Page 6 of Edinburgh Escape
“What’s this woman’s name?” Cal asked, his temple throbbing.
“Maggie,” Sadie responded. “Maggie McKendrick. She’s a real sweetheart. You’re going to love her.”
Cal almost laughed. He settled for a soft snort as he ended the call.
Love her? He seriously doubted that. Cal barely tolerated himself, having failed his team and having the audacity to live with the regret of not dying.
No, he couldn’t love anyone. It hurt too much when you lost friends or loved ones to senseless bastards who placed no value on life except to use it to threaten others.
Cal prayed he didn’t run into any trouble. He’d lost confidence in his ability to come to anyone’s rescue, as he’d proved when Smudge had died at the hands of the ISIS leader. He’d been unable to do anything to stop the knife from slicing through Smudge’s jugular. Even more disturbing, Cal hadn’t been there for Rook when the young SAS operator had felt the only way to exorcise the demons in his mind was to execute himself.
Cal should have been there for the last member of his team instead of languishing in a hospital bed. He could have left sooner, limped his way across London and been there for Rook in his darkest hour.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized he was the wrong man for this job. He lifted his phone, prepared to call Hank and tell him he’d changed his mind. As he checked the screen, it lit up briefly and then went black. His battery had died.
He searched the hotel room for the charging cable. By the time he located it and plugged the cellphone in to charge, he’d talked himself out of a full-blown panic attack. He’d do the job.
How could he disappoint the beautiful Sadie McClain? The sweetheart of cinema really cared about her friend. A loud pinging sound made Cal jump.
The information Sadie had promised came through. Airline and flight schedule, the address of Ms. McKendrick’s relatives in Edinburgh, the train ticket for the Caledonia sleeper train and the photograph of the preschool teacher.
He’d have no trouble identifying Maggie McKendrick with her mass of strawberry-blond curls, falling loosely down around her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled with laughter as she smiled for the camera. She was petite, with an almost elven face and pale skin, dusted with freckles across her nose. She was as unique as a woman could be.
Her genuine happiness tugged at the grief he hadn’t been able to shake since that horrific day in Syria. If a photo of a woman had that kind of impact on him, he could only imagine what she’d be like in person. He could use some cheer and happiness in his life, although he just wasn’t sure he could let go of the grief.
Not yet. It was too soon. Too raw.
The weight of his loss pressed him back into the bed, his head sinking into the soft pillow he should have enjoyed but didn’t feel like he deserved. If he was to be at his best, he should go back to sleep so he’d be rested and ready to perform this mission.
As soon as he closed his eyes, images of his nightmare sent him right back to that chair across from Smudge, the moment before...
Cal bolted upright, grabbed the pillow from behind him and slung it across the room. He rose from the bed and paced, anger and adrenaline coursing through his veins. Sleep was overrated. He gathered the trousers and shirt he’d tossed on the floor the night before. One sniff had him flinging them across the room to join the pillow where it lay against the door. He’d been wearing the same clothes for a week. They could stand in the corner on their own.
Cal found his duffel bag on the other side of the bed and dug through everything he owned, searching for clean clothes. It was sad and a bit pathetic to think his life had been reduced to the contents of one duffel bag.
The only child of older parents, he’d lost his mum and dad years ago. Their home had been a rental flat in London. He’d seen no need to lease a place when he rarely stayed anywhere for long. Such was the life of an SAS operative. He owned a couple of sets of civilian clothing. When he’d been on active duty, he’d worn flame-retardant assault suits provided by the UK Ministry of Defence, their uniforms for combat. Joggers, T-shirts and trainers had been his mainstay when he hadn’t been on a mission. He hadn’t needed much. A pair of jeans, trousers, a button-down shirt, and a leather jacket summed the entirety of his wardrobe.
He missed the assault suits. They took the guesswork out of dressing. He found a pair of black trousers he’d worn to the funerals of his teammates, along with the black shirt and tie he’d purchased to go with them. He hated suit jackets, finding them too snug and confining. His teammates wouldn’t have expected him to wear one to see them off. He’d worn his one shopping splurge, the black leather jacket he’d picked up on a rare layover in Italy after a mission in Africa.
Cal shook the trousers and shirt. When the wrinkles remained, he sighed and pulled the iron and ironing board and iron from the closet and smoothed out the wrinkles as best he could. He couldn’t show up in this woman’s life looking like he’d just rolled out of a bed after pissing the night away.
His clothes somewhat wrinkle-free, he laid them out on the bed and entered the bathroom, turned on the shower and stripped out of his boxers. A glance in the mirror made him shake his head and rub his hand across the scruff of his beard. He hadn’t shaved in a week. Hell, he wasn’t sure where his razor was. After a couple of minutes searching, he gave up and studied his reflection. Short of going to the market just to buy another razor, he could let his beard grow. He’d worn a beard on most of his missions in the SAS. He couldn’t remember why he’d shaved when he’d left the military. Most soldiers grew their beards after leaving the military. He hadn’t been in his right mind for quite some time.
Cal stepped beneath the shower’s spray and scrubbed his hair and skin as if by doing so, he was removing the dirt and grime he’d accumulated in that cell in Syria, hoping it would wash the dreams down the drain with the soap suds.
It never worked, but it had become a habit he couldn’t quite shake.
By the time he’d washed his entire body, head to toe, the water was cooling. He stayed another couple of minutes, letting the cold water shock his system fully awake. Finally, he turned off the water, stepped out of the shower and dried off.
He dressed in the trousers, shirt and tie and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. He’d managed to pass an hour and a half since the call from Hank. That left three and a half hours until Ms. McKendrick’s plane landed.
Too wound up to wait in his room, Cal slipped into his leather jacket and left the hotel. He walked the streets of London in the dark until he found a bakery that opened early with a promise of a scone and coffee. He sat at a small table inside, going over different scenarios of how he’d handle following Ms. McKendrick. He didn’t like the idea of stalking her, but he didn’t want to announce himself as being hired by Hank and Sadie. She might be offended and tell him to fuck off.
As the time neared, Cal returned to his room, packed all his belongings into his duffel bag, checked out of the hotel and hurried toward the nearest metro station. He hopped on a train heading for the airport, arriving thirty minutes before Ms. McKendrick’s plane was due to arrive. One glance at the arrivals display had him hurrying through the airport. Her plane had landed early. If he hoped to intercept her before she left the airport, he had to hurry toward the doors she’d emerge from once she cleared customs.
With his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, he arrived in the baggage claim area at the exact moment, a pretty, petite woman wth strawberry-blond hair stopped near a carousel to speak to another woman, carrying a toddler.
He had no doubt she was Maggie McKendrick. Even with her hair piled high in a messy bun, there was no mistaking the reddish-gold color from the photograph. She smiled at the young mother and said something Cal couldn’t hear.
