've been tracking stands up out o" the car. His head pops up between the door and the roof.

Lionel McGivern.

The patriarch o" the McGivern family and the head o' the Order in the UK. Old money made honestly by several o" his ancestors until Lionel and his day and grandda dirtied it up. Their businesses grew seedier and seedier as they passed from one generation to the next. From bootlegging to drugs to flesh. I don't think they could get any closer to the bottom o" the barrel.

Lionel turns, facing me. For a moment, I think he's spotted me, but he turns back to Rupert. They speak quietly, glancing around the area for threats and prying eyes.

Lionel turns and walks into the building. It had once been a factory, but like many factories, it closed for cheaper labor in foreign countries. Now, it's a shell o' what it once was.

At least on the outside.

Inside, it's rumored to be a holding site for the Order o" Death. An appropriate name considering the devastation the Order has brought to so many lives. They are the evil I hunt, and Lionel is only one o" many.

The Order is a procurer. If a wealthy man or woman wants something, the Order finds it for them. Art, jewels, cars, drugs, guns, military-grade weapons, information. Humans. Ye name it, and the Order deals in it.

Everything has a price, and the Order sets it.

The door clangs shut behind Lionel, and Rupert Fisher leans against the crumbling brick wall next to the door his boss disappeared through. I watch him survey the area again as he pulls out a pack o" cigarettes.

The flame from his lighter lights up his face as Fisher takes a drag from the cigarette between his fingers. Distracted by his nicotine addiction and the phone he's pulled from his pocket, he doesn't notice me creep forward, making my way to him. Just as he raises the cigarette into his mouth, I step into view.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asks, snarling at me. The cigarette in his hand hovering in front o' his lips.

"Rupert Fisher?" I ask, staring him in the eye.

"I asked who the fuck you are? How do you know my name?"

He's getting pissed. Good. I want him pissed. I will kill unprovoked if it's an Order member, and while Rupert is technically a member o' the Order, he's a hanger-on. He doesn't make any decisions or do anything other than protect Lionel and chauffeur him around.

"Who I am doesn't matter."

"I'll be the judge of that."

He steps toward me, dropping the cigarette on the ground. The smell o' tobacco swirls in the air, tickling my nose and making it burn. I cannae stand the smell o' the wretched things. They remind me o' the priest at the orphanage. The man always smelled o' smoke and whiskey.

"But ye see, Rupert. Ye willnae get the chance to judge anything or anybody," I say.

Rupert snatches my hoodie in his fist, pulling me toward him. He may be big and broad, but I am bigger and broader. I grab his face, shoving him back against the wall. The thud his head makes brings a smile to my face.

"I am the judge and jury this time, Rupert. But first, what do ye know about Maeve Helvig?" I ask.

"Who the fuck is that?"

"My sister, ye daft fuck. The Order took her, and I want her back," I respond.

He laughs despite the hand I have wrapped around his worthless neck. Arching my brow, I squeeze, cutting off all sound until he's gasping. He slaps at my arm and pushes at my chest, but I've got him by three stone, at least. Not to mention the nearly nine inches in height.

"Answer my question, Rupert," I order, my voice low and calm. Now that I've got my hands on the man, I can barely contain my anger.

He shakes his head as much as he can.

"Yer gonna die, Rupert. It can be the easy way or the hard way. It's up to ye. Just tell me about Maeve."

He stares at me, his eyes watering. They overflow and tears run down his face. I wait, and finally, he nods. I loosen my grip. He sucks in a deep breath. The rasp o' air through his throat is loud as he gasps.

"Well?" I ask.

"It's been twenty years," he says.

Does he think I dinnae know how long it's been since I've seen my sister?

"Iffn you want the easy way, ye'll tell me what I wanna know."

For almost twenty years, I've thought I was alone in the world. Maeve and my parents were in the Highlands coming to get me from school after picking up Maeve. It was just before Christmas break. We were traveling to my father's parents in Sweden for the holiday.

