by R J Bailey
‘You’re being too hard on yourself. Konrad had nearly twenty years to get his act right. And how the fuck could you have known he was speaking Basque? It’s some language from the Stone Age, isn’t it?’
Nice of her to try to let me down easy, but I wasn’t having it. Because I knew my version was the correct one. ‘That’s no excuse. And no consolation. I can’t do this any more. The PPO stuff. I have to worry about Jess full-time now.’
‘We have to worry about Jess full-time,’ Freddie corrected.
‘Thank you.’
I passed the folder to her. She pulled out the photos and examined each in turn. ‘I hate to say this, but . . . Jess looks well. My guess? We aren’t exactly looking at an abused, unhappy child here.’
‘I know.’ Her looking happy was another stiletto in the heart. But what did I want – pictures of her looking miserable, depressed, anorexic, haunted? No, this was a good result. She had still been stolen from me, was still a prisoner, even if it was a prisoner in paradise.
Freddie sipped her coffee, making a squeaking noise as she did so. Her top lip was still cracked from where Siobhan had hit her with a gun. Right before she bundled her into the car Freddie had driven down to Spain in. The BMW. Not the Peugeot that Marie Ronan died in. I’d gone out looking through the wreckage for her. It was only after I had burned my fingers and scorched my hair and tried not to look at the hideously blackened mannequin in the driver’s seat I realised I’d made the wrong assumption.
I’d wept with joy when I had found her. She had wept because her lip hurt. Amazingly, she had forgiven me. She blamed herself for being outfoxed by Anjel and Siobhan, who had known they were being followed. Anything she had told the Colonel, the old man had doubtless passed on to Henri. And he to Konrad and Siobhan. The pair had been waiting for her all along.
I fantasised about going back in and thumping Henri a few times, but I simply ordered a coffee for myself. The Colonel would figure it all out. I had bigger fish to fry than Henri. I realised that the well of fury had been replaced by something else. A determination. Perhaps it was seeing how corrosive Anjel and Siobhan’s bitterness had become over the years, distorting their worldview until the only thing that mattered was some sort of revenge. I didn’t want to be eaten away like that. I had to get Jess back without destroying myself in the process.
Just get it sorted.
I watched two men approaching us from over the square. There was something about the way they were heading towards us with laser-guided accuracy that made alarm bells ring. I sat up in the chair.
I relaxed just a little as I recognised the feline walk of one of them. Jean-Claude. The Frenchman from Kubera. And that was Keegan next to him. The retrievers. What the hell were they doing here?
‘What now?’ Freddie asked, not yet sensing my growing feeling of alarm.
‘We go to Bali,’ I said, but even as the word came out, and Jean-Claude raised an arm in greeting, I sensed that the two men rapidly closing on our table had other plans for me.
The pair came to the table and I made the introductions. Sensing they had something to say, Freddie went in to use the toilet and to rustle up a waiter. They sat down.
‘I heard you had some excitement,’ said Keegan.
‘News travels fast,’ I said.
‘Well, we were almost close enough to witness some of it. The stunt on the highway? Impressive.’
A sort of tingling started in one of my hands. I shook it. But it wasn’t pins and needles in my fingers. It was alarm bells.
‘Bayonne? That was you on my tail?’ Perhaps all that fancy wheelwork hadn’t been a complete waste of time after all.
‘We picked you up earlier than that. But we figured out you’d end up here eventually.’
‘If I lived.’
‘Well, we didn’t know exactly what was going to happen in Spain, did we?’
‘What the hell are you doing chasing me down to Zürich?’
Jean-Claude leaned forward. ‘That man you told us about. The Albanian who may have killed your husband.’
‘Leka?’
‘Yes. We tracked him down. He is one of the biggest people-traffickers in Europe. And not a man to cross, even for us.’
‘Meaning?’
‘He made us an offer,’ said Keegan.
Status: orange. ‘What kind of offer?’
‘An offer of work,’ said Jean-Claude, and as his jacket fell open I could see the Smith & Wesson on his belt.
‘A retrieval,’ offered Keegan.
‘What has he hired you to retrieve?’ I asked.
