by Amy Vansant
Three cars sat parked on the main road at the end of the long drive leading to the warehouse. There were two sedans and one longer black car, resembling a small limousine.
“I wonder who that is,” she said.
“Aye. Me tae.”
“It’s probably a group leaving Vegas who needed to pull over to get their bearings.”
She opened the door wider and ushered him in. With one last lingering stare at the parked vehicles, he followed her inside.
Catriona and Broch picked their way past unorganized piles of boxes until they reached the center of the warehouse. A man sat at a table eating lunch from a brown paper bag. He looked up at them as another man appeared from the opposite direction.
“You said Mo sent you?” said the approaching man as he raised his hand to shake.
“Yes. We need to ask you a few questions about the clothes being sent to burn—”
What sounded like a gunshot exploded behind them. The warehouse foreman jerked his hand from Catriona’s grip to cover his head. Catriona felt Broch throw an arm over her as they both ducked.
A flash caught Catriona’s eye. A beam of light streaming across the floor from the now opened door. She remembered being buzzed in and knew the source of the bang.
Someone shot the lock open.
Footsteps headed in their direction. Catriona could hear the intruders muttering and knew it was too late to run.
Two men rounded a stack of boxes, leading with semi-automatic rifles, screaming for hands to be raised. Walking at a measured pace behind them came the Slavic-faced man whose head had poked through the red beads at the Chinese restaurant.
Volkov.
Seems their reprieve from the Russian’s hounding had been temporary.
“Her and him,” he said, pointing to Catriona and Broch.
The two warehouse workers, one standing and one still cowering in front of his lunch, stared with wild eyes as two of the armed men ushered Catriona and Broch toward a wall of boxes marked Modacious.
When they were nearly to the wall, Broch spun, his hand whipping out like a cobra strike. He grabbed the nose of the gunman’s rifle and yanked it to the right side of his own body, jerking the man holding it toward him. Broch struck him square in the face as he stumbled forward. The man’s momentum abruptly changed directions and he floundered back, his nose erupting with blood.
Broch had the weapon, but he couldn’t turn it before one of Volkov’s henchmen, a close-cropped blond man with a box-like build, lunged forward to grab Catriona’s arm.
“Nope.” He raised his handgun to Catriona’s head.
Broch looked down at the gun he’d seized, and Catriona knew he didn’t know how to use it. Not well enough to risk her life in the attempt.
“Drop it,” said the blond.
Broch released the rifle. A third man stepped forward to strike Broch in the stomach with the butt of his own rifle, pushing the Highlander towards the wall of boxes beside Catriona. Broch stepped back, his eyes blazing with rage.
“What about these two?” asked a fourth henchman, his pistol trained on the warehouse workers.
Volkov stepped toward the man Catriona had taken for the manager.
“Is there anyone else here?”
Both men shook their heads.
Volkov turned to his soldier. “Take the bodies. Come back and take care of the cameras.”
At the sound of the word bodies, the manager began to talk fast, the hands he held in the air, shaking.
“You don’t have to kill us. We won’t talk. We don’t know anything. We don’t know you.”
Volkov smiled with only the right side of his mouth. “My name is Volkov.” He gasped and covered his mouth with his hand, almost coquettishly. “Whoops. Now you know who I am. That is unfortunate. Now I’m afraid I don’t have any choice.”
The goon whose nose Broch had bloodied jerked the man from his lunch table seat and pushed both towards the door at gunpoint. He glanced back at Broch several times, making it clear he’d rather be walking the Highlander to his death.
The manager called over his shoulder as he headed towards the door. “I don’t even remember, man. I don’t remember your name!”
Soon after they stepped outside, Catriona heard two quick pops.
Volkov strolled to where Catriona and Broch stood.
“I suppose I owe you a thank you.”
“How’s that?” asked Catriona. Her voice couldn’t summon the punch she desired. She felt sick for the men who’d been walked to their death and sick that she and Broch would more than likely be next.
Volkov continued. “You gave me an idea. I’ve been waiting for the right time to cut out the middle man, and that time is now.”
“We don’t have anything to do with this—”
“I know. You’re doing this for poor Mo.”
Catriona heard a yelp and looked past Volkov to see Mo stumble into view, the man behind her urging her on with a pistol. He led her to stand beside them.
Mo looked at Catriona, her cheeks running with tears and mascara.
“What have you done?” Mo seemed both too furious and too scared to effect her French accent. With rising dread, Catriona realized she should have checked in with Mo after their ordeal in the Chinese restaurant. She’d assumed Volkov and Alain worked together and that Mo was safe.
Stupid.
But she wasn’t going to take the blame for this.
Catriona put her hand on her chest. “What have I done?”
Mo whirled to face Volkov. “What do you want? You’re the one stealing my clothes?”
“Me? No. I sell them. Eastern Europe mostly. Many round women there.” Volkov laughed and his men joined in, chuckling like a small private audience for his new standup routine.
Mo’s lip trembled. Catriona couldn’t tell if it was fury or fear.
Volkov sniffed. “Now all I need is the network of the man who does steal them.”
Mo scowled. “What network?”
