He sat up properly, dragging a hand over his face. Even in the dim light, he looked terrible—shadows under his eyes, lines of strain around his mouth, the golden warmth completely drained from his complexion.
I probably looked worse.
“I’m not staying here,” Oliver said.
I turned to look at him. “What?”
“I’m not staying in this bloody safe house like a good little operative following orders.” His jaw was set, that stubborn line I’d learned to recognize. “Kiernan doesn’t get to decide where we go. He doesn’t get to pack us up and ship us off and expect us to wait.”
“Where would we go?”
“London.” He said it like it was obvious. “To our lives. Our jobs. Our homes.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “I’m not giving the bastard the power to dictate anything else.”
Something blossomed in my chest. Not hope—it was too early for hope—but something close to it. Purpose, maybe. Direction.
“You’ll need to see your doctors first,” I said. “Get cleared for travel.”
Oliver blinked, then let out a short laugh. “Right. The head injury. I’d actually forgotten about that.”
“We should, since we’re already in Glasgow. I’m sure the doctor would be willing to see you a couple of days ahead of time.”
“One day.”
I nodded once. The last thirteen days were a blur. Time I wanted equally to remember for the rest of my life and wipe from my memory entirely. “Right.”
“And if they clear me to fly?”
“Then, we go to London.” I met his eyes, and for the first time since we’d landed, I felt something other than numb despair. “Together.”
The decision steadied me. This was what I knew how to do—assess a situation, identify objectives, execute a plan. My heart might be breaking, but my training remained intact. Compartmentalize. That’s what they’d drilled into us at MI6. Put the emotions in a box, deal with them later, focus on the task at hand. I’d never been particularly good at it before. Apparently, devastation was an excellent teacher.
We’d waitedtwo hours between the DTI MRI they’d done and for the results to be read. A different doctor than the one who’d discharged him flipped through Oliver’s records.
“Your scan looks good.” He set down the chart. “The infection is fully resolved, no signs of complications. How are the headaches?”
“Manageable,” Oliver said. “Mostly gone.”
“Dizziness? Nausea?”
“No.”
“Vision problems?”
“None.”
The man nodded, making a note. “I’d like to schedule a follow-up in two weeks, but I don’t see any reason you can’t resume normal activities. However, given your line of work, I’m not clearing you to return yet.”
“What about air travel?” Oliver asked.
He glanced between us. “How long of a trip?”
“Just to London,” I responded. “Home, actually.” Hearing the word, even said to myself, felt like a knife to my chest.
“Should be fine. Stay hydrated, and if you experience any sudden severe headaches or vision changes, get to an A&E immediately.” He handed Oliver a printed summary. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Morse.”
We walked out into a gray Glasgow morning. The city stretched around us—concrete and glass and the distant gleam of the Clyde—utterly indifferent to my entire world having collapsed twelve hours ago.
“So,” Oliver said. “Airport?”
