“No reason, but I don’t like the thought of someone so sick that they have to be carried is all. I sound like a worry wart old woman,” he said and forced a laugh. “Good night to you MacLeod.”
“And to you, Duncan.”
Buchanan felt like snakes were writhing in his gut. To hell with walking. He had to get to Jamie, and fast. When his temperamental old car’s engine turned over on the first try, he let out a sigh of relief. He’d know in minutes if the lad were safe and prayed that his panic was for naught.
As he scanned the rocky shore that passed as a beach, Serge only spotted one tent through the swirling fog. It had to belong to the target, unless Buchanan had disregarded Graham’s instructions and already ordered Mackinnon’s grandson back to the safety of the house. He’d know soon enough. The weather provided an unexpected assist since it had cleared the area of all but one lone camper. If there were others nearby, they could become innocent victims. The tragic accident Serge planned would become part of a major crime investigation, a situation he had to avoid.
He fully expected Jamie Mackinnon — who was repeatedly described as a “strapping lad” by the old man— to struggle, but that didn’t concern him. He was adept at using his hands to overwhelm his quarry and swiftly cause unconsciousness. Serge’s body rippled with raw power. He was dressed in body hugging black from head to toe and the small pack strapped to his waist held everything he’d need to do the job quickly. He considered adding a bulletproof vest, then tossed it back in the car. The thing offered minimal protection and he’d never liked the way it restricted his upper body’s movement. It wasn’t as if some fanatic with a Kalashnikov was lying in wait for him. Mackinnon’s weapon of choice was a knife. The Scot had proven his expertise with a blade the night he’d killed Will Cameron with a swift, jugular-piercing jab to the throat, but he’d be no match for a professional.
Serge flexed his fingers as he pulled on skintight lambskin gloves, placed a tiny flashlight between his teeth and crept stealthily down the beach toward the tent. He crouched beside it to listen for the rhythmic breathing that would indicate its occupant was asleep, but there was only silence. “Crap,” he muttered as he snuck inside. The light’s narrow beam verified his hunch — empty. He could wait for Mackinnon to return or try to find him. He opted for the latter.
Jamie Mackinnon had downed at least six bottles of beer before he’d stopped counting, but when he finally crawled into his sleeping bag, the oblivion he sought hadn’t come. It had been a while since images of the man he’d knifed in Boston had haunted him, and Jamie wondered why Will Cameron had chosen this night to visit. The kill had been easy enough and his conscience was clear so he ordered the spirit to go back where it came from and to leave him be. He left the tent and stumbled to the edge of the sea to empty his beer-filled bladder before it burst. He was struggling to zip his jeans when he felt a tap on the shoulder. He whirled around, mouth open, fists raised.
A drunk and surprised Jamie was no match for Serge. He had the younger man on the ground in an instant and his experienced fingers easily found the sweet spot on his neck that brought about rapid loss of consciousness. He withdrew the loaded syringe from his pack and injected a potent barbiturate cocktail into the young man’s body. Jamie Mackinnon would never be aware of anything again. He hoisted the heavy body over his shoulder and carried it to the tent where he tugged a sweater and jacket over the young man’s T-shirt and added hiking boots to make a nocturnal cliffside walk look believable. He grunted as he hefted the 200 or so pounds of muscle onto his shoulder again and headed toward the Range Rover for the return trip to the nearby cliffs.
“Hey there! Is something amiss?” came a voice out of the swirling fog, as Buchanan’s friend MacLeod spotted the two men.
“Shit, there’s always something,” Serge muttered to himself, but he reacted instantly. He lowered Jamie to the ground so his hands would be free, although he didn’t want to be forced to use them.
“My friend must have eaten some bad mussels. He’s been boaking his guts up for hours and I’m taking him home,” he shouted toward the disembodied voice in a perfect Scots accent.
“Can I give ye a hand?” inquired the night stroller.
“Nae, no need. I’ve got it.”
“Perhaps you should take your mate to hospital.”
