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Ethan takes one step forward.
The gorilla’s hand twitches towards his jacket pocket.
“Don’t even think of it,” I snarl, raising my own weapon.
The woman mutters something, and her bodyguard relaxes. I lower my gun.
“Good morning, madam.” Ethan’s tone is level.
I could almost believe he was sincere. Almost.
“It’s good to meet you at last.”
“I fear I cannot say the same, Mr Savage.” Her English is perfect, though heavily accented. “Where is my son?”
He ignores her question. “Since we’re becoming acquainted, may I call you Mrs Logan?”
We learned Marlon’s last name from Jed O’Neill, Casey’s husband. Jed heads up the Irish Mob and remembers the Logans who previously worked for his father. The old man and his eldest son were executed by O’Neill Senior for embezzling money from him, but the younger boy, Marlon, was allowed to leave Ireland with his mother. Our assumption is that she returned to her native Russia and reinvented herself as a Bratva madam of sorts. Why she’s back here now and targeting us is anybody’s guess.
“Where is my son?” she repeats, clearly not enthusiastic about small talk.
Ethan gestures to Callum to show himself. He shuffles forward, head bowed, his hands behind his back as though bound.
“As you can see, your son is in rude good health. Now, if you would just produce my guns…?”
“I told you I do not have them.”
Ethan shrugs. “Ah, well.” He clicks his fingers, summoning Tony from inside the mansion. “Take him back downstairs.”
Tony grabs Callum and drags him back. Callum puts up a decent show of a fight, earning himself a vicious uppercut to his jaw.
“Wait!” the imperious voice cracks out.
“My guns?” Ethan regards her steadily.
“They are in a van outside.”
We’d already worked out that this was most likely the case. We have men surrounding the convoy ready to relieve them of their cargo.
Ethan’s smile is grim. “Tell your men to unload the merchandise and leave it at the gate. Then they can withdraw.”
“Do you think me stupid, Mr Savage?” Her eyes glint through the dark gauze veil.
“I think you are desperate and out of choices if you want to leave here with your boy.” You could cut diamonds with his tone.
Long moments pass while she considers her position. She turns to her companion and issues an instruction. He mutters into his mouthpiece, in what I assume to be Russian.
“The items are being unloaded,” she informs us. “You may release my son now.”
“You’ve seen your son. You’ll understand I’d like to see my property before proceeding.”
“You do not trust me? I have said—”
“No, madam, I don’t trust you. Shall we not bother with all that bollocks?”
“You are a man without honour,” she protests.
Her apparent indignation is laughable. We ignore it and wait for confirmation that the guns are safely back in our hands and the consignment intact.
