2
Z ayn
This is only my second visit to Caraksay, Ethan’s private Hebridean retreat. It’s pleasant enough, in a rugged sort of a way. A bird-watcher’s paradise and a haven for those seeking peace and solitude. The scenery is breathtaking.
I consider myself honoured to be here. It’s taken me four years to earn the recognition, if you don’t count the four days I spent initially in the purpose-built clinic the Savages have here. My injuries at the hands of Jack Morgan were limited to cuts and bruises, and I was soon shipped out to join the rank and file at Caernsbro Ghyll. Ethan only allows those he trusts, and just as important, likes, to set foot on his secluded stronghold. This is his place of safety, his family home. Only his elite inner circle get to spend time here.
I like the place well enough, but I’m a city boy at heart. I grew up in a tenement in Havelock Street in Glasgow. It’s a trendy part of town these days, home to aspiring young lawyers and accountants, the occasional sports star, but back then the regeneration gurus hadn’t found their way to our humble close. Ours was a large family, there were eight of us, including my grandparents, in a three-bedroom flat. It was cosy, if you like mess, din, and utter fucking chaos.
I loved the crowdedness, the company of my brothers and sisters, and especially my grandfather. As the eldest I spent a lot of time with him. We’d play backgammon or mahjong for hours or watch endless cricket matches. Life was good.
Not quite so much after he died. It came out of nowhere. He was hit by a drunk driver who never even stopped. He died right there in the road, outside our building on the way home from the mosque. I was with him, nine years old, decked out in my traditional thawb , the loose white gown worn by men for worship in the Muslim community. My grandfather’s gown was daubed with blood and dust. He gazed up at me and held out his hand. I knelt beside him and wept as he died.
That remains my overriding image of my so-called faith. If he hadn’t gone to the mosque that day, he would not have died. Simple to my nine-year-old logic. So much for a loving God who protects the faithful. I’ve had my doubts ever since.
I got into bother as a young teen. I was well-known to the youth justice system in Glasgow, the proud possessor of an ASBO at one time for riding stolen motorbikes through Govanhill, terrifying the good folks there. It was a badge of honour. I could not have been prouder than on the day the magistrate handed it down.
Naturally, I tried the local delicacies. Skunk first, as it was fairly cheap, graduating to a nice bit of speed at the weekends. I was working out how to scratch together enough cash to treat myself to a spot of smack when I came to my senses. My sudden rush of self-preservation was instigated by the near-death of a cousin of mine who accidentally scored some dirty crystal meth. He was in hospital for a month, a week of that on life-support.
Not for me. No. Way. I wasn’t even that fond of the stuff, it was just what we did.
I went cold turkey. Not a pleasant experience when I think back, but it had to be done. I needed to be clean if I was to live. I got into sport instead for a while, football and swimming. I preferred swimming, I could do it on my own and it was cheap.
Although life as a junkie struck me as a dead-end existence, I couldn’t fail to spot the earning potential. I knew people, I did a few drops. It paid well enough, and I knew the city like the back of my hand so I could stay out of the way of the polis .
That’s how I got to know Abid Malik. I was sharp, and fast. He noticed me, asked if I wanted to do a bit more. A spot of more serious courier work, higher-value cargoes and perhaps a spot of light thuggery as required. I learned the rudiments of handling a gun and realised I had an aptitude for it. Malik might have trained me up, but I soon realised I’d no desire to work for him long-term. The routine beatings, child exploitation, the trafficking. I’m not squeamish, how could I be? But mindless, pointless cruelty? Not my thing.
My views firmed up once I got to know Shahida, Malik’s wife. She was nice, kind to me on the occasions I was assigned to ‘look after’ her. I liked young Bilal, too. He enjoyed a game of backgammon as I once had when I was his age. He was a bit like another kid brother.
The morning I arrived to take him to school, only to be told he was ‘too poorly’, I made up my mind. Bilal was in his room nursing a busted lip and a huge shiner of a black eye. He wouldn’t tell me at first, but I knew it was Malik. The proof came when Malik himself boasted about ‘teaching the lad a lesson’ to one of his senior thugs.
I volunteered a lot for guard duty from then on, waiting for the opportunity to talk quietly to Shahida. I knew she was on the receiving end of Malik’s fists even more regularly than her little boy. Surely she would agree to leave if she had the right help…
I was the one to take her to A we made our plans. Plans that were very nearly ruined by Ethan Savage’s intervention that day. Still, it worked out for the best. As far as I know, Shahida, Bilal, and Sarah are well and happy, living somewhere in the Midlands with her friend from college.