But I knew the answer even before Jean-Claude spoke and the day suddenly turned very chill. Behind him I saw the steel anti-terrorist bollards that ringed the public space sink into the ground and a blacked-out Range Rover bounce over them onto the plaza, heading our way. Status: very, very red.
Keegan’s hand clamped onto my wrist.
‘You.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
You never forget the sound of a soft human body hitting hard earth from a great height. It stayed with me for days in Iraq. A patrol had managed to capture a local warlord, code-named Desert Cobra after the lightning strikes he organised. He was believed to be behind the constant mortar raids on our camp. Anyway, you could probably have heard the cheers of the Intel lads in Baghdad when they were told he was being brought in by chopper, wounded but alive.
At that point there were two ways for the helicopter pilots to approach the camp to avoid missile attacks and small-arms fire, and they liked to mix them up. One was a low-level dash, over the ridge and down onto the landing zone. The other was to come in at some considerable altitude and drop like a stone.
That day they chose the latter. There was always a moment before the descent when the helicopter hesitated. The crew liked this, because most passengers got shit-scared in those brief seconds before the machine dropped like a rock. Stomachs were always in mouths. Screams not uncommon. Vomiting a well-known hazard. It was just like when the roller coaster crests the top of the ride, a heartbeat of what-are-we-doing-here-again?
It was in that tiniest of windows that the Desert Cobra broke free and jumped.
Freddie was standing next to me when he went out and she grabbed my arm and squeezed, pointing to the sky with her free hand. We watched the tiny black dot grow into a human being. He wasn’t flailing as one might expect – his hands were cuffed, but even his legs stayed still. I always imagined he was quite calm, waiting to be welcomed in the arms of Allah as the unforgiving soil of his home country rushed towards him. The Desert Cobra struck the earth with a deep thud that seemed to vibrate through the soles of our boots, the impact obscured by a thick cloud of yellow dust. Only later did we wonder: did he fall or was he pushed?
They say the noise of a human body hitting a pavement is worse. Like a giant steak thrown onto a griddle with all the force the chef can muster, wet and sickening. It is hard to imagine it was more extreme than the sounds I experienced that day in the plaza.
He hit the Range Rover at the junction between the bonnet and the windscreen with an almighty slap. The latter deformed into an opaque spider’s web, the former creased like crumpled paper with a sharp squeal of protest. Inside, every airbag detonated with an explosive rush of compressed air. Then the alarm began to honk like a wounded animal. I could just make out the driver’s flailing arms through the tinted side windows. Trapped. And in shock, no doubt. I wouldn’t have to worry about him.
‘Fuckin’ hell!’ Keegan spoke – or rather yelled – for all of us.
I found the three of us were on our feet, backing away from the shattered flesh and bone that was Henri, the Colonel’s son. Keegan, appalled and perplexed by what he was seeing, had loosened his grip on me. I used the opportunity to break one of his fingers. He yelped, but the incessant honking of the Range Rover’s alarm drowned him out. He drew back a fist to punch me and I stamped one of the metal legs of the café chairs into his foot, just above the tassel of his loafe
r. Another cry of pain. The punch sailed by and with my good hand I gave him a short sharp blow to the ribs. Now he hurt in three places. He’d keep.
I turned towards Jean-Claude. I had expected him to act by that point. He might not pull a gun – the cops would be all over the place soon – but the fact he was rooted to the spot surprised me. Then I saw the reason for his inaction, leaning round to shout in his ear.
‘This is a steak knife pressed against your spine,’ Freddie said. ‘And I know what I am doing with spines. And knife blades come to think of it. One false move and you’ll be booking your place in the next Paralympics. Understand?’
Jean-Claude looked pale. ‘Yes.’
She tossed me a blade, which I caught by the handle. ‘I brought a spare.’
The business end was nasty and serrated and I was glad the Swiss don’t like plastic cutlery. I grabbed my bag and opened it. ‘Put your weapons in here. Carefully.’
Jean-Claude did as he was told. Keegan shook his head to show he wasn’t carrying. I slipped the bag onto my shoulder. The new heft from J-C’s Smith & Wesson felt good.
