Chapter 2 Muscle Memory

# Chapter 2: Muscle Memory

The reprimand came swiftly the next morning. Superintendent Coleman's office always smelled of leather and disappointment, and today was no exception.

"Unauthorized operation, MacAllister. No backup. No jurisdiction." He tossed my badge across the desk. "If you weren't our walking miracle, I'd have your badge permanently."

Walking miracle. That's what they called me after I washed up on the shore five years ago with a bullet wound and a waterlogged brain. No identification except for half a police badge clutched in my fist. When they realized I was one of their own—a decorated undercover officer presumed dead—the press had a field day. The amnesiac cop who came back from the dead.

"The yacht was linked to our drug case," I said, my voice steady despite the headache building behind my eyes. I'd barely slept, the image of Cain Lockhart's cold blue eyes haunting me whenever I closed mine.

"And now we've lost our lead because you couldn't follow protocol." Coleman sighed, rubbing his temples. "Look, Isla, we've given you considerable latitude since your... return. But these reckless stunts end now."

I nodded, appropriately contrite, while my mind raced elsewhere. I hadn't mentioned Cain in my report. Hadn't mentioned the photos, the wedding dress, or his claim to be my husband. Some instinct—perhaps the remnants of my former undercover self—had warned me to keep that information private.

"You're on desk duty for two weeks. And mandatory sessions with Dr. Richards."

My jaw tightened at the mention of the department psychologist. "Sir, I'm fine—"

"That's an order, MacAllister." His expression softened slightly. "Whatever you found on that boat rattled you. Don't think I haven't noticed those circles under your eyes."

I left his office with my badge and a growing sense of unease. The velvet box with the lighthouse key felt heavy in my pocket. I'd spent half the night researching Cain Lockhart, discovering a carefully constructed public persona: CEO of Cerberus Security Solutions, philanthropist, eligible bachelor according to several society magazines. Not a single mention of a wife, missing or otherwise.

Back at my desk, I found Murray waiting, a paper cup of coffee in each hand.

"Thought you might need this after Coleman's thrashing," he said, sliding one toward me.

"Thanks." I took a grateful sip, wincing at the station's notoriously bitter brew.

Murray lowered his voice. "So, are we going to talk about what really happened on that boat?"

I studied him over the rim of my cup. Detective Ian Murray had been my partner since my return to active duty. He'd never known the person I was before, which made our relationship uncomplicated. No expectations, no disappointed comparisons to my former self.

"Nothing to talk about," I lied. "I followed a lead. It didn't pan out."

"Right. And all those photos of you were just a coincidence?" He raised an eyebrow. "The lab's still processing the scene, but word is, it's like some kind of shrine."

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:

*Warehouse 17, Leith Docks. Midnight. Come alone if you want answers. -C*

My heart rate quickened. I deleted the message and pocketed my phone.

"Just someone with an unhealthy obsession," I told Murray, hoping my face didn't betray me. "I'll be fine."

---

I shouldn't have gone alone. That's what any reasonable police officer would say. But reasonability had abandoned me the moment I saw my face plastered across that yacht cabin.

Warehouse 17 loomed against the midnight sky, a hulking silhouette on the edge of the water. I approached with my service weapon drawn, every sense heightened. The dock was eerily silent except for the gentle lapping of waves against the pilings.

I entered through a side door, finding myself in a cavernous space filled with shipping containers. Motion-activated lights flickered on as I moved, creating islands of illumination in the darkness.

"I'm glad you came."

The voice echoed from above. I spun, aiming at the metal catwalk where Cain Lockhart stood, hands casually in the pockets of his expensive coat.

"That's close enough," I warned as he descended the stairs. "Why am I here?"

"Straight to business. You haven't changed." He stopped at a respectful distance. "I have something that belongs to you."

"I doubt that."

"Don't you want to know who you were, Isla? Before the water took your memories?"

I kept my gun trained on him. "I know who I was. A police officer."

"You were so much more than that." He gestured toward a container to my right. "Open it."

Keeping my weapon aimed, I approached the container cautiously. The padlock was already undone. I pulled the door open with my free hand.

Inside was a small arsenal—tactical gear, communications equipment, and weapons. Lots of weapons.

"What is this?" I demanded.

"Your undercover kit. For your final mission." He moved closer, still maintaining a careful distance. "You spent two years infiltrating the Donovan syndicate. You were days away from bringing down their entire operation when..." His voice trailed off.

"When what?"

"When they discovered you were police. And that you were my wife."

I shook my head, refusing his narrative. "If I was undercover, there would be records."

"Your operation was scrubbed after your 'death.' Too many uncomfortable questions about why Scotland's top undercover officer was married to someone like me." His smile was cold. "They buried your past to protect their reputation. Convenient that you couldn't remember to contradict them."

"You expect me to believe this conspiracy theory?"

"I expect you to trust your instincts." He nodded toward the container. "Go deeper."

Against my better judgment, I stepped fully inside. At the back was a metal case. I opened it to find a custom Beretta—identical to the one strapped to my ankle.

"You always carried two," Cain explained. "Department issue and... my gift to you."

I holstered my service weapon and picked up the gun from the case. It felt familiar in my hand, the weight and balance perfect. I turned it over to find the inscription: "To My Valkyrie."