I certainly hope so, and I’ve done okay as well.
Despite our inauspicious first encounter, Jack Morgan has been good to me. No active duty until he was satisfied that I was ready. He quickly realised what I was good at and, after the basics such as getting my driving licence had been dealt with, he concentrated my continuing education on making a marksman of me. The training was intensive, weeks and weeks in the Cairngorms practising my craft under the tutelage of experts including our own Nico, but others, too. Ex-mercenaries in the main, with real combat experience. I loved every minute of it, and now, well, clearly, I’ve arrived.
I roll out of bed in the large cottage set aside for visiting ‘soldiers’. Six of us are here just now, including Nico who is a regular visitor to Caraksay. I find him in the kitchen nursing a cup of instant coffee. He grins at me when I amble in.
“Hey. Want a cup?”
I nod and sink onto a seat at the small table. “Is there anything to eat?”
“I was going over to the castle later. Get your trousers on and come with me.”
I check my watch. “Why? The debriefing isn’t for another hour.”
“For the bacon butties, my friend.”
“Oh. Maybe I’ll give that a miss.” I may not be much of a Muslim anymore, but some habits die hard. I won’t be eating bacon anytime soon.
“Soft pillock.” Nico dumps my coffee in front of me. “Mrs McRae can do other stuff as well. Get dressed and get your arse over there.”
I shrug. “Maybe. I’m hitting the gym first.”
I’m basically a city boy. Occasional visits to Caraksay are fine, a sort of rite of passage from humble foot soldier to elite guard, but one thing I absolutely love about the island is the state-of-the-art gym. The equipment rivals any high-end facility in Glasgow, but no queues for the treadmills or bikes. I don’t neglect the stamina side of things, but my personal preference is resistance training. I’ve never forgotten the battering I received from Jack Morgan in our first encounter. Admittedly, I was tied up and completely outnumbered, but even so, I was puny. Never again. I promised myself that, and I’ve worked on it, built some muscle and definition. Not anything stupid, I won’t be winning any powerlifting gold medals, but I can handle myself if I have to.
I head down to the converted barn, hit the bench press, and get in my usual workout. Chest presses, leg presses, pull downs and abdominal presses. I power through twenty reps of each, then head for the weights. After four years of training, I can manage twice my body weight with relative ease. I start at 150 kilos and work up to 0 before checking the clock. I reckon I have around twenty minutes before I risk missing my breakfast, just time to do a couple of lengths in the pool. I head through the connecting door to find the pool already in use.
I recognise Cristina Savage, my boss’s wife, slicing easily through the water. I start to back away, I can return another time.
She reaches the end of the pool, spots me making my retreat, and calls out, “Hey, don’t go. I’ve almost finished, and there’s room for two.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t realise anyone was here. I can come back…”
“Don’t be silly. You’re here now. You take that side, I’ll stay here.” She launches herself into another length, her easy freestyle gliding through the water with barely a ripple.
Fuck, she’s good. I take a moment to admire her athletic, practised technique before performing my own racing dive and matching her stroke for stroke. It’s an effort to keep up, but I manage, just about. By the time we both pause, panting, I feel thoroughly tested. I grin across at her.
“You can swim a bit, Mrs Savage.”
She smiles back and pushes her wet hair out of her eyes. “You, too, Mr…?
“Zayn. Zayn Abbassi. I’m sort of new.”
“Ah, yes. Zayn. The marksman, is that right?”
“Er, yes.”
“You were with my husband yesterday. I gather you excelled yourself.”
“Oh, well…” I’m not usually tongue-tied, but…shit. The boss’s wife…
“He was impressed. Congratulations, Zayn. Will you be joining us for breakfast this morning?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t do bacon.”
“Me neither. Eggs, hash browns, maybe some French toast? My husband’s specialty.”
“I see…”
“Right, then. Give me five minutes to get out of the shower, then it’s all yours. See you up at the castle.”
She slithers easily from the pool, grabs a towel that had been draped over a poolside chair, flings it around her shoulders, and ambles off towards the changing room.
Despite my best intentions, my gaze tracks her. Ethan is a lucky man, she’s stunning. And…nice. I complete another half a dozen lengths to pass the next few minutes, then I climb out myself. I have a distinct fondness for French toast.
I shower quickly, throw on some clean clothes, then wander up the steep path to the castle forecourt and find myself in the Great Hall. There’s no one here, but the chatter of voices from somewhere beyond, at the end of a stone-flagged corridor, draws my attention. I follow the sound to find myself in the huge castle kitchen where a scene straight from my childhood awaits.
