by Les Haswell
The Prodigal Son
Rob MacLaine - Book 1
Les Haswell
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Dear Reader
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Copyright (C) 2019 Les Haswell
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter
Published 2019 by Terminal Velocity – A Next Chapter Imprint
Edited by Tyler Colins
Cover art by Cover Mint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
1
With a grunt and a curse, Rob MacLaine squeezed up to the crowded bar in a busy riverside bar/diner on the Thames embankment and concentrated in attracting bar staff in an effort to get another round of drinks for him and Joe Harper, sitting at a small table in the corner. Joe was his business partner and fellow director of Harper MacLaine Security; that day, they’d visited a prospective client to successfully present a final costing for a package of security measures and proposals. On the way back, they’d stopped off to celebrate winning a substantial and very lucrative contract.
At six-three, Rob rarely had a problem getting someone’s attention when he wanted to and tonight was no exception. “A Diet Coke and a large Malbec, please,” he shouted to a pretty, petite barmaid who had glanced his way.
The Diet Coke was for Joe, who was driving, and the Malbec for himself. He paid for the drinks when they arrived, and was about to turn away from the bar, when another patron accidentally nudged him as he reached for a wine list.
“Whoa,” Rob warned.
“I beg your pardon, I do apologise. That was entirely my fault,” the man said, his eyes widening as he looked up. He picked up a wine list and with a nervous smile, hastened down the bar.
“Just as well that was my drink you spilled on me and not your red wine,” said a female voice to his left.
Rob scanned the woman and her smart mid-blue suit, comprising a short jacket and skirt over a white silk blouse. He noticed liquid had splashed the jacket. “Sorry, I didn’t realise. Will that stain? I’ll pay for the cleaning, if necessary,” Rob stammered, taken aback.
He stared. She was beautiful. Even on a bar stool, she looked tall and slender. Long, naturally blond hair, pulled into a ponytail, was set off by large blue-green eyes. Her flawless skin looked tanned and she was smiling with the most kissable mouth he’d ever seen. She looked him in the eye as she said something.
Rob didn’t quite hear. “Sorry?”
“I said, it’s gin and tonic, and it’s fine.” She smiled. “Just as well it wasn’t your drink, or you’d have a big cleaning bill.”
Rob smiled. “Red wine does make a mess when it ends up where it shouldn’t be. I’ve ruined the odd shirt that way.” He couldn’t stop staring. The woman was probably about his age, early to mid-thirties. His gaze fell to the single-drop pearl necklace that adorned her long slender neck before eyeing the matching earrings. There was no other jewellery. No question, she was stunning.
“Rob, Earth to Rob.” A male voice intruded on his thoughts.
“What? Oh, sorry, Joe. What did you say?”
Joe stood beside Rob with a hand on his shoulder. “Going to have to go,” he said apologetically. “Suzy phoned. She’s not feeling too good and asked if I’d pick up some stuff for her before the pharmacy closes.”
“That’s a shame. I hope she feels better soon.”
“Pregnancy has its ups and downs,” Joe explained to the woman he assumed Rob had engaged in conversation. “Listen, I’ll leave you two children to play. Judging by the looks on your faces, you won’t even notice I’m gone.”
“That’s unfair Joe. What am I going to do with a Diet Coke on a Friday night?” Rob chuckled, motioning the tall ice-filled glass.
“If you’re really stuck for ideas, you could always spill it on someone,” his partner replied with a wink. “Watch him; he plays dirty.” Joe touched the woman’s shoulder lightly and winked. “Must go. See you Monday bright and early.”
“My partner,” Rob explained as they watched Joe amble through the bar.
“Really?” She inclined her head and kept watching.
“Business partner. He’s a respectable married man with a very pregnant wife.”
“Just teasing. I’d gathered that.” She chuckled. “What do you guys do when you’re not spilling drinks on unsuspecting young ladies?”
“Sorry, we don’t talk about work on a Friday night, sorry. Change the subject, please!”
She motioned the bartender for another gin and tonic, then regarded him intently. “What does he mean when he says you play dirty? Do you spill drinks over all your women?”
“Absolutely. I have it down to a fine art. I never get drunk, I spill most of my drinks over unsuspecting women.” He extended a muscular hand. “My name’s Rob, as you may have gathered.”
“Justine,” the blond goddess replied, accepting his hand.
“Why don’t we grab a table where it’s more comfortable, seeing as we both appear to be on our own. I wouldn’t want to risk someone else spilling a drink over you and stealing you away from me.”
“I’m wearing your drink now so that makes me yours, does it?” she teased.
