Page 8 of Breaking the Code

Today, though, after ten years, I think I’ve figured out who killed my family.

Graeme Buchanan.

The darkness o' the night provides cover as I enter the house. I’ve been waiting for this moment for nearly a year. Ever since I found the letter my grandfather sent to my father all those years ago.

I’ve trained for it. Months o' weapon and close-combat training hardened my body. The losses I’ve suffered hardened my heart and my mind, banishing all the good inside me. I’ve planned everything down to the tiniest detail. I’ve even flown to America to carry out my plan.

Now that I’m here, the time is nigh. It willnae be long before the man who killed my family, who killed Simon, is dead. I just have to find him.

That will be no small feat. The house is massive. Simon had located the plans for it somehow, and I studied them until I knew them by heart. But while I know the layout o' the house, I dinnae ken what room Graeme Buchanan sleeps in.

I creep further into the depths o’ the residence, making as little noise as possible. I hear shouting in the distance, so I weave through the shadows toward the voices, hoping to catch sight o’ Graeme Buchanan. Once Graeme is dead, any Order member would do, but I cannae risk them catching onto my presence until Buchanan is dead.

A slight shuffling o’ sound makes its way to my ears. I hazard a glance. A slight figure, nae bigger than a child o’ ten, maybe twelve, is scurrying away from the voices I’m making my way toward.

What’s a child doing here?

Strange.

I shake my head and refocus my attention on what had me crossing the Atlantic. Graeme Buchanan is in this house and I mean to do away with him, so he disnae see another sunrise. I must stay on task. I cannae let myself be distracted by a wee lad wandering about where he shouldnae.

The further I go into the Graeme’s domain, the more evidence there is o' his and the Order’s wealth and reach. There are photos o' Graeme with government officials, foreign dignitaries, high-ranking police and military members and more. Owen Black, head o’ the Order o’ Death, and several other men I dinnae recognize stand alongside Graeme in the photographs.

Those photos show how insulated and protected the Order is. With the relationships they have with those in power, stopping them willnae be an easy feat. That disnae matter one wit to me.

Footsteps echo throughout the cavernous interior o’ the home. The steps arena slow and measured, they are heavy stomps that sound angry. I duck behind an enormous leaning mirror and wait, watching to see if the person is alone.

Hoping it’s Graeme.

When the steps pass my hiding spot, I bite down on my tongue. Copper bursts across my tastebuds and fills my senses.

It’s him.

Giving him a large lead, I follow behind as he makes his way up the stairs. He grumbles the entire way, which helps cover my movements.

At the top o’ the stairs, he pauses. I duck behind some gaudy pillar and wait. The click o’ the door opening and closing is loud, and it echoes through the hallway.

A deep sigh o' relief fills my chest, pressing against my ribs. I exhale in a rush before making my way to the door he disappeared behind. At the door, I press my ear to the wood, listening for any surprises that could await me on the other side.

Hearing nothing, I turn the knob slowly. So slowly, it feels as if an eon has passed before the knob stops. I give the door a tiny shove and it pops open with nary a sound. There’s no sound coming from the room, either.

With another deep sigh, I slip inside. I’m standing in an alcove, and the room opposite the door is nae a bedroom, like I thought it would be, but a sitting room. The room is fairly dark, only lit by the glow o' a single lamp. I turn the lock, peeking around the corner, wondering where the fuck the arsehole had got off to.

Then I hear where he is. The shower in the next room is running. I move across the floor toward the partially open door. The carpet silences my footfalls as I stalk my prey.

I pull out the pair o' bearded axes I carry strapped to my back. The Skeggøx have been passed down through my mother’s family from generation to generation. Mum may have been a Scot, but her people were descendent from Scandinavia. But the battle axe wasnae something I could conceal. The Skeggøx were difficult enough to hide on my person. A six foot long double-headed battle axe would draw attention I dinnae need.

At first I considered nae using these axes. I didnae want to dishonor them with Graeme Buchanan’s blood. They’d been used in battle many times over the centuries since they were made, killing the foes o' my ancestors, but for some reason I hadnae wanted to taint them with the blood o' the Order.

Then one day when I was holding them in my hands, dripping sweat onto the gym floor as I trained, I caught sight o' myself in the mirror hanging on the wall. I looked feral, like a Viking warrior o' old. That’s when I realized there was no better weapon for what I’m about to do. These axes were made to protect my family. They had been carried into battle many times over and now I would use them to avenge the deaths o' those I love.

The shower stops and I can hear Buchanan rustling around. I step away from the wall, placing myself directly in front o' the door. As quietly as possible, using the blade o' an axe, I push against the door.

Graeme’s bowed head jerks upright, his eyes meeting mine in the swipe o' clear glass on the foggy mirror. Shock erases all the color from his face and he spins toward me.

“Who are you?” he croaks, an army o' frogs crowding out his voice.

I stare him dead in the eye.

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