The whole place is crammed with people, at least half of them children. They range from mid-teens to tiny toddlers. The little ones are mostly perched on laps, munching on a variety of kiddie foods. Cereals, boiled eggs, beans on toast. It’s a messy business, but no one seems to mind overmuch.
Ethan is at the stove mixing his eggy concoction in a plastic bowl ready to soak the bread. He glances over, spots me.
“Ah, Zayn. Take a seat if you can find one. Good swim?” He gestures to the table, but I see no spare seats.
“Maybe I’ll just…”
“Over here, mate.” Nico shifts up to make room for me on the edge of a bench seat down one side.
“Ah, ye’re here, lad. Yours is just i’ the oven, stayin’ warm.” A woman of perhaps fifty or sixty bustles from the sink to the huge Aga stove, shoulders Ethan to one side, and brings out a plate of food. “Nice veggie breakfast fer ye, me luv. Mrs Savage said ye’d prefer that. How d’ye like yer eggs?”
“Oh. Er, yes. Thank you.” The food smells wonderful. Baked beans, two hash browns, as promised, mushrooms, half a tomato, fried.
“Fried, poached, or boiled?” she continues, setting the plate before me. “Just leave whatever ye dinna fancy.”
“I’ll have a fried egg, please. This is very kind, I never expected…”
“Mrs Savage telled me ye’d nae be fancyin’ pork, so I left that off. Ye be tuckin’ in an’ I’ll get yer eggs on. Two okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.” I start to eat, still feeling somewhat overwhelmed. Mrs Savage actually remembered.
The lady herself enters behind me, hair still damp and a toddler on her hip. “Hello again.” She smiles at me as she settles the child, a boy of perhaps three years old, on one of the long bench seats beside the table. “Ethan, do you have any eggy bread ready? Seb’s starving, and Zayn fancies a slice as well.”
Ethan deposits a slice of perfectly toasted bread on a plastic plate before the little boy and pauses to kiss the top of his head. “Morning, sleepyhead, and hello to you, too.” His wife receives a rather heartier kiss on her mouth. “Nice swim?”
“Yes. I had company. Zayn joined me.”
I open my mouth to assure him nothing untoward happened, but he forestalls me. “You’ll have worked up an appetite, too, then. She sets a fair pace. Eggy bread, was it?”
And just like that, we move on. I stick a fork in one of my hash browns.
The next half hour is chaotic but good-natured. Children and men wander in and out, some just grabbing food and heading off, others—most people, actually—hanging around to chat. I recognise the doctor, Megan, who took care of me in those early days. The pilot, too, Magda, is here trying to supervise some of the children without much in the way of obvious success.
It’s Cristina who brings matters to some sort of order. “Right, school bus goes in ten minutes. Finish up, get your teeth cleaned, and go fetch your bags. Anyone who’s late is homeschooling with me all day and it’ll be treble maths.”
There’s a mass exodus as they all clatter towards the door and disperse to their various apartments and cottages.
Magda, too, gets to her feet. “I’ll go and do the preflight checks. Excuse me.”
For the first time I notice that she walks with a pronounced limp. I wonder what happened to her.
My comrades from yesterday are all present. Aaron is the last to stroll in, just in time to grab some French toast and a fresh coffee before Ethan summons us all to his office. I swallow the last of my beans and follow the rest of the crowd up to the conference suite.
More freshly brewed coffee is waiting for us there, and some artery-busting pastries. I’m hard-pressed to understand how everyone seems to remain so fit. The gym and pool must be in regular use. I might manage another dip myself later, unless we have to leave fairly soon.
Everyone settles, and Ethan clears his throat to call us to order. He starts with Jack.
“Okay, what did you get at the warehouse?”
“We found our own consignment, still packaged up nicely, so we liberated that. Took a few barrels of Scotch, too. Good stuff, single malt. For our trouble.”
“Excellent.” Ethan grins, well satisfied.
“There were half a dozen vehicles there, too. Transit vans. We put those out of action and relieved them of a couple of laptops from their office. I thought Casey or Frankie might have a look.”
I’ve never met either of them, but I do know that Casey and Frankie are the resident computer geeks here on the island. There may be useful intelligence on those machines once we’ve hacked into them.
“Even better.”
“What about you, boss?” Jack takes up the questioning. “I assume Gallagher wasn’t interested in chatting.”
“No, they—” He is interrupted when the door flies open, banging into the wall behind it. “What the fuck…?”