“It isn’t only your clothes that he steals and I am not his only seller.”
“And you think I know who this man is?”
Volkov laughed again, the curl of his lip revealing a gold-capped canine tooth. “Oh, you know him.”
Mo shook her head. “If I knew him don’t you think I would have had him arrested?”
Volkov took a step closer to Mo. “Who was the first person you called after asking these two to find the stealer of your clothes?”
Mo whispered the name Catriona already knew.
“Alain?”
Catriona had had her suspicions, but hadn’t wanted to believe it. Now, Alain letting Tyler go and asking her to leave without helping Mo made perfect sense. When she sounded doubtful about leaving, he’d sent Volkov to scare her into leaving, but Volkov changed his mind. He decided to cut Alain out of the equation completely, before Alain messed everything up on his own in some desperate attempt to win back Mo.
Alain played a good little gangster. It looked like he might have shown his weakness to the wrong man.
Mo wiped at her eyes. “I don’t understand. What about Alain?”
Catriona sighed. “He’s selling your leftovers, Mo. He’s using this creature to peddle them in Russia.”
Volkov studied his nails. “Mostly Serbia. Some Russia.”
Mo scowled. “Alain would never—”
Catriona touched her arm. “He would. It’s what he does. He’s a thief.”
Mo’s jaw fell slack. “He... From me? He’s stealing from me?”
“You were leaving money on the table. What’s a worse sin to a poker player?”
“But—”
“Enough!” barked Volkov. He motioned to Mo. “I’m taking you with me. The little Frenchman can have you back when he introduces me to his contacts and you both agree to give me your expired inventory.”
Volkov strolled to Broch and tapped his shoulder with his handgun. “But not you. Alain didn’t care much about what happened to y
ou.”
Broch remained expressionless, his eyes locked on Volkov’s. His brazen stare seemed to amuse Volkov.
“You’re not worried, big man?”
Broch leaned his face closer to the Russian’s. “Tis ye wha shuid be worried.”
Volkov chuckled and took a step back. He nodded to one of his men and glanced at the door. The man approached and motioned for Broch to move.
“No.” Catriona tried to step forward but the square-bodied man beside her grabbed the hair on the back of her head to prevent her from moving. Jerking her back into place, he raised his gun to her head to keep Broch from springing forward.
Catriona looked to Volkov, pleading. “He is important. Alain wants him alive.”
Volkov shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
Broch headed for the door, the bloody-nosed henchman behind him prodding him with the tip of his rifle.
The Highlander glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Catriona.
“Ah’ll find ye, lassie.”
Catriona felt her eyes brim with tears.
He was nearly to the door.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be real.
Catriona reached out towards his retreating figure. She knew any movement could get her shot, but her arm swung out before she could stop it.
The man at her side flinched but didn’t fire as she called out.
“I love you, too!”
Broch crossed the threshold just as she finished her sentence.
I don’t know if he heard me.
Catriona stopped breathing. It was as if her lungs had frozen in her chest. The silence in the warehouse throbbed in her ears as she turned to Volkov.
“Don’t do it.”
He shrugged. “It’s done.”
“It isn’t. Don’t do it. Please. You can have all the clothes. We’ll never tell anyone—”
“You know that isn’t true.”
“It is. It is true. We’ll go back where we came from and never—”
A pop! echoed from outside.
Catriona gasped. Legs buckling, she leaned against the wall and Mo caught her, holding her against her side.
“Oh baby girl.” She pressed Catriona’s head into her bosom, holding her tight.
Catriona clung to Mo. “I never told him how much—”
“You did,” said Mo, stroking her head. “He heard you.”
Chapter Fifteen
The horse galloped on, proceeding as if it knew its destination. Sean clung to its back like a man strapped to a missile. He kept his eyes closed much of the time, opening them only to make small adjustments to the mare’s trajectory.
There were too many things wrestling in his head for attention.
The image of a large truck rolled in his brain. He’d seen the vehicle in his rearview mirror. It had barreled towards Rune as the lanky bastard stumbled into the street, gun in hand.
He could see those skinny legs pumping. Sean remembered thinking Rune’s pursuit of him was akin to being dogged by Ichabod Crane.
Then there was that moment—an almost giddy moment—when he knew the truck and his enemy had a date with destiny. The time for Rune to dodge the approaching vehicle had passed.
The truck struck him.
Rune flew into the air, arms and legs swinging akimbo, then…nothing.
He never landed. But then he was back. Could I have missed seeing him land?
I missed it.
He’d looked away to be sure he wasn’t driving off the road...
But I only looked away for a second...
He’d stopped the Jag in the middle of the road to watch the scene behind him in his rearview. The truck driver scrambled out of his cab. He, too, looked confused, searching for the man he’d struck. He probably hadn’t seen his accidental victim land either. The trucker looked up and down the road, and Sean realized the man could see his Jag.
So Sean hit the gas and drove another fifty yards feeling confident the truck driver hadn’t seen his license plate—and feeling joyous he wouldn’t have to worry about Rune coming after Catriona or Broch. He crested a hill—
And there he was again.
