Chapter 8
A sharp, metallic rap on the terrace glass broke the rhythm of his stitches.
Thorne stepped inside through the French doors, his overcoat buttoned tight, his face grim. He stopped three paces away, keeping his voice low so as not to alarm the child.
"Mr. Ashcombe," Thorne said.
Lachlan completed the final knot on the rabbit’s seam, severed the thread with the blade of his knife, and handed the restored toy back to Nola.
"Stay here, little bird," Lachlan murmured. "Grandpa needs to speak with Thorne."
Nola clutched the rabbit against her chest, her thumb stroking the soft silk, her eyelids already drooping with fatigue.
Lachlan stood up and walked to the glass doors, looking out across the private harbor.
The water was turning the color of hammered lead under the twilight sky. At the end of the long wooden pier, half a mile out, two black offshore speedboats were idling, their twin outboards emitting a low, vibrating rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. Their navigation lights were dark, their hulls riding low in the water.
"Castiglione," Thorne said quietly. "Three crews. They bypassed the harbor patrol at four-fifteen. They’re holding off the outer buoy, waiting for a signal flare from the terrace."
"Ottoline’s signal," Lachlan observed.
"Yes, sir. When she didn't check in, they moved within perimeter range. Our men on the breakwater report heavy armaments. Automatic weapons, tactical armor. They didn't come to negotiate the freight contracts, Mr. Ashcombe. They came to extract Ottoline and execute the transfer by force."
Lachlan looked at his wristwatch. Four-forty-eight.
"How many men do we have at the estate?" Lachlan asked.
"Twelve on the inner perimeter. Six at the gatehouse. But if they hit the main house with high-caliber fire, the glass in this conservatory won't hold five seconds."
Lachlan reached into his tailored suit jacket, unbuttoned the holster beneath his left arm, and checked the chamber of his matte-black .45 caliber automatic. The brass casing gleamed in the dying light. He snapped the slide back into battery with a crisp, metallic clack.
"Where is the District Attorney?" Lachlan asked.
"Still on the terrace pavilion with the other guests," Thorne replied. "We kept them contained under the pretext of a private security drill. They know something happened, but they don't know about the boats."
"Bring the District Attorney into the library," Lachlan commanded. "Give him Clara’s recording. Let him hear his own campaign manager’s name mentioned on the kickback ledger."
Thorne blinked, his jaw tightening. "You're giving them the ledger, sir? If the feds get that tape, the entire freight syndicate gets audited under RICO. You could lose the northern terminals."
Lachlan turned around.
May you like
He looked across the vast, empty ballroom. At the bottom of the grand curved staircase, little Nola had curled her knees up to her chest, her head resting against the velvet carpet of the step, fast asleep with the silk rabbit tucked securely under her chin.
"The terminals belong to the docks, Thorne," Lachlan said, his voice flat as granite. "Nola belongs to me."
