pale even in the moonlight, and his eyes looked haunted. In his hands he held a piece of cloth—a burned piece of cloth.
“This wasn’t the IN. It doesn’t fit their MO,” Patrick said.
Looking closer at the fire on the ground, Bannon spotted branches or….
His knees buckled, and his stomach swooped. He swallowed hard, staring at the long cylindrical things in the middle of the burned ground. He stopped next to Ciaran and glanced at Marcus, Patrick, and Stuart. They all wore identical expressions of grief. He met Ciaran’s gaze and watched the sadness turn to anger.
Still holding his nose, Bannon pointed with his free hand at the charred mess on the ground. “Are those bones?” His voice came out as little more than a whisper.
Ciaran nodded. “Our missing men.” He held up the fabric.
It was a piece of MacKay plaid.
Bannon turned away from the circle and promptly cast up his accounts.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Artists and authors are liars! Or perhaps they are just propagandists, because honorable war scenes just do not capture the true nature of death. They should all be forced to witness the real thing before subjecting their audience to a rendition of the horrible event.”
—Timothy on the public image of death.
Ciaran fought his way through the grief and the guilt. He’d put the men in danger, and he’d do it again because it had been necessary, but it still gnawed at him. Even knowing they’d been killed shortly after they disappeared, he couldn’t help but wonder if there had been something he could have done to prevent this. Just like the night his father was killed. If he’d only sent better instructions, better intel.
Patrick squeezed his shoulder. “It could have been any of us. It could have been me, you, Marcus, and Bannon when we went to surveil the base. It could have been Marcus and I just tonight.”
“Nae.” Ciaran shook his head. “I dinna believe that. My men made a mistake. Which means, as their leader, I made a mistake. I dinna prepare them properly.” He’d failed as a chieftain… again. He glanced down at the piece of tartan in his hand, and something inside him ignited. His resolve cleared. This was the last time he’d fail to protect his people.
“My men too.” Patrick squeezed his shoulder again. “There are ten bodies here. This is both of our men, and I didn’t fail them. You didn’t fail them. We have no idea of knowing what they faced.”
“How do we know they just weren’t overwhelmed? The IN has better weapons. And more men,” Marcus said.
Red walked up beside him, looking pale and fragile.
Ciaran had wanted to go to him when he’d been sick. He’d wanted to hug him and swear it’d be all right, but he knew Red would not want his sympathy. He’d see it as pity and an affront to his manhood. Even still, he could not help but ask, “Are ye a’right?” He couldn’t quite banish the urge to reach out and take Red’s hand, so he did. He told himself it was because Red needed the comfort, but he knew better. He knew damned well which of them needed that reassuring contact.
Red must have sensed it too, because when Ciaran’s hand touched his, Red gripped it, holding on for dear life. The tension around Ciaran’s neck intent on paralyzing him released just a bit. Air flowed into his lungs, releasing the stranglehold on his throat.
With an aggravated growl, Stuart ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. The old man looked at least ten years older than he had this afternoon. His hands shook, and his voice was strangled and hoarse. “Patrick has it aright, lad. This wasnae ye fault. If it was anyone’s fault, it was the council’s.” He raised his head finally, meeting Ciaran’s gaze. He grimaced, then quickly averted his gaze and stared down at his feet. When he spoke again, his voice wavered. “We undermined ye authority every chance we got. Had we just listened, ye wouldnae had tae send such a small band of men.”
“I agree with Patrick,” Red whispered.
Ciaran glanced down at him, only seeing the top of his tousled head, but his hand still held tight to Ciaran’s.
Red looked so small at the moment, staring at the burned remains of their men. He stared as if unseeing, as if he wanted to crawl away and lick his wounds, but then his back stiffened. That steel composure seemed to slide up his backbone, inch by inch, until