Legacy of the Highlands (38 page)

Duncan Buchanan tossed the television’s remote onto
a pile of magazines a moment before he shoved the whole mess onto
the floor. He patted his pocket for what seemed like the thousandth
time, needing the comfort provided by the firearm he’d cleaned and
loaded just that morning. He had to do something or the gnawing
anxiety since that evening’s conference call with Mackinnon, Graham
and the others would surely drive him out of his mind.

Despite Michael’s orders to let Jamie be, it
was only right to warn the lad that something might be amiss, that
there could be trouble on the way, especially since they’d learned
there was a second Cameron son — a dangerous one with blood in his
eye — and he was in Scotland. Screw Michael Graham! He’d gone along
with their so-called leader long enough and look where it got him.
Scotland was no closer to freedom and he was an accessory to
murder. Graham could take his orders and shove them up his arse. It
was the middle of the night, but he would find the lad and demand
that he return to the relative safety of the house.

He pulled a heavy sweater over his head,
added a windbreaker and shoved his loaded gun into one of the
jacket’s pockets. He was out of practice, but he’d once been a fair
shot and you didn’t forget that sort of thing, did you?

“Blast the fog,” he uttered irritably as he
stepped outside and began to walk, head down, toward the beach.

“Hello there,” came a familiar voice out of
the mist. “Would that be you, Buchanan?”

“Aye, ‘tis. And what are you doing out on a
dreadful night like this MacLeod?” he replied, recognizing the
voice as William MacLeod, his chattiest near neighbor. He had no
time for the man’s blether, but his neighbor’s next comment froze
Buchanan in his tracks.

“I could ask the same of you and I could also
ask if your mind has turned to mush. Everyone in the village,
including you Duncan, knows that I get by on just a few hours sleep
and that I go out walking late each night, rain or shine, winter or
summer. And it’s rare that I ever see another soul about in weather
like this, but you make the third tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. Some laddie took sick and his mate had
him over his shoulder, carrying him off the beach. Ate bad mussels,
he said, and boaked his guts up. I told him to take the poor fellow
to hospital as he looked to be unconscious.”

Buchanan shuddered as free-floating anxiety
gripped him in its vise. Jamie was on the beach. His was the only
tent on the sand. Someone had carried Jamie off. He was sure of it.
The danger was already here. He wanted to scream, but had to keep
his voice calm.

“Did you see them go? Did they drive off in a
car, MacLeod?”

“Aye. I heard an engine start and I could
just make out the car — it was dark, one of those petrol-eating
SUVs, a Land Rover perhaps — as they drove away. The mist made it
hard to see, but I’m sure they headed south, toward Cruden Bay and
the Bullers, and one would guess to hospital in Aberdeen. Why are
you so worried about some stranger with a bad stomach?”

“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 was 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…”