Shut up and go about your own bloody business, Serge thought, but said, “Right. Good idea.”
“Well then, if you’re sure you need no assistance, I’ll be on my way.”
“Thanks and a good night to you,” said Serge as the Good Samaritan bid him the same.
He waited until the sound of footsteps retreated, hoisted Jamie Mackinnon once more, and continued to his car.
Minutes after MacLeod’s neighbor finished describing his odd encounter, Buchanan’s tires screeched to a halt at the edge of the town beach. He left the headlights on to help him see and ran toward the lone tent that had to be Jamie’s.
“Jamie! Jamie!” he shouted breathlessly into the wind as he ran, but there was no answer. Panic hit when he saw that the tent was empty except for a rumpled sleeping bag and a pile of empty bottles. He was wild with dread and cursed everyone who had put him in this situation, including himself, as he retraced his steps to the car. Michael Graham would be furious to not be consulted, but there was no time for that. All he could think of was Jamie and how he’d assured the lad’s grandda that the young man would be safe with him.
MacLeod had said the two men, one injured or sick, had headed south in a dark SUV. His old Vauxhall Corsa wasn’t fast, but perhaps by some miracle he’d be able to catch up with them. He had no idea of what he’d do if, and when, he did.
Serge left the black Range Rover at the furthest edge of the unlit car park instead of concealing it among the trees that lined the other side of the road. He didn’t want to risk being seen by a passerby or worse, a cop on patrol, as he carried Jamie across the narrow road closest to the cliffs.
The hike uphill was more difficult than the unencumbered climb he’d made an hour earlier. He was sweating and breathing heavily, but managed to maintain a steady pace. His equilibrium was thrown off by the heavy body he carried, so he stayed well away from the slippery path at the edge of the cliff. His pants were still muddy from the fall he took on that very path an hour ago. A loss of footing this time could mean death for him as well. He carried a picture of the terrain in his mind and quickly eliminated the Bullers’ collapsed sea cave as an option. He had to be sure that the body would wash out to sea and the Bullers’ pot-shaped formation might be too enclosed by ledge. There was another spot along the cliff that he’d seen earlier. Two more minutes and he’d be there. He leaned into the wind, trudged a bit farther, and stopped. Without a moment’s hesitation, he carefully inched to the edge of the cliff, steadied himself and heaved Jamie Mackinnon into the sea.
Serge lay flat on the ground to recover from the exertion of throwing 200 pounds of dead weight as far as he could. Once he could breathe normally again, he carefully shimmied part way over the edge of the cliff and aimed a powerful flashlight into the rocky crevices below. He had to be sure that the body had landed in the sea and not on some outcropping where the target could wake as the drug wore off and shout for help. All he could make out was the swirling white foam of angry waves crashing into the bluffs below accompanied by the squawking of hundreds of gulls that made their home among the rocks. Satisfied, he stood and made a few sliding footprints in the mud leading from the path to the precipice. Then he reached his gloved hand into a pocket and removed two empty beer bottles with Jamie’s fingerprints on them and propped them beside a nearby rock.
Serge was sure that old man Mackinnon would suspect his grandson’s death was no accident. He’d also have little trouble figuring out who was responsible, but there would be no way to prove it. If the body washed up and an autopsy was performed — and Serge doubted it would be — the medical examiner would find salt water in the victim’s lungs, proof that he w
as alive and breathing when he hit the water. All traces of the short acting barbiturate mixture Serge had used would have left his system and the extra fine needle would have left no mark. The cause of death would be ruled accidental drowning. He gave the scene a last quick glance and returned to his car by a longer, alternate route to ensure that footsteps that only went one way — up — were left on the muddy path he’d taken while lugging Jamie.
He quickly stowed his equipment and changed into a sweatshirt and jeans in the silent, pitch black parking lot. Diego still believed the hit would take place the following day, so he needed to be told that they had to leave Scotland a day earlier than planned. The Navarro Gulfstream was standing by in London, but Alex and Diego were somewhere in the Highlands and would have to arrange to get to London fast. There was no one in sight, so he decided to make the call before he began the long drive south.