“It’s your drink you’re wearing … and I get the impression you’re very much your own woman,” he replied with a broad smile and they both chuckled.
They found a table overlooking the Thames embankment and Vauxhall Bridge. Time flew as they drank, talked, and laughed virtually non-stop. By late evening, they were quite tipsy when they left the bar and wandered to the embankment, his hand resting gently on Justine’s upper back.
“I love the river at night,” she said, staring across the water. “My parents have a house on a river and I used to love lying in my bed at night with the window open, listening to the flowing river.”
“You don’t live with your parents anymore?”
“I live in an apartment in town now. You?”
“No, I don’t live with my parents either,” Rob teased.
“You’re being silly,” chided Justine. “I meant, do you live in town?”
“Yes, overlooking the
river, in fact.” He pointed to a recently completed luxury apartment block on the opposite side of the bridge.
“Really?”
“Penthouse apartment, top floor.”
His companion turned to look at him with those pretty blue-green eyes. “You’re having me on. I don’t believe you.”
Rob took her hand “All right, come on. I’ll show you.”
“What, where are we going? “Justine said, as she followed in Rob’s wake along the embankment and, after a couple minutes, asked him where they were headed..
“I’m showing you where I live, “he said coyly. “And I’ll show you the Thames as you’ve never seen it before.”
They stepped from the living area of Rob’s top-floor penthouse apartment and slipped through sliding glass doors onto a large curved terrace overlooking the Thames, Vauxhall Bridge, and the MI6 building directly opposite.
“You certainly know how to impress a woman, I’ll give you that,” she said as Rob popped the cork on a bottle of champagne. “This is absolutely beautiful.”
“Not the only thing of beauty I see from here,” said Rob as he handed her a glass.
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She snuggled close.
“I’m certainly hoping it will.” Rob kissed her for the first time.
The early hours of the morning approached and the champagne disappeared. Rob was vaguely aware of time as they strolled into the apartment and slowly undressed each other … kissing, caressing, and exploring … until eventually, Rob carried Justine to an extra-long, king-sized bed. After making love again, they fell into a deep sleep.
2
Rob woke with a start, his ultra-sensitive inbuilt alarm system informing him that something was wrong. Something moved within the waking-with-a-hangover blur.
He sat up quickly, his mind focussing instantly as he gazed at the blond goddess lying beside him. He hadn’t closed the blinds on the Velux windows in the bedroom and the dim light from outside illuminated one of her ample breasts poking from under the duvet. The magic of the previous night brought a grin to his lips.
No wonder he felt hungover. God, what a night. Still, the alarm bells inside his head said something wasn’t right. A mobile phone was ringing somewhere, but it wasn’t his; he didn’t recognise the ringtone. It was probably Justine’s. He should wake her and tell her.
He glanced at the clock. Five in the morning. They could only have been asleep for a couple of hours. The ringtone persisted. Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl”—it was his mobile. He rolled out of bed and dashed toward the music, but where the hell was it? Something was wrong.
Just after leaving home sixteen years ago, he’d given his then new mobile number to Fraser McEwan, Dad’s ghillie, with strict instructions that it only be used in the event of a dire emergency or crisis. “Brown Eyed Girl” was specifically chosen for such an occasion, but this was the first time he’d heard it used.
His pale grey suit jacket lay on the floor where he had dropped it on the brown leather corner settee. It was playing “Brown Eyed Girl” to him. The phone was in the pocket of the jacket. As he picked up his jacket the music stopped before Rob could get the phone out of his pocket.
“Shit shit, shit! Rob whispered
Would Fraser leave a voicemail? Should he phone back?. What the….?Rob jumped and almost dropped the phone as “Brown Eyed Girl” started to play again. He stared in sheer disbelieve and then hit the green answer button. Gingerly, he put the phone to his ear, only to hear silence.
“Hello, who is this?” Rob enquired tentatively.
“Robbie, is that you?” a woman at the other end asked.
Rob hadn’t expected a woman’s voice. He’d given the number to Fraser McEwan with instructions to use it in an emergency and to give it to no one.
“Robbie, is that you?” she asked again, this time with urgency.
“That depends on who’s asking,” Rob growled angrily.
“It’s Lorna Cameron. Fraser gave me this number … he’s in hospital and told me to tell you he needs you here as soon as possible. I can’t talk, it’s not safe. I need to go. Just get here, Robbie, but be careful. Bruce can’t know you’re here, Fraser says. Please come!”
“Lorna! Are you there? What’s the matter? Where’s Fraser?” Rob realised that Lorna had ended the call. He stared at the phone. What the hell was happening on Achravie?
