Tate (Mountain Men 3)

I hit him again, just to punish him for speaking her name, and again, so he doesn’t speak it again.

“Tell me what you know.”

“Fuck off!”

In one clean twist, I break his arm without regret, ignoring Fran’s screams and his. It hangs uselessly on the ground when I reach for his second arm.

“You’ll never fucking use these again. You’ll never fucking breathe again. Tell me what I want to know.”

He shakes his head from side to side. I know exactly how to snap bone, exactly how to do it to cause the most amount of damage but not hurt him so much he passes out.

“Tate, no!” Fran screams, covering her mouth. “Don’t!”

“Tell me.”

Even through his blood-stained mouth, he smiles, sick and twisted and perverted. “Never.”

I break his second arm.

Both hang uselessly by his sides, and his agony is palpable.

I move to his leg. Fran sobs openly.

He’s blinded by agony and doesn’t know I’m there until I grab him fully, prepared to break his kneecap.

“Okay, okay! Interpol! Fucking Interpol. I sent everything I knew to them. They fucking paid me, paid my father.” I grab him by the shirt front, but he slumps to the side, passed out.

Ice pulses through my veins.

Interpol.

Jesus.

I have to talk to Leith and the Irish head Keenan, and now.

William picks up immediately.

“Behind the tavern.”

“Body or injured?”

He’s ready to pick up whatever I’ve left him, dead or alive.

“Wish it was his fucking body.” I blow out a breath. “Injured.”

“We’re on it.”

My Glock’s in my hand, pointed at Fergus’s temple. It would be too easy to pull the trigger, to punish him for what he’s done. For touching her. Betraying her. Putting her in danger.

“No, Tate,” Fran says, her hand on my arm. I don’t miss the tremble in her voice. “He isn’t bloody worth it.”

She’s right, I fucking know she’s right, but I still give him a hard kick for good measure. She winces, and it’s the first time I wonder if I’ve gone too far. A cold, bitter wind kicks up, and she shivers. I reach for her, but she steps away, wrapping her arms around herself to warm her, when someone comes around the corner. A tall bloke, arms raised. The light’s crap here and I can’t see who it is. I click my Glock.

“Put yer fuckin’ gun away, you wanker,” Mac says, stepping into a pool of yellow light. “William warned me, I came straight away.” He looks down at Fergus’s mangled body. “Jaysus, you fucked him up good, didn’t you?” He scowls but there’s pride in his voice. “Bloody deserved it.”

Fran shivers again.

“Go, Tate,” Mac says, already bending to deal with Fergus. “I’ll bring him back. Leith and I’ll question him tonight. Fill you in later. Get to Dublin, that’s where you’re needed now.”

I take Fran’s arm, and she pulls away slightly. I don’t have time to see what the bloody hell’s going on with her, so I tug her more firmly. “Got to bloody go, lassie.”

Her feet seem to unglue from the pavement, and she steps alongside me, but there’s none of the familiarity of before. She keeps herself at a distance.

She may be hurt, she may be in shock. I’ll have to see to her on the way to Ireland.

A car waits at the exit, Clyde in the driver’s seat, sent by William. Our bags are in the back. My brothers have sorted damn near everything.

Everything but Fran.

“Y’alright, lassie?” I ask, resting my hand on her knee as we pull quickly away from the pub and head to where our private jet awaits us.

She nods, but her teeth chatter. She doesn’t speak for long minutes, and for now I don’t push it since my own head’s bloody preoccupied with everything that has to happen next.

“Need anything, brother?” Clyde asks from the front.

“Need that son of a bitch alive when I get back, Clyde. Question him, but keep him alive.”

“Absolutely.”

Fran sits stiffly beside me as we get to the large clearing with our jet waiting for takeoff. Clyde parks, grabs our bags, and slings them into the waiting jet. The pilot and our private flight attendant wait for us. Fran watches everything with wide, frightened eyes.

I’ve seen this woman witness terrible, tragic things. I’ve never seen fear in her eyes like this, and it unsettles me.

I wait until I have us situated, the promise of what we could squeeze in together in seventy-two minutes forgotten. Her well-being’s the most important thing right now.

“Fran.” My voice is harsher than I intend, but it gets her attention. When she looks at me, those eyes that normally dance in play look at me with fear. Her gaze wanders to my hands. I look down, realizing they’re still spattered in blood. I normally wouldn’t care. He deserved what he got and worse for what he did, but I hate that I’ve somehow scared her.