Page 1 of Savage Protector

PROLOGUE

Glasgow, 2018

Zayn

“I’ll get the bags.You take the kids downstairs. The car should be here any moment.”

“Are you sure? What if?—”

I reach her in two strides. “He’s away until tomorrow. This is as good a chance as you’re likely to get, but we need to move. Now.”

She gnaws on her lower lip. “It’s such a big step, a big decision. He’ll kill me. Us. If he ever tracks us down.”

“He’ll have to find you first. All you need to do is get to Birmingham. We’ve got it all planned, you get the train at Carlisle, not Glasgow as he might expect. That friend of your cousin’s said she’d meet you at New Street. Lie low at her place for a while, like we planned. Then, if you want to move on, do it.”

“But what about you? He’ll know you helped me.”

“I’ll survive.”

“He’ll kill you.”

Shahida’s right, but Abid Malik will have to find me first. He’ll have his work cut out. I have plans, and they do not include doing that vicious bastard’s wet work for the rest of my life. He, and his grubby friends who like to trade in trafficked kids abducted from the Indian sub-continent, can burn in Hell for all I care.

That’s where he is now. Not burning in Hell, more’s the pity. No, he’s inspecting the latest batch of ‘merchandise’ shipped in from Rotterdam on a container ship. Normally I’d be with him. Hired muscle, or cannon fodder if required, but he needed someone to play nursemaid to his family in his absence.

He knows what Shahida thinks of him and that she’s likely to run. She made that plain last time he swung his fist at her, and she still has the fading bruises to show for it. That final visit to A&E only strengthened her resolve to be free of her brute of a husband. The sympathetic looks from the nurses, doctors asking if she needs help. Social workers asking if she has children and if there’s anything she’d like to discuss with them. In confidence, of course…

Social workers can’t solve her problems, unless they come armed with a decent handgun or blade.

So, I’m supposed to make sure she stays put, but Abid’s going to be disappointed. I do have all the necessary accoutrements to finish Malik, and I’d happily do just that if I thought it would set Shahida and her children free. It wouldn’t. He’s constantly surrounded by a small army of minders, and I’m not quick enough—yet—to do the job efficiently. Shahida doesn’t have time to wait, not since that casualty consultant informed her that she’s pregnant with her third child. Her husband doesn’t know, and I only found out because I was within earshot when the doctor told her the happy news.

She realised I’d heard and begged me not to tell Abid. Naturally, I’d no intention of doing any such thing. Instead, I urged her to leave him and promised to help, when the time was right.

As if she reads my thoughts now, her palm rests protectively on her still-flat abdomen. “I do have to go, don’t I?”

“You do. I’ll take your bags down.”

I leave her to gather her children together, nine-year-old Bilal and the baby, Sarah, just two and a half. Bilal has already been on the receiving end of more than a few punches from his thug of a father, and eventually the vicious git will start on Sarah, too.

I suspect their mother would have made a run for it before now, but we agreed we should wait for an opportunity, just a few hours’ head start would be enough. And this is it.

I grasp the handles of both suitcases ready to carry them down to the hallway. The taxi should be here at any moment. Sure enough, right on cue there’s the sound of a vehicle outside.

“Shahida, the car’s here…”

Suddenly the house seems to shake. There’s a deafening crash from the hallway downstairs as the front door is obliterated, the clattering of boots on stairs, men shouting. I drop the cases and go for my gun, but before I can even unholster it the bedroom door bursts open, and the room is full of men.

I recognise none of them. These are not Abid’s soldiers. What I can see is that they’re all big, all armed, and they mean deadly business. The first one through the door grabs Shahida and puts the muzzle of his gun to her temple.

“Drop it,” he growls, his cold gaze fixed on me.

I hesitate, but really, there’s no choice but to comply. I let the handgun clatter to the floor.

“Kick it over here,” the man holding Shahida orders.

I obey, and one of the others darts forward to retrieve it. I raise my hands. “Let her go,” I begin.

“You, shut it. Get down on the floor.” Now my own gun is turned on me.

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