‘What now?’ asked Keegan, nursing his damaged hand.
‘We are going across to that other café over there and we’ll sit. We will order coffee. Then we’ll wait for the police. Give our witness statements.’
Did he jump or was he pushed? I wondered. Had Henri jumped because he was ashamed of something he had done or had the Colonel lost his temper at his son’s treachery and tossed him overboard? But that was one for the cops. Not my concern, sad as it was either way.
‘And if you try anything, Keegan, I’m going to put this knife in your thigh and twist and dig until I find the femoral artery and Zürich will have a brand-new fountain. Do you believe me?’
A nod.
‘Good. Get going. We need to talk about Leka.’
As he limped off with me at his back I heard Freddie laugh.
‘What?’ I asked.
She prodded Jean-Claude forward as the plaza began to fill with blue lights and sirens and she flashed me a grin.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘But welcome back, Sam.’
What will Sam Wylde’s next assignment be?
We are looking for a PPO to accompany our well-known International Celebrity client on a visit to Hong Kong for personal reasons.
• The successful applicant will be discreet and well versed in defensive surveillance.
• The client has received kidnap threats that she – and we – takes seriously.
• The successful applicant will be part of a team offering 24-hour protection for the duration of the trip.
• Client stipulation is for at least one female to cover all possibilities.
• Mandarin or Cantonese an advantage.
• Clean passport essential.
• Proof of self-defence skills expected.
• Must be willing to submit to random drug testing.
• Salary negotiable.
RJ Bailey
Safe From Harm
YOU CAN RUN
Sam Wylde is a Close Protection Officer to the rich and powerful. In a world dominated by men, being a woman has been an advantage. And she is the best in the business at what she does.
YOU CAN HIDE
She takes a job protecting the daughter of the Sharifs – Pakistani textile tycoons – but she realises that there is more to their organisation than meets the eye and suddenly she finds herself in danger.
BUT ONLY ONE PERSON WILL KEEP YOU SAFE FROM HARM
Now she is trapped underground, with no light, no signal and no escape. Dangerous men are coming to hurt her, and the young charge she is meant to be protecting. With time running out, can she channel everything she knows to keep them safe from harm …?
‘Sam Wylde is a hero for our times … RJ Bailey has created a serial hero to rival Jack Reacher himself’
Tony Parsons
PAPERBACK ISBN 978-1-4711-5716-5
EBOOK ISBN 978-1-4711-5718-9
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Author’s Note
The core of Nobody Gets Hurt was suggested by a true story, related to us by a relative over a few pints of Guinness. Sadly, we cannot identify him, as he would get into trouble for breaking a confidence. It is well documented that the FRU (here known by its alternative name of TRU) used informers and double agents and that, in some cases, informers/touts were exposed and murdered.
This is from an article by journalist Robert Stevens, published online in in 2001:
During the past three weeks, the Guardian newspaper has run several articles on the Force Research Unit (FRU), an undercover security operation financed and run by the British state in Northern Ireland for more than two decades.
The articles detail how this terror network – involving up to 100 soldiers and double agents – organised a series of covert intelligence and military operations and authorised their agents to carry out numerous illegal activities including bomb–making, murder, and the shooting of Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) officers.
Through interviews with alleged former members of the FRU, the Guardian reports that the FRU was in active operation until the British and Irish governments signed the Northern Ireland Agreement three years ago. Afterwards ex-FRU members complain they were discarded by the British secret services and left without any protection.
Elsewhere, thanks are due to Jean-Francois Gourdon for decoding Monaco for us, Salvatore Madonna of the Hotel Byron in Forte di Marmi for plugging us in there, the Facel Vega Car Club for technical assistance and, of course, Lisa Baldwin for PPO advice. Also to Neola for help with photoshoots – www.neolaapparel.com. The eagle-eyed Mike Gostick helped with Sam’s military background in this and Safe From Harm. Thank you also to Jo Dickinson and Sam Copeland for their enthusiasm and help in developing Ms Wylde’s world. For this one, Bella and Gina Ryan assisted with the tone and language of Jess’s diary.
Also by RJ Bailey
Safe From Harm
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2017
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © RJ Bailey 2017
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