“It’s not connected to a network. Really it’s just an expensive iPod.”
She plugged it in and a throaty voice wafted from the speaker. Dionne Warwick?Samira screwed up her face, and swiped past. He mentally sang through the lyrics until he reached the chorus. “I’ll Never Love This Way Again.” Ah. Clearly unsuitable for the situation.
Samira glanced his way as another familiar voice came on. Gloria Gaynor, “I Will Survive.”
He grinned. “Appropriate.”
“I thought so.”
She picked up his phone and opened the browser. “The BBC’s reporting that the senator has arrived in Edinburgh, with his daughter. They’re staying at the Balfour Hotel. Do you know it?”
“One of the grand old ones, near the castle. How close to him do we need to get?”
“As close as we dare but we don’t have to be in the same block.”
She tapped and swiped some more. He slowed for a village. Stone church, headstones sprouting from a graveyard like crooked black teeth, ivy-coated inn, humpbacked stone bridge over a burn, faded sign advertising a Sunday farmers’ market. The kind of market his mother had dragged the family to for the same fruit and veg they could buy at the local grocer.
The music cycled through “Because the Night” and “Gloria.” He followed the green signs out of town. The countryside closed in around them again. Edinburgh had never felt this far away before—but then, he wouldn’t usually choose the scenic route.
How had he ended up willingly returning to Scotland? After taking leave for his father’s funeral three years ago, he’d vowed never to come back. By then his mother was floating into the oblivion of dementia. Six months later she was in a secure home and his sister knew just who to blame. And who was he to argue?
Whenever he was forced to use up his leave, he’d forgo the traditional Legion drunken blinder in favor of staying on base and schooling up on emergency and military medicine. Also mind-numbing but nowhere near as fun. Life on the level was so goddamn dull. Not that alcohol had ever been his thing. Too messy, too uncontrolled. All that liquid going in had to come out again, in none-too-pretty ways. He did envy his buddies that escape, that off switch, but the temptation to succumb to his own personal demon required vigilance.
“Laura’s on social media asking for the best place to buy whiskey this evening, and for recommendations for a local designer to visit in the morning,” Samira said. “She wants to buy a dress for her book signing.”
“She doesn’t know how to use Google?”
“Who needs it when you have millions of followers only too happy to do your Googling for you? She’s getting a lot of replies. And she’s only doing it to promote her event. If it was just about the whiskey she could just send a concier—Oh my God.”
“What?”
“Look,” she said, holding the phone up. A gray, grainy photo filled the small screen.
“Some kind of security footage?”
“You and me at the hospital. Police want us to ‘help them with their enquiries.’ It’s pixelated—too pixelated for facial recognition, especially with the caps and my sunglasses—but it’s definitely us.”
Fuck.
“They’re not linking us with the wanted woman but...”
A matter of time. Somebody would recognize him from that photo. He rubbed his cheek—shaving might help. How far would Harriet, Mariya and Andy go to protect him if the authorities started asking questions? They could at least honestly deny they knew what he was up to. He’d turn himself in if he got wind they were in trouble. But then what would become of Samira? And what of the Legion? He couldn’t lose another job, another career.
“It doesn’t change anything,” he said, gripping the wheel tighter. “We get this evidence and everything we’ve done is justifiable.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “God, I hope you’re right.”
Really, he had no idea. Through the speakers, Tina Turner cranked up the chorus of “What’s Love Got to Do with It?”
“What’s up with the music?” he said, forcing lightness into his tone.
She slipped his phone back into the console. “You don’t like it?”
“There are no songs by men in this mix. Don’t get me wrong, they’re good songs, but it’s sexist, do you not think?”
“It’s not sexist. It’s...empowering.” Her voice hit that exasperated edge. Distraction accomplished.
“Why is it that discriminating against women is sexist but discriminating against men is empowering?”