"Why that name?" I asked, unable to tear my eyes from the weapon.

"In Norse mythology, Valkyries chose which warriors lived and died in battle." His voice softened. "You had that same power. The ability to end a life or spare it, with just a decision."

A crash from outside interrupted us. Voices shouted—harsh, angry commands.

"Donovan's men," Cain said, suddenly alert. "We've been tracked."

Before I could respond, the warehouse doors burst open. Armed men poured in, weapons raised. I ducked behind a crate, the Beretta still in my hand.

"Find Lockhart!" someone shouted. "Boss wants him alive!"

I peered around the edge of my cover. At least eight men, heavily armed. Cain had vanished.

Gunfire erupted, bullets pinging off metal containers. I crouched lower, assessing my options. I could make a break for the side exit, call for backup...

A phone skittered across the floor, stopping near my position. The screen was playing a video.

Curious, I picked it up. On the screen was what appeared to be wedding footage. A woman in white—me—laughing as a younger Cain slipped a ring onto my finger. We looked... happy. Incandescently happy.

A bullet struck near my head, showering me with concrete dust. Three gunmen were approaching my position, flanking me.

Something changed in that moment. My body tensed, muscles coiling with a familiar readiness that my conscious mind didn't recognize. When I moved, it wasn't with thought but with instinct.

I emerged from cover in a fluid motion, both guns drawn—my service weapon and the Beretta. My first shots took down the closest attacker, double tap to the chest. I rolled right as return fire shattered the concrete where I'd been standing. Two more precise shots, another assailant down.

The third man charged, and I pivoted, using his momentum against him. My elbow connected with his throat before my knee found his groin. As he doubled over, the butt of my gun crashed against his temple.

I was moving toward the next target before his body hit the ground. Shoot, move, assess. A deadly dance my body remembered even if my mind did not. Both guns fired in perfect synchronization, each shot finding its mark with devastating precision.

When the final attacker fell, I stood in the sudden silence, surrounded by bodies. My hands weren't shaking. My breathing was even. This wasn't the first time I'd done this.

I stared at the twin guns in my hands, both barrels smoking in the dim light. What terrified me wasn't what I'd done—it was how natural it had felt.

Slow applause broke the silence. Cain emerged from the shadows, regarding me with something like pride.

"Welcome back, wife."

I turned both guns on him. "Stay where you are."

He ignored my warning, stepping closer until the barrels pressed against his chest. "You could have escaped. Called for backup. Instead, you eliminated the threat with surgical precision." His eyes searched mine. "Tell me that wasn't muscle memory."

"This doesn't prove anything," I insisted, even as doubt crept in.

He reached up slowly, pushing the guns aside, and took my right hand. Before I could react, he brought it to his lips and licked a trail of blood from my knuckles—blood that wasn't mine.

"Your body remembers what your mind has forgotten," he murmured against my skin. "It remembers me."

The intimacy of the gesture sent an unexpected shiver through me—revulsion mixed with something darker, more primal.

I jerked my hand away. "Don't."

"Five bodies, Isla. Expert kills. Where did a patrol officer learn to fight like that?"

I had no answer. The official story was that I'd been a regular detective before my "accident," promoted to undercover work only briefly. Nothing in my training records explained the lethal efficiency I'd just displayed.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone had reported the gunfire.

"You should go," Cain said, surprising me. "I'll handle this."

"And say what? That I wasn't here?"

"This is my property. A break-in gone wrong." He gestured to the fallen men. "Donovan's thugs won't be missed."

I hesitated, knowing I should arrest him, report everything. But then I'd have to explain the second gun. The video. My own inexplicable combat skills.

"Why are you helping me?" I asked.

"Because contrary to what you believe, I'm not your enemy." He reached into his jacket and produced a phone—not the one that had played the wedding video. "My number is programmed in. When you're ready for more answers, call me."

I took the phone warily. "And if I use this to trace you instead?"

His smile was knowing. "You won't. The Isla I knew always preferred direct confrontation to subterfuge. Some things never change."

With sirens growing closer, I made my choice. I tucked both guns away and headed for the side exit, pausing at the door.

"The men you killed tonight will have families," I said. "People who'll want answers."

"And what about you, Isla? Don't you want answers too?" His expression darkened. "Five years I've mourned you. Searched for you. Only to find you wearing a badge that betrayed you and living a life built on lies."

"I know who I am."

"Do you?" He gestured to the carnage around us. "Your hands remember the truth, even if your mind doesn't."

I left without responding, slipping into the shadows as police cars pulled up to the warehouse. My heart pounded not from exertion but from the terrifying possibility that he might be right.

Back in my apartment, I locked the doors and drew the blinds before setting both guns on my kitchen table. Side by side, they looked like twins—one official, one personal. One representing the life I knew, the other the life I'd forgotten.

I ran my fingers over the inscription on the Beretta. "To My Valkyrie."

Then I took out the phone Cain had given me and found a single video file in the gallery. With trembling fingers, I pressed play.

On the screen, Cain and I stood on a cliffside at sunset, exchanging vows with the ocean as our witness. His hands cupped my face as if I were something precious. My smile was radiant, uninhibited—the smile of a woman deeply in love.

A woman I no longer knew.