Chapter 19 Nightingale
NIGHTINGALE
Two weeks had passed since Brodick Castle, and the bruises on my throat had faded from purple to yellow-green. The ones on my ribs still ached when I breathed too deeply, but they were healing. Everything was healing, slowly.
Tag had been diligent about arranging for us to visit MacLeod, but he was still being held in a secret location, spilling more details about Project Labyrinth.
His wife and daughter were out of protective custody now that the buyers had been arrested, but Renegade said they weren’t ready for visitors. Maybe I wasn’t ready either.
I pushed the thought away. Today wasn’t about MacLeod or his betrayals. Today was about Idris.
As the private jet descended through clouds toward Damascus, my heart clenched.
The city spread out below us—ancient stone and modern glass creating a tapestry that still took my breath away.
I pressed my face to the window, watching familiar landmarks appear.
The Umayyad Mosque’s minaret. Mount Qasioun looming over everything.
The old city walls that had stood for centuries.
“There. That’s where we lived.”
Tag leaned over to look. “Where? I don’t see any buildings.”
“No, they’re gone. Destroyed in the conflict. But that park—” I pointed at a small green space. “Idris taught me to ride a bicycle there.”
The plane touched down smoothly, and soon, we were in an armored SUV, winding through Damascus’ streets. The city had changed since my last visit. More reconstruction, fewer checkpoints. Still scarred but healing, like me.
“The tea shop,” I blurted, spotting a familiar storefront. “Can we stop?”
The driver looked to Tag, who nodded. Inside, the elderly owner looked up from his newspaper, his face lighting with recognition.
“Leila?”
“Hello, Uncle Mahmoud.” He wasn’t really my uncle, but in Damascus, all family friends of a certain age were aunts and uncles.
He came around the counter and embraced me. “I wondered if I’d ever see you again, habibti.”
“I need Ahmad’s Blend,” I said, naming the tea Idris had loved. “Loose.”
Understanding crossed his face. He prepared a small bag containing the blend I’d requested—sage, mint, and black tea that Idris would buy weekly. The smell brought back mornings in our kitchen.
“No charge,” Uncle Mahmoud said when I reached for my wallet.
I kissed his cheeks in thanks and returned to the SUV, clutching the small bag like a talisman.
The cemetery where my brother was buried sat on a hill outside the city, surrounded by olive trees.
The security detail who’d accompanied us from the airfield spread out, giving us space while maintaining a perimeter.
Tag carried the flowers I’d chosen—white roses for purity, purple irises for valor, and baby’s breath for everlasting love.
I carried the tea and a small bottle of Turkish coffee I’d bought at the airport.
Idris’ grave stood in the eastern corner, facing Mecca. It was simple and white. No name was shown, but I still knew it. I’d always know it.
Beloved Son and Brother
In every blade of grass is the story of the universe.
The quote was Rumi, of course. I traced the letters with trembling fingers.
“Hello, brother,” I whispered. “The codes you left me—you saved the world.” My voice broke. “McLaren died activating them, but she knew I had them because of you. She said ‘Damascus codes’ with her last breath, and I understood because you hid them in memories of Damascus. Of us.”
I opened the bag of tea, sprinkling some over the grave—an old tradition our father had taught us. The coffee came next, poured in a small circle around the headstone.
“Your favorite,” I said. “Too much sugar, just how you liked it. The man responsible for your death is dead. The network behind him is destroyed. Justice isn’t the same as having you back, but it’s something.”
Tag knelt beside me, placing the flowers against the stone. “Rest well, brother,” he said in Arabic—a phrase I’d taught him.
“Thank you,” I whispered to the stone. “For teaching me to be brave. For loving me. For leading me to the man you trusted. Who loves me as much as I love him.”
A wind swept through the olive trees, and for just a moment, I could almost hear an oud playing somewhere in the distance. It was probably my imagination, but it made me smile.
We stayed for a few more minutes in respectful silence, then walked back through the cemetery hand in hand. But instead of returning directly to the city, Tag asked the driver to take the mountain road.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
The road wound up Mount Qasioun, and I realized where he was taking me—it was the same overlook where Idris had brought me when I was sixteen, where all of Damascus spread out like a jewel box. We stopped at a pull-off, and Tag dismissed the security detail to a respectful distance.