Only Maeve and my parents never arrived. My parents and sister died in a car crash between her school and mine. Or so I thought. The car exploded on impact, and all three people inside perished. The investigation, iffn you could call it that, was closed with nae real investigating done.

There were three people in the car. It belonged to my parents. They and the car were seen at my sister's school when they picked her up for the holiday. Case closed.

Authorities called my grandparents in Sweden, but there was nae answer. Coincidentally, they both died in a gas explosion at their home, and with no remaining family, they sent me to an orphanage.

Only I wasnae alone in the world—at least nae for long. I'd met Simon and fallen in love. But I never forgot my sister. She looked like our mum's twin since birth. And if her looks wasnae enough to convince me, then the heart-shaped birthmark on the side o' her neck certainly was.

I know Maeve is still out there and it's not just because o' the photo I saw in Graeme Buchanan's bedchamber. Every so often, a photo would show up with new. She looked, iffn nae happy, then nae sad.

"I'm waiting," I growl at him through clenched teeth.

"Massachusetts. Given her age, it's the only place they would've taken there," he says, still sucking in air as fast as he can.

"What for?" I ask, hoping I'm wrong.

"What do you think for?"

"Tell me," I demand.

"They sold her to the highest bidder," Rupert says.

"Who?"

"I don't know. That's above my pay grade," he responds.

"Who does?"

"Owen Black, he's the big boss, and some kid named Tavish. He knows everything."

"Tavish what?"

"I don't know. I really don't."

"What do you know about this Tavish?"

"He's just a kid. Barely old enough to drink. That's all I know," he said.

I nod.

"Ye did verra good, Rupert. Ye earned yer reward," I said.

"No, please…"

"Get in the car, Rupert. In the back," I tell him.

"Please, don't. Please," he pleads.

I push him to the car. "Open the door, Rupert, and get in."

"No! Please!" he begs.

"Easy is slowly giving way," I tell him. I get nae wanting to die, but the whining is only making me wanna kill him slowly.

Rupert sobs, opening the door and getting into the car. My torso follows him inside. Grabbing his head, I twist his neck. The words cut off, falling silent as I snap Rupert's thick neck. The pop sounds like a gun inside the confines o' the vehicle.

Shutting the door with my hip, I look up at the ramshackle building before me. I have studied all the plans for it I could find. The problem was the only plans I could find were decades old, from when the factory was still in use.

There's nothing I can do about it. I will have to play it by ear. There's no way I'm leaving here without extracting as much information as I can from Lionel McGivern. I'm also nae leaving here while that bastard draws breath.

It's time to go to work.

I slip inside the building, making sure the metal door makes as little noise as I can. I reach behind me, pulling out my bearded axes I've hidden under my hoodie.

Sounds carry from the factory's recesses. Shoving away the memories o' my devastation and loss, I take in my surroundings. From where I'm standing, all I see is what the building pretends to be. An abandoned factory.

I know better.

Keeping to the perimeter, I make my way toward the sound. It is coming from the back where the loading docks are. I can hear several people, men, talking. The voices all twist and turn together, coiling around one another until they are indecipherable.

As I get closer, there is one I recognize. I know it almost as much as well as my own. I've listened to every video and audio clip I can find on the man.

Lionel McGivern is back here. I'd worried he slipped out the back without me knowing, but he's still here.

I listen closer, chancing a peek around into the loading dock. There are several men in the area working. Wood crates with holes cut in the side are there. Lionel is talking with someone. Taking a peek, I catch a glance o' the man he's with. He sounds familiar, and looks it too, but I cannae place him.

I pull out my cellphone and turn on the video camera, hoping to catch as many as possible on film so I can figure out who some o' them are. The guy with Lionel is a wee bit fantoosh. He's in a custom-tailored suit, and he's got a kid with him—at least a kid to me and to him. The boy cannae be more than twenty-one or twenty-two. He looks barely legal with his dark hair and his slender build and stature.

There's something about him that leads me to believe he's not here o' his own free will. He turns toward me just enough that I get a good look at his profile. He's a handsome little devil. His black glasses and messy blackish-brown hair add to his boyishness.

