Page 9 of Savage Protector

I was the one to take her to A&E that last time, and this was my chance. She grabbed at my offer; 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 rollout 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 220 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…”

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