Page 34 of Rekindled (The MacTavish Heirs #5)

In which this is a proper Villain’s Lair.

Catriona…

Hugo may have a medical license, but it’s clear it’s been some time - if ever - since he practiced. There’s a trickle of blood running down my calf that I choose to ignore. I’ll clean it and put in some butterfly stitches later.

The bastard at least had the courtesy to numb the area before digging that scalpel in to find my tracker. Maybe he’s still nursing some hurt feelings.

“How will your father react to this news?” he asks, lounging across from me.

“I called him right after we hung up.” I smile devilishly. “I told him I was taking a leave of absence. He was not happy. At some point ye will have to return me in the same condition ye found me in. Alive. Unharmed.”

“You wound me, cherie.” He puts a hand to his chest. “We are colleagues now.” Looking at the window, he beams happily. “Ah. We are about to land, and I will transfer you to the helicopter with utmost delicacy.”

Aaaand, another damned blindfold. Afther the helicopter, I'm put in a jeep.

The windows are open and I can smell the sharp fresh air and we’re back in the Atlas Mountains, I’m sure of it. He’s really taking me back to the scene of the crime, so to speak?

The air changes, dropping abruptly in temperature, more dank, and moist. I hear doors clang open with a metallic screech and as they close behind us, it’s stale, filtered air. Are we underground?

Hugo’s moist hand takes mine and helps me from the jeep. “You may take off your blindfold.”

Ripping it off, I squint painfully for a few moments before the black spots disappear from my vision and I can handle the light.

We’re in an enormous hall, the ceiling soaring up above us, the floor is a mosaic of granite and marble tiles and, as is Hugo’s taste, the furniture is dripping with gold leaf and lavish fabrics.

“Not the castle, then,” I say dryly. Looking up, up and then up some more, my heart sinks. It’s rock, with huge steel girders supporting the most likely thousands of tons of mountain above us .

There’s a huge Dubois family crest over the steel doors and the overhead lights make it glow sullenly like the Eye of Sauron.

That’s fitting.

“I must admit, I nearly gave it away that first night at dinner,” he says, “when you called my sweet little castle a villain’s lair. This!” He spreads his arms wide, “This is a lair! Bienvenue dans la grotte des chauves-souris -”

“No. Nae. Uh-uh. Ye canna call it the Bat Cave, Hugo!” Am I delirious? My biggest problem is the eejit supervillain name he wants to bestow on this monstrosity?

“No?” His arms drop.

“No,” I say firmly. “We must think of something else. Something special to ye. First, I would like to bandage the gash ye left on my leg and then perhaps a tour?” I force myself to smile. “I’m certain there are stories to be told here.”

Lucas. Love. I know ye will find me.

Lucas…

Marabout Badis sends his guards out to do the footwork, traveling through the villages near the castle, which is deserted. “They will not stand out, the way your people would,” he says kindly. “Even with your skills at stealth, I’m certain the locals have been ordered to look for visitors. ”

We do learn there’s a few guards watching over what is left of the valuables at the castle, but the labs were cleared out down to the last test tube and Dubois is not in residence.

“Could he have moved on to another castle, then?” Duncan’s listening to the latest reports with a frown.

“Too obvious.” I shake my head. “They’re easily scanned by satellites and drones. We’re missing something.”

“What’s our next step?” Wallace is flicking his zippo lighter on and off.

“We keep searching,” Ryan says, moving from one monitor to the other, following the drones’ progress.

“In the meantime,” I add, “we’re going to keep Dubois busy.

There’s a certain Albanian Mafia that just discovered who poisoned twenty-five of their best men.

The Australian Minister of Health is demanding answers about a botched shipment of weight loss drugs, a massive one where the coolant failed, and the Semaglutides were destroyed.

I’m sure ye can guess who manufactures the drugs. ”

“Shite,” Wallace whistles softly. “Ye think the Albanians are howling for blood? Try three million overweight Aussies. They’ll have his head on a pike. ”

“That’s just Friday and Saturday,” Michael says, nursing his drink. “Next week, we’re breaking into his labs in France and Denmark and stealing his developmental drugs. Most of them were taken from other companies, anyway.”

“Why am I guessing that your father will be offering to sell these formulas back to the original manufacturers for a hefty price?” I say dryly.

“Well, we are still Mafia,” Michael smiles maliciously.

Day Three…

My Cat is alive, I know this.

I must find her before she finishes that antidote. Dubois’ reactions to our booby-traps and public relations nightmares are becoming increasingly erratic. There’s no guarantee he’ll be in the right state of mind to keep her alive after he gets what he wants.

I’m back in the little village where I bought Cat clothes and found us a ride to Ourika Valley.

There are enough tourists here that I dinnae stand out, and I know how to keep a low profile.

I dinnae know why I’m here, only that it’s the closest I feel to Cat.

I force myself to focus, to see everything around me like a normal tourist, out for a stroll.

The street market looks the same as before, bairns darting back and forth between the stalls, shouting.

A man tosses a date to his Barbary macaque, who catches it with its clever wee hands.

Older ladies with weathered faces cat-call each other and one steps closer, shoving a brightly colored bolt of cloth at me.

“shay' lizawjatik aljamilati? Something for your pretty wife?” she asks me, nodding at my wedding ring. The fabric is cotton, light, and gauzy. I rest my hand on it. It’s a deep green color. Almost the color of my wife’s eyes.

“'ana la 'uwmin bialhaz, walakin hadhih hi taewidhati almahzuzat alyawma. I dinnae believe in luck, but this is my lucky charm today.” I hand her all the dirham notes I have in my pocket.

She beams at me. “adhhab mae allahi. Go with God.”

Within minutes, my radar is back on, the awareness that I’m being followed. I amble through a couple of narrow streets, turning the corner. My shadow is still there. I step into the first quiet alley I find, waiting to attack.

“tawaquf! la tadribini! Stop! Don’t hit me!”

Here’s a lad who never learns his lesson.

It’s the same teenager who tried to rob me last time. His hands are up, dark brown eyes wide. “I know why you’re here,” he says in careful, broken English. “You want the king of the castle.”

My grip tightens on his shirt. “Are ye talking about Hugo Dubois?”

“Naeam, yes. My brother and cousins worked in his cave. They were paid almost nothing.” He spat to the side. “My brother’s arm was broken and they still made him work.”

“Ye will show me where it is, and I will make sure your family is taken care of for life.” My throat is dry, and my hands are sweaty, gripping my bolt of cloth. My lucky charm.