“Who’s Lorna?” Justine asked in a tone that sounded simultaneously curious and petulant.
“Doesn’t matter. Another lifetime.”
“Matters to me, since we’ve been shagging each other’s brains out for the past few hours. Please tell me you’re not married.” Justine sounded annoyed.
“No, I’m not,” snapped Rob, turning.
She was standing in the doorway between the lounge and bedroom, wearing very brief white panties and and an I’m-not-happy look. Her arms, folded across her chest, covered her breasts.
Rob stared at her for a moment. God, she was so beautiful … tall and graceful … and intelligent, if last night’s conversation was anything to go by. They’d instantly clicked after Rob had accidentally spilled that G&T over her jacket. “Sorry” had been the first word he’d spoken to her, and now he was saying it again.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.” He smiled ruefully. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have an urgent and serious family problem to attend to. I know this sounds like a brush-off, but it isn’t. This has come totally out of the blue. I’d rather go back to bed with you, enjoy a shower together, make us breakfast and then see where the day takes us. Sadly, I need to be in Scotland … as of now.”
“Fair enough,” she said uncertainly.” I understand, I think. Can I do anything to help?”
“Best if you just grab your kit and let me get on with it. I’ll get you a minicab.”
“Oh, right! Leggy blond, good tits, nice arse, must be thick! Is that where your tiny man brain is taking you?” Angrily, the semi-naked goddess gathered up her clothes, turned, and stomped back into the bedroom.
Rob followed, pulled an old robe from a hook behind the door, and shrugged it on. “Justine, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. God, I seem to be constantly apologising to you!” He rubbed his throbbing forehead. “Look, I’d like to make this up to you when I get this ‘thing’ sorted.”
“Don’t bother. I meet guys like you every other day who think women like me are just brainless eye-candy, only good for one thing,” she stated flatly through the door.
As Rob turned, he almost tripped over a small white clutch bag, which had fallen on the carpet and spilled most of its contents. As he picked it up, a driver’s licence dropped and he picked it up. His natural curiosity got the better of him and he looked at it. Her name was Justine Fellows. Where had he heard that name before?
The bathroom door burst open, banging against the tiled wall, and Justine, now fully dressed, strode into the room. She glowered. “What are you doing? That’s my purse. Give me it, please. I am leaving.”
Rob stared at her in disbelief as a penny dropped somewhere deep in his head.
“You’re Andy Savage’s PA.”
She grabbed the purse and brushed past him towards the door, then stopped and whirled. “Do you know Andrew Savage?”
“Very well. Actually we’ve spoken on the phone, but strangely enough, we’ve never really met.”
Narrowed eyes regarded him closely. “How do you know Sir Andrew? Is he the reason you chatted me up last night?”
“No, I didn’t realise until just now. I saw your surname on your driver’s licence and put two and two together.”
She nodded, believing him. “How do you know Sir Andrew?”
“My company provides all his corporate and close personal security.”
Justine Fellows stood transfixed for moment, and then her hand went to her mouth. “Oh God, you’re Rob MacLaine, Harper MacLaine Security. You had dinner with him on Wednesday. How embarrassing. I had no idea.” S
he thought for several seconds. “The guy with you last night at the bar, was that—”
“Joe Harper? Yes.”
“It gets worse. He’s going to know that we …”
“No, it’s cool. Joe left before us. As far as anyone knows, we had a few drinks and you went home … and I went home alone. I wouldn’t embarrass you like that.” When Rob left the SAS three years earlier, he’d already done much of the groundwork to utilise his undeniable skills, honed in the darkest corners of 21st-century wars. He’d met and worked with Joe Harper, a fellow covert operative, who left the service a few months ahead of Rob.
Rob had very few friends and was very slow to trust and connect with people, but he and Joe had very quickly cemented a relationship of trust and respect; in time, it had blossomed into a deep, lasting friendship. Between them, they founded and ran Harper MacLaine Security, which provided high-end corporate security and close personal protection to a small number of clients around the western world.
Sir Andrew Savage, Chairman and CEO of SGS (Savage Guidance Systems), was one of Harper MacLaine Security’s biggest clients, to whom they provided both security consultancy and personal protection. SGS manufactured infrared missile guidance systems, passive-weapon guidance systems, which used infrared (IR) light emission from a target to track and follow it. He and Rob had developed a personal friendship, which occasionally took them outside of business. This was not something either man normally advocated, but he wondered if Sir Andrew saw him as a surrogate son to fill a gap created when his own son had been killed in action in Afghanistan. Either way, both were comfortable with the situation.