Rune, standing in the middle of the road. One shoe missing, his white sock glaringly white in the California sun.
The man he’d watched struck by a truck behind him was now in front of him.
How?
How had he only lost one shoe?
Rune couldn’t have been knocked three miles forward by the truck. He couldn’t have flown through the air, landed on his feet and raised his gun like some kind of gymnast sticking the landing.
But there he stood, like a bullfighter, daring the Jaguar to rush him.
The truck would have killed him or nearly killed—
Sean opened his eyes and watched the horse’s hooves throw clumps of peat below him.
That was it.
The truck had nearly killed Rune. The skeletal wretch had moved forward through time. He’d used time travel to heal his snapped bones and crushed organs.
He’d been able to control where he was sent—how far away and how far in the future—with precision.
Sean felt a wave of envy wash over him. He’d hoped to teach Catriona and Broch what he knew of their heritage and abilities—and now he realized he knew nothing.
Gathering the reins in one hand, he wiped the mist and horsehair from his face, before closing his eyes again, squeezing them tight.
How did I fail in so many ways?
He had two young time travelers in his charge and he didn’t understand his own powers. How could he teach them anything? Meanwhile, Catriona’s real father was popping in and out of time like a person walking in and out of a room.
Catriona’s real father bent time to his will.
Jealousy boiled in Sean’s veins.
Not that it mattered now. He wasn’t even in the same century as his children.
Sean’s eyes opened again.
Rune is.
He’d almost missed the worst part.
For the short time he’d been able to dwell on the events of his very strange day, he’d been running under the assumption Rune wanted revenge for the loss of his arm. But what if his gunplay wasn’t revenge? What if he wanted Catriona and Broch dead as well?
Sean felt his body slipping left and tightened his grip on the mane to right himself. He squeezed his thighs against the horseflesh.
I’m tired.
He couldn’t stop. There was nothing he could do to help Broch and Catriona now. Today was his only chance to save Isobel.
Perhaps that was the key to helping the others.
If I save Isobel, it will change Broch’s fate as well.
He could remain in Scotland with his wife and child. Then, maybe, when the boy grew older, they could find Catriona together. From what they’d been able to put together, she and Broch had met once before in ancient Scotland so she was here, or would be here, somewhere. They could find her and they could be together again, just not in Hollywood.
And there was hope for Catriona and Broch in Hollywood in the meantime. Luther was there. He’d protect them—his most loyal friend would go on alert when he showed up missing—though Sean cursed himself for not better prepping Luther for the event of his disappearance. When he’d confessed his time-traveling past to the big man back in the nineties, Luther had barely reacted. As if Sean had told him he was from Albania or Canada, not some other century.
Sean spotted a tree that felt familiar to him and adjusted the path of the horse.
I’m nearing home.
He was close. Memories of his time with Isobel flooded his synapses. Her hair, her eyes, the feel of her skin. He needed to get to the cottage in time, find a weapon, and be ready to fight off Thorn’s men. He’d have to explain to his wife why he looked thirty years older than he had when she’d awoken beside him that morning, too. That wouldn’t be easy. Maybe he could pretend to be his own long lost uncle.
Hopefully, he could keep
his wind long enough to defeat the men determined to burn his home to the ground. Maybe he could remember how to use a sword. Swordplay wasn’t a skill that came in handy in Los Angeles. The last time he’d used one was to cleave Rune in half.
Those were the days.
Sean spotted a thin trail of smoke rising into the air in front of him.
No. No no no...I can’t be too late.
He spurred on the horse and the creature found a new gear, eating the ground with long strides.
As he and his mount crested the hill, he saw his cottage, flames already licking one side of the thatched roof.
Two men stood outside his door, holding it shut.
Laughing.
Sean felt his anger blaze, his brain buzzing like a hornet’s nest. One of Thorn’s men turned as he approached and tapped the other on the shoulder, pointing. The cowards abandoned the door and bolted to their own horses. The thinner of the two leapt into the air as if spring-loaded, straddling his steed and galloping away from Sean’s approach. The other man, more stocky, fumbled for the stirrup of his saddle, making one attempt to mount and then another.
Sean rode up beside him and jumped from his borrowed horse, forgetting his bones had aged since his last visit to Scotland.
The wind knocked out of him as he collided with the man and pulled him to the ground. Sean punched the would-be murderer in the side of his head. His knuckles screamed with pain but his blind rage prevented him from adjusting his aim towards softer flesh.
He struck again, landing two more blows to the man’s temple. His foe’s eyes shut and his head lolled on his neck. Sean scrambled to his feet, leaving the unconscious man behind.
“Isobel!”
He ran at the cottage, throwing his shoulder at the door. It gave way with little resistance. Smoke billowed outside as he plunged into the cloud, heading towards the outline of his wife on the ground. She lay on her stomach, hands stretched above her head, as she reached for the far corner of the room.
She looked up at him as he crouched below the worst of the smoke.
“Broch—”
Sean turned in the direction Isobel had been crawling. Broch lay on the bed in his swaddling clothes. The flames traveled along the back of the cottage wall. Any moment the bed would light like a tinder.