That boyishness calls to me like a siren song, making my blood thrum in my veins. It moves throughout me, warming me from the inside out until it settles in my groin. My breath grows heavy along with my cock.

I continue watching and the longer I look at him, the longer my dick gets. I cannae wrap my head around what's happening in my pants. I've nae had a reaction from that part o' my body since they killed Simon.

I don't know which o' the Order killed the man I love, but I'm determined to find them and kill him with my bare hands. I killed the person who killed my parents. Graeme Buchanan died at my hand eight years ago.

The boy and the foppish man with him walk off in the direction opposite me. I dinnae get a good look at either the boy or the man with him, only that one wee glimpse o' the side o' the boy's face.

Lionel McGivern watches the man and boy leave. He speaks with the men loading the truck, and then they leave as well. He secures the doors and turns toward the office off to the side.

I creep behind him, slowly, following him into the office. My hand catches the door when he slams it behind him. He spins, and the look on his face is priceless.

"Hello, Lionel," I say.

His eyes widen comically for a moment before the mask o' evil indifference falls over his face.

"My people will kill you."

I stare at him, pulling my axes from under the back o' my damp sweatshirt. My arms drop to my sides, axes at the ready.

"Where is Maeve Helvig?"

His brow furrows. Those two little lines between his brows infuriate me. I can feel it bubbling under my skin. Percolating in my brain. It fuels my rage.

"My sister is Maeve Helvig. Graeme Buchanan stole her when he murdered my parents."

I don't know this for certain, but it's the only thing that's ever made sense. Maeve's school reported my parents picked her up. Then they died in a fiery car crash, supposedly with Maeve with them. Buchanan had to have seen the opportunity to take Maeve and make it appear that she died along with our parents.

"You're going to kill me for something Graeme Buchanan did over fifteen years ago?"

Well, there you go.

"Nae."

"Are you cracked?"

I chuckle. "Probably."

He growls. The frustration is evident on his face. "What do you fucking want if you're not going to kill me?"

Gazing at him, I watch sweat break out on his upper lip and forehead. The light in the room catches the sheen, glinting off the moisture.

"I never said I wasnae gonna kill you. I said I wasnae gonna kill you for what Buchanan did."

The wobble o' his chin gives him away. The trepidation is clear in that wobble and in the tremor in his hands.

"Why would you want to kill me?"

"Vengeance."

"For what?"

"For all the lives ye have ruined."

I let loose my axes, swinging them with fervor. Light sparks off the metal carvings. The glint flickers in his eyes just before the blades sever his head from his body. A thud sounds as it hits the floor. The shock at his imminent demise freezes on his face.

I step over the mess, shaking my head. "I really should nae have done that," I say aloud.

Rounding the desk, I pull open all the drawers, searching for as much info as possible. There's not much, but it's too much to carry. I gather everything I can find and load it in Lionel's car. Shoving Rupert to the passenger seat, I move the car around to the back o' the warehouse.

I pull Rupert out o' the car, bringing him into the building with me. I dump him on the floor o' the office with Lionel. A deep sigh fills my lungs, pressing my ribs outward.

A quick walkthrough o' the warehouse turns up nothing but a means to an end. I drag a propane tank from one o' the forklifts back to the office. Picking the guns, keys, and identification off the bodies I'd dropped, I open the valve on the tank and walk away.

At the exit near the office, the one the smallish guy left through earlier, I turn back to the office. I can smell the gas in the air.

"Rest in Hell," I condemn as I lift the gun I pulled from Rupert and squeeze the trigger.

Time slows as I watch as the bullet pierces the tank. The explosion knocks me back into the door. The heat and fire roll through the building. I shove myself through the exit, racing to the car.

Dropping the car into drive, I push the accelerator to the floor, speeding away just as the other propane tanks in the building go off. The blast rattles the car and the inferno that engulfs the building mushrooms into the air in the rear-view mirror.

That was too goddamn close!

I can hear Simon yelling at me from the grave. He's not fucking wrong. He rarely ever was.