Page 117 of Inked Athena

Either way, I need to hear what Boyko has to say. But first, I need to secure the perimeter.

It doesn’t take me long to pick up the trail. And when I follow it long enough, I come to the source of the broken glass and twisted metal strewn across the forest floor.

The rental car sits half-buried in bracken, its front end crumpled in a ditch. Even from twenty yards away, I can tell it’s oneof those cheap European compacts tourists love—perfect for blending in on narrow Scottish roads.

Not so perfect for outrunning whoever fucked up Boyko.

I circle the vehicle twice, checking sight lines and possible ambush points. The steep embankment above the crash site would make a decent sniper position, but the thick evening mist provides decent cover. Still, I keep my movements precise and unpredictable as I approach.

The driver’s side door hangs open. Dark arterial spray paints the windshield and dashboard in an arc consistent with someone taking a blow to the face. More blood soaks into the upholstery of both front seats. The position and pattern suggest Boyko was driving when he got hit, managed to stay conscious long enough to crash, then dragged himself out and down the hill toward the castle.

A Glock 19—standard FBI issue—lies on the floorboard under the steering wheel. I retrieve it using my handkerchief, check the magazine. Full except for one round. If Boyko fired, he missed.

The rest of the car is clean. Too clean. No phone, no badge, no wallet, no briefcase. Either Boyko ditched everything before he ran, his attacker took it all, or he came here more incognito than he should have.

I pocket the gun and start back toward the castle, taking a different route than before. The fog’s getting denser, making it hard to see, but I know these grounds by heart now. Every hollow, every rise, every spot where someone could be waiting.

Boyko may have come alone, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t followed. And I’ve got too much to protect to take unnecessary risks.

By the time I get back, my clothes are soaked through with mud, dew, and fog. Myles meets me at the side entrance. His usual easy smile is nowhere in sight.

“Doc’s twenty minutes out. My guys found tire tracks near the south gate but nothing else suspicious. No chatter about any ops gone sideways, either.” He falls into step beside me. “Think he came solo?”

“For now.” I scan the security feeds on my phone. “Double the patrols anyway. And get eyes on the village. See if anyone heard or saw anything out of place.”

The kitchen’s warmth hits me as soon as I push through the door. Nova sits at the worn wooden table with Serena and Mrs. Morris, their hands wrapped around steaming mugs. The air smells like fresh-baked bread and worry.

Mrs. Morris jumps up. “Here now, you must be starving.” She slides a plate of shepherd’s pie in front of me. “Eat while it’s hot.”

I force myself to take a bite, but the rich flavors turn bland on my tongue. Nova’s eyes track my every movement, reading between the lines of what I’m not saying.

“The perimeter’s secure,” I tell them, trying to project calm authority. “Our guest came alone, and he’ll get the medical attention he needs. My team’s investigating how he ended up here.”

Serena and Mrs. Morris exchange relieved glances. Nova’s jaw tightens—she sees right through my carefully constructed reassurance.

“I should check on him,” she announces, pushing back from the table.

“Stay.” The word comes out sharper than intended. I soften my tone. “Please. Let the doctor handle it.”

She settles back, but her eyes promise this conversation isn’t over.

The kitchen door swings open and Myles’s expression tells me everything I need to know before he opens his mouth. “Doc’s here. Wants a word.”

Nova pushes her chair back, but I rest my hand on her shoulder. “Stay. I’ll fill you in soon.”

Her eyes narrow. She hates being left out, but right now, ignorance might save her life. Serena—bless her heart—asks Nova to help her brew more tea.

Nova’s shoulders slump in resignation. “Alright, Grams. Lead the way.”

With her occupied—for now—I follow Myles down the stone corridor to where the doctor waits, his lined face grim in the lamplight.

His Scottish brogue is thick as he outlines Boyko’s condition: “Concussion. Heavy bruising. No broken bones, but we’ll need to monitor for internal injuries.” He pauses. “He should be in hospital.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Myles will see you out.” I slip him an envelope thick with cash. Sometimes, the old ways are still the best ways.

The sitting room is dim when I enter, lit only by a brass lamp that casts long shadows across Boyko’s battered face. His eyes flutter open as I approach—sharp and alert despite the beating he’s taken.

Good. I need him coherent.

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