The city lay before us, golden in the late-afternoon light. The same view Idris had shown me all those years ago. “Remember where you come from,” he’d said. “But don’t let it limit where you go.”
“You knew about this place?” I asked Tag.
“Idris mentioned it once. He said it was special to the two of you.”
We sat on the ancient stone wall, legs dangling over the edge like children. The silence between us was comfortable, filled with the distant sounds of the city below—car horns, the call to prayer, life continuing despite everything.
“Leila?” The way he said my name made me turn to face him, and when I did, I watched as he pulled a small velvet box from his pocket.
“Tag?”
He opened the lid, revealing an antique ring—an emerald surrounded by diamonds in a Celtic design that looked ancient and precious.
“This was my grandmother’s,” he said. “Hers and my grandfather’s was the only happy marriage in three generations of MacTaggerts. Before she died, she told me to give it to the woman who made me want to be better than I was.”
Tears blurred my vision as he continued.
“I know we’re complicated. Our work is dangerous, our lives are unconventional.
But when I thought I’d lost you at Brodick, nothing else mattered.
Not the mission, not protocols, not the world ending.
Just you.” He took a breath. “Marry me, Leila. Not because Idris asked me to protect you, but because I love you. Because you make me brave enough to believe we can forge our own path, make our own way, not repeating the mistakes of the past.”
I looked at the ring, at Tag’s face, at the city spread below—my past and my future colliding in this moment.
“My parents failed because they gave up,” Tag said. “I promise you I will never give up on us.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Yes.” Stronger now. “Yes, to all of it—the love and the complicated, messy, beautiful life we’ll build.”
His hands shook as he slipped the ring onto my finger. The emerald caught the setting sun, throwing green sparks that reminded me of Tag’s eyes. Then he was kissing me, and I was laughing and crying at the same time.
When we finally broke apart, I looked back toward the cemetery, hidden now behind the hills.
“He would have been happy about this,” I said. “Idris. He always said I needed someone as stubborn as me.”
“He also said you needed someone who could cook. I’m thinking I might need lessons.”
I laughed. “That’s what Mrs. Murray is for.”
On the return trip to the airport, I kept looking at the ring, then at the man who, one day soon, would be my husband.
“Glenshadow or London?” Tag asked as the SUV pulled onto the tarmac.
“What?”
“To live.”
I smiled. “Glenshadow for home. London for work.”
“Agreed.”
As we boarded the plane that would take us to Edinburgh, I looked back at Damascus one more time. This city of memory and loss, of beginnings and endings.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay longer?” Tag asked.
“I’ve done all I came to do.” I nudged him. “And more,” I added with a wink as I held up my left hand.
The return trip was quiet. We sat together in comfortable silence, my hand in his, the ring catching the cabin lights.
“June,” I blurted.
“June?”
“For the wedding. June at Glenshadow. It should be small.”
“Agreed.”
As the plane began its descent, I watched Scotland appear through the clouds—green and gray and nothing like Damascus, but home now in a way I hadn’t expected.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you too,” Tag replied.
The words were simple, but they carried so much weight. We’d almost lost everything at Brodick. We’d saved the world but nearly destroyed ourselves in the process. And somehow, we’d found this—this promise of a future neither of us had thought possible.
The plane touched down at Edinburgh’s private airfield, where a helicopter waited on the tarmac, ready to take us to Glenshadow. As we walked to it, Tag squeezed my hand.
“Ready for Mrs. Murray’s reaction?”
“She’ll cry.”
“Definitely.”
“And then immediately start planning menus.”
“Without question.”
We climbed into the chopper, and as it lifted off, I watched the city fall away below us. Somewhere down there, ordinary people were living ordinary lives, never knowing how close they’d come to losing everything.
The ring felt heavy on my finger—not uncomfortable, just significant. A choice made. A future claimed.
The Highlands appeared through the mist, and with them, Glenshadow. Home.