“This better be important.” Diego’s voice was husky and he was breathless as he put the phone to his ear.
Alex tried to help him maintain the rhythm that had them both on the verge of orgasm, but she could feel his attention shift elsewhere as he listened to the caller. Diego’s replies were cryptic, a smattering of “Good. No trouble? Yes, of course,” and finally, “I’ll do it now.”
His mind was obviously no longer on sex when he rolled off her and mumbled his apologies. But one glance told her that he was still semi-erect so she kissed her way down his body to bring him back to life. “Five minutes,” she whispered as she straddled him. “Whatever Serge told you to do can wait five minutes.”
An hour later, Diego quickly arranged to charter a plane to fly them from Inverness to London. Serge would meet them at the small London City Airport, where Diego’s pilot assured him the Navarro jet was fueled and ready to go. Once reunited there, the three of them would head back to Boston.
“Did something go wrong?” Alex asked as she hurriedly pulled on jeans and a woolen turtleneck while Diego, already dressed, threw the rest of their clothes into their bags.
“No. It’s all good. Serge had to move sooner than planned. He was listening to our friends tonight and they were trying to decide whether you and I posed any danger to them and what to do about us. Serge is sure they have no idea where we are, but he thought it best to take care of business quickly in case they decided to relocate Will’s murderer again. The packet of evidence is already on its way to Serge’s friend in MI-5, who promised that all of the conspirators would be in custody by noon tomorrow. Serge is on his way to London. He told me that he found Mackinnon’s grandson and…”
“No! Shhhhh,” Alex said as she covered his mouth with her fingers. “I don’t want to know. I told you I don’t ever want to know.” She was surprised that she felt nothing, neither relief nor guilt. Maybe those emotions would come later. If she knew the details she’d be able to picture what happened and that could be a problem. It was better to remain ignorant.
Diego opened his arms and she went to him. In a few short months he had become adept at recognizing her needs and fulfilling them. His body was solid and radiated security and comfort into hers. “We better go,” he said, reluctantly breaking the embrace to check his watch. It was a few minutes after 3 a.m. “At this time of night the motorway will be deserted and we can make excellent time,” he said as he picked up their overnight bags. The comment made Alex’s lips twitch, but she didn’t say anything. She’d spent enough time racing around with Diego to know that an empty road was irrelevant when he wanted to get someplace in a hurry. But this wasn’t the best time for one of their verbal jousting matches.
Serge ended his brief call to Diego, flipped the phone closed and stuffed it in his pocket as he climbed into the Range Rover to begin the journey to London. He turned the key in the ignition and the rugged vehicle’s powerful motor roared to life, but an approaching car’s headlights made him freeze as he was about to put the 4 x 4 in gear. He waited for the late night traveler to zoom past the spot where he was parked, but instead of passing, the vehicle slowed. Not a tourist then. It had to be a cop on night patrol. He knew better than to run from the police. As anxious as he was to get going, he had no choice but to stay where he was. He got out of the Rover and stood next to it with his hands visible so the cop could see he posed no threat, but he left the motor running and the door ajar.
He’d already changed into jeans and a Miami Dolphins sweatshirt and wedged his gear into the tire well until he could dump it. There’d be no trouble passing for an American tourist. He’d show his U.S. passport and the car rental papers, all in the name of Steven A. Spencer of Florida, and explain that he’d pulled over to rest before continuing the nine-hour drive to London. The cop would suggest that he check into a hotel and get a good night’s sleep. Serge would thank him and agree to find a bed when he reached Aberdeen, less than a half hour away. The whole thing might take five minutes, max, a minor glitch.
Serge never took his eyes off the approaching vehicle as it veered off the road, scanned the car park with its headlights and moved toward him. He cursed the pitch-black night that kept him from clearly seeing the car as it closed in on him.