A young man hurtles in, can’t be more than sixteen or seventeen years old. I don’t recognise him, but he clearly hasn’t dressed to impress. Baggy sweatshirt, ripped jeans, and a bright-orange baseball cap proclaiming the merits of Lando Norris is tugged down over his unruly dark-blond hair. The one exception to his generally scruffy appearance is his high-end Fendi trainers. Very nice, he won’t have had much change out of a grand for those.
“Frankie…” Ethan begins.
“There’s someone in the water,” the youth blurts.
Ethan is on his feet. “Fuck. Who? How…?”
“A girl, red dress,” the lad proclaims. “She’s drowning.”
“One of our kids?” Ethan is already breaking into a run.
“No, boss. They threw her from a boat.”
By now, most of us are up. “What boat?” Jack demands. “Where?”
“About a mile out. Southwest.” He thrusts a scrap of paper at Jack. “The coordinates, boss.”
No one stops to ask any more questions. The room empties in moments, and we are all sprinting hell for leather down the main stairs. Jack and Ethan reach the Caraksay jetty first, I’m right behind with Rome. The four of us pile into the closest motor launch, and Jack takes the helm. Within seconds, the engine roars into life and we’re off, nose raised as the craft skims over the waves.
Thankfully, the North Atlantic is unusually calm this morning. It may be August, the height of the summer allegedly, but the seas around the Outer Hebrides don’t usually get the memo.
Jack keys the coordinates provided by Frankie into the onboard navigation system.
“How long?” Ethan asks him.
“Less than a minute,” Jack mutters, “assuming Frankie got the location right.”
“He’ll be right,” Ethan growls. “Eyes peeled, everyone.”
We scan the gentle waves for any flash of red, Ethan using the binoculars stowed in the cockpit while Rome and I shield our eyes from the sun. Visibility is excellent this morning. If she’s still afloat, we should spot her.
Several tense moments pass, the seconds stretching to a minute.
“Should be around here somewhere…” Jack eases back on the throttle, starts to slowly circle the area. “Where the fuck is she?”
It’s been too long. Even at this time of year, the North Atlantic rarely gets above about five degrees Celsius. The shock of the cold water is enough to kill, even assuming the girl could swim.
Jack circles again, more slowly this time.
“There!” Ethan shouts. “About fifty yards out.” He points to a spot somewhere to our west. “Can you see? Over there.”
We all squint into the sunlight, and Jack wheels the launch around to cover the distance between us and the drowning girl. At first, I can’t see anything, then, “Yes, I see her, too.”
Just a glint of bright red, not even recognisable as a person. Almost as soon as I spot her, the girl disappears under the waves.
“She’s gone down,” Rome mutters. “We’re too late.”
“Jack?”
At Ethan’s command, Jack squeezes a final burst from the beleaguered engine, and we come alongside the spot where we last saw her. He brings the craft to a stop. We all lean over the rail, peering downwards into the grey, swirling depths.
Nothing. She’s gone, eaten up by the relentless ocean.
“Was it even her?” Rome wonders.
“It was a girl all right.” Ethan had the benefit of the binoculars, so his sight was clearer.
“There!” I lean out further, focusing on the fast-disappearing reddish smudge in the water. “She’s down there.”
“Are you sure?” Ethan leans out alongside me. “I can’t?—”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I kick off my training shoes and jump up onto the rail.
“Zayn, you can’t— Oh, fuck.”
Ethan’s voice is the last thing I hear before I launch myself into the water.
I dive down, straight down, swimming hard in an attempt to reach her. She’s vanished from sight now, but I know what I saw. She was here. She was.
There. The red shape briefly materialises before me, barely a hand’s stretch away. I still can’t make out any detail, but I know I have to reach her. I kick harder, stretch out my arm, and my fingertips connect with something. Fabric. Definitely.
Another kick brings me precious inches closer. My lungs are burning, but I’m almost there. Just one more stroke…
Yes! I manage to grab a fistful of that deep-red fabric and drag her towards me. A pale face emerges from the gloom framed by a halo of long, dark hair. Even in the murky water I see that she’s of Asian descent, like me. She’s probably already gone, but even so…
I turn my body and start to kick for the surface.
I can’t see daylight, but I know it’s there, far above me. The girl isn’t especially heavy, but I’m out of air, exhausted. My strokes are weakening, I can’t…
Strong hands are suddenly beside mine, taking the weight, kicking strongly, dragging both me and the girl upwards. Then someone else is with us. He takes the girl from me, and I let her go. I can do no more…
Black spots float before my eyes. My arms and legs are limp, I’m losing consciousness…
“Zayn, can you hear me?”