Cop, Serge thought. Yet every instinct in his body told him to jump into the Rover and get the hell out of there. He’d learned to pay attention to the internal warning system that had saved his life more than once. But if this was a cop — and who else could it be —it would look suspicious for him to suddenly take off. There’d be a chase. And questions. And a delay he couldn’t afford. Logic overruled his inner voice.
The car’s high beams blinded him. In the split second before his eyes readjusted, the driver leapt out and shrieked hysterically, “Where’s Jamie? What have you done with him?” There was the glint of a gun.
Reflex propelled Serge’s body into the driver’s seat and he threw the SUV into gear before the man’s words traveled from ear to brain. His foot hit the gas and he had the Rover moving before he’d even closed its door. Then he felt the unmistakable searing pain of a bullet. The wound didn’t matter, survival did. He gunned the engine and tore out of the parking lot, tires squealing, gravel flying, as another bullet or two pinged off the tailgate. He checked the rear view mirror and saw that the other car was no match for his. The shooter would know that too. There’d be no chase.
Chapter 35
The waking sun turned the sky over Inverness into a pink, gold and peach masterpiece as the plane Diego chartered taxied to the runway for take off for London. Against the warm glow of dawn, Alex’s face was pale and she could barely keep her eyes open.
“Put your head on my shoulder and try to rest, Preciosa.”
“No, not yet. This country’s so beautiful...but I have to say good-bye to it. I don’t ever want to come back here.” She gazed out the window as their route took them south, down the Great Glen and over Loch Ness. Then she closed her eyes, overcome by memories of Will, and felt her heart break.
Diego held her hand until she fell asleep. He hoped that the pain that he’d seen in her eyes would be gone when she woke.
Less than two hours later, the jet touched down at the small London City Airport and taxied to the area where the Navarro Gulfsteam was parked. Diego gently kissed Alex’s forehead. “Wake up sleeping beauty.”
“Are we in London? Have we really left Scotland?” she asked hopefully and felt immense relief when Diego replied, “Yes, thank God.”
“Good. I feel like a huge weight is gone.”
Minutes later they walked down the steps of one plane and onto the other. The nap had done her good and Alex’s mood lifted the minute she stepped aboard. “Is that coffee? Do I smell coffee?” she asked the cabin steward who welcomed them. He brought her a steaming mug as soon as she was seated and then served a breakfast worthy of a four star restaurant.
“I keep forgetting that you really live differently from the rest of us mere mortals,” she commented as she dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin and opened the top button of her jeans to relieve the pressure of too much
food.
“Yes, I do. Is that a problem?” Diego snapped, then immediately apologized. “I’m sorry. Serge should have been here by now. I’m worried.”
“Could he have radioed the pilot? Maybe your mobile isn’t working or Serge’s can’t get a signal,” Alex suggested. Diego’s anxiety was contagious.
“Maybe. I’ll go forward and check.”
Diego returned from the cockpit a minute later and exhaled loudly as he collapsed into the cushy leather seat opposite her. “Nothing. Serge assured me it went off without a hitch when he called last night. If anything happened to him...” He wouldn’t allow himself to finish the sentence.
Alex got out of her seat and began to massage his shoulders. He groaned as her fingers kneaded away the knots of tension that had become a constant presence since...well...for a long time. Alex scolded herself for being so consumed by her own needs that she hadn’t considered the effect all of this was having on him. Diego was tough and he was brave, but even the strongest men crack and need to lean on someone once in a while. She not only owed him her support, she wanted to give it.
“You’re very good at that,” he said as her thumbs did their work. “Ever think of opening a massage parlor? You could wear...nothing?”
“Very funny, Navarro. You had to go for the lewd comment just when I was starting to think that some of your other body parts might want my attention too.” She laughed as he tumbled her into his lap.
“Does this mean you’ve stopped worrying about Serge?” she whispered as she ran her tongue around the edges of his ear, pleased that she was able to distract him.
“No, but maybe there’s something we could do to help pass the time. After all, worrying won’t bring him here any sooner,” he said as he ran a hand up her leg and nuzzled her neck.
Legacy of the Highlands Page 29