I open my mouth, but no words emerge.
“Zayn. Zee. Wake the fuck up, lad.” Someone is shaking me by the shoulders. “You’re not fucking leaving us now. Jack, get us back. Fast.”
I’m lying on something hard and smooth, which tips suddenly, and an engine roars close by.
“Zee, I know you can hear me. Open your fucking eyes and look at me.”
I need… I can’t…
“Yes, you fucking can. Do it, now.”
I have to obey; I took an oath.
“So, keep it, lad. Come back. Now.”
With what feels like a super-human effort, I prise my eyelids apart, then blink in the bright sunlight. “Where…?”
“You’re on board the Seasprite . You’re safe now.” Ethan is kneeling over me. My head is in his lap, he’s dripping wet, his features lined with worry.
It all rushes back. I suck in precious gulps of oxygen, struggle to sit up. “The girl? Did we…? Is she alive?”
Ethan glances back over his shoulder. “Rome’s working on her.”
“Is she alive?” I repeat. “Were we in time?”
“I don’t know, lad. Can you get up, do you think?”
I nod and push myself up off the deck.
Ethan stands and offers me his hand. “Shit, but you scared me. I thought we’d lost you, too.”
“Thanks for coming after me. I don’t think I could have…”
“I know you fucking couldn’t.” He glowers at me. “And after all I’ve invested in you.” Then, he hugs me. Hauls me to his chest and hugs me. Hard. “Fucking idiot. Don’t do anything like that again or I’ll fucking drown you myself.”
“Right, boss,” I mumble, feeling oddly touched. It’s been a long time since anyone actually seemed to care whether I lived or died. There was Shahida, of course, a few years ago, but since then…nothing. I collect my wits sufficiently to ask again. “Will she be okay?”
“Not sure,” comes the terse reply from Rome, on his hands and knees applying heart compressions to the motionless girl on the deck and interspersing his efforts with regular mouth-to-mouth resuscitation attempts.
“Let me help,” Ethan starts.
“No, I can do it.” Advanced first aid is part of the standard training that all Caraksay soldiers receive, and any one of us should be able to revive a casualty if needed. I stagger towards the pair on the deck and drop down opposite Rome.
He nods and leaves the mouth to mouth to me.
“Ashore in thirty seconds,” Jack calls. He’s the only one of us not dripping wet.
It’s the longest thirty seconds of my life, but eventually we bump up against the jetty. Neither Rome nor I stop until we’re shouldered aside by the diminutive doctor.
“Tell me,” she snaps.
“She was under the water for at least a minute, Doc. Hasn’t regained consciousness since we got her aboard.” Ethan provides the report.
“Right. You two, can you carry on what you’re doing until we get to my clinic?”
“Sure, Doc,” Rome pants.
I simply nod.
Ethan and Jack take the girl’s weight and carry her ashore.
“Keep up, you two,” Jack orders us as they break into a run.
Megan sprints ahead to open the clinic door, then directs us into the treatment room. We lay her on the examination trolley and step back.
Megan puts an ear to the girl’s chest, shakes her head. “Pass me the defibrillator,” she orders us.
Rome snatches it from the wall just as the unconscious girl lets out a ragged cough and a gush of water trickles from the corner of her mouth.
“I think she’s back,” Megan mutters, rolling her patient onto her side and arranging her in the recovery position. “Nice work, all of you.”
“Will she…?”
Megan glances at me. “It’s early days. I can take it from here. You go and get warm, grab some dry clothes…”
“I’m fine,” I protest.
“Not for long if you don’t get warmed up soon. Same goes for all of you. I don’t want to be dealing with three cases of pneumonia as well as everything else. Get out of here and let me work.”
“She’s right. Come on, let’s do as she says.” Ethan is ushering us to the door.
“But—”
The door bursts open, and Cristina hurtles in. “Are you all okay? I thought…” She flings herself into Ethan’s arms. “What were you even thinking?”
The Mafia boss regards the still unconscious girl. “A good question, sweetheart. Fancy joining me in a hot bath?”
“Idiot.” She punches him on the shoulder.
“Get dry and warmed up. We still need to finish that briefing. Reconvene in my office in an hour.” Ethan is still barking out orders as his wife drags him from the clinic.
Left with no option and all of us shivering uncontrollably, we let ourselves be herded outside. A hot bath sounds like a wonderful idea.