BOOK SUMMARY
When a quaint village in the United Kingdom is stuck by a suicide bomber, the once proud nation is brought to its knees with grief. Yet that first attack was just the beginning of something much greater and much worse. Something that nobody could ever have predicted.
The days that follow will determine if the UK even has a future left, or if it will be reduced to anarchy and ashes.
The only person that stands between the people of the UK and its complete destruction is an angry, damaged ex-solider named Sarah Stone. Sarah despises her own country and what it did to her, which is what makes it so hard when she is forced to save it.
SOFT TARGET is the first in a series of books featuring acerbic protagonist Sarah Stone. It is a non-stop action thriller in the same vein as 24.
Copyright
* * *AN SG THRILLER RELEASE* * *
Part of the SALGAD PUBLISHING GROUP
Redditch
UK, Worcestershire
www.SALGADPUBLISHING.com
ISBN-13: 978-150069143
ISBN-10: 1500569143
SOFT TARGET copyright 2014 by Iain Rob Wright
www.IAINROBWRIGHT.com
Cover Art Copyright 2014 Stephen Bryant
www.SRBPRODUCTIONS.net
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 consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
More Books by Iain Rob Wright
THE FINAL WINTER:
Apocalyptic horror novel where it never stops snowing and something ancient stalks the earth.
ASBO:
Innocent family man is targeted by a gang of sadistic youths.
ANIMAL KINGDOM:
Animals turn on mankind and try to make humanity extinct.
SEA SICK:
A deadly virus is unleashed on board a luxury cruise liner.
SAM:
A young boy seems to be possessed. But is he?
RAVAGE:
Apocalyptic horror that culminates in a fight for survival at a hilltop amusement park. Say goodbye to the world.
SAVAGE:
Apocalyptic sequel to Ravage where the stakes are even higher at an abandoned pier. Sometimes being alone is better.
THE HOUSEMATES:
Reality TV turns deadly. 12 competitors but only 1 winner.
Dedicated to those with scars of any kind…
With special thanks to:
Sean Ellis
&
Chris Kirk
Everything I got right, I got right because of them.
“Great Britain has lost an empire and has not yet found a role.”
– Dean Acheson
“Terrorism has no nationality or religion.”
– Vladamir Putin
“Damn it!”
– Jack Bauer, 24, Fox Network Television
PROLOGUE
Birds flocked around the village square as young and old alike scoffed popcorn and candyfloss. Shuffling bottoms filled every bench while an exuberant rock band filled the air with tunes from The Beatles. Those who couldn’t find seats stood and revelled, raising their plastic cups to the music and whistling and hooting like maniacs.
Stretched between a pair of gnarled oak trees, a gaudily painted banner with bright red letters declared: ‘MAY 25th SPRING FETE.’ Carnival games and food stalls had sprung up all over.
Jeffrey Blanchfield stood beneath sagging red-blue-and-white bunting and gazed up at the clear blue sky. The day was crisp, clear, and almost pure. The wafting scent of freshly cut grass and the cooing of hungry pigeons signalled the beginning of a lovely afternoon. The sun was high in the sky and blazing.
Standing in the fresh air was something Jeffrey always enjoyed, ever since childhood on his granddaddy’s farm. He’d tried to take Margaret to see it once, on their fourth anniversary, but the rural area where it had once stood had been paved to make way for a trading estate. He hadn’t realised it at the time, but a little part of him had died that day.
As a boy he’d often stood amongst the cows, breathing in the heady aromas of country air and fresh dung. Nowadays, thirty-five million cars had fouled the country air and the cow dung had been replaced by paved minefields of dog shit.
Jeffrey’s worn kneecaps clicked and yelled at him, and he let out a shiver. Even today, in the bright sunshine, he was draped beneath his long grey anorak, trying to stay warm.
When had he gotten so old?
Ahead, a young girl, with sapphire ribbons tied in her pigtails and a stuffed bear tucked under one arm, held a mongrel by a lead. She was alone, and watching the fete with curious interest as her scruffy pet cocked its leg over flowerbeds. Jeffrey knew it was wrong to approach the girl, especially in this day and age, but he always found children to be so insightful. Their opinions were so often indicative of the current state of society, and Jeffrey wanted to know where things currently stood.
It was a regret that he and Margaret had never managed children of their own – his fault, thanks to a low sperm count. Perhaps if they’d been able to make a family, things would have turned out differently. Jeffrey would have made a great father.
He approached the young girl, moving close enough to pick up her scent. His hairy nostrils detected mummy’s perfume mixed with sugary sweets: the smell of childhood mixed with an impatience to grow up. Jeffrey wondered if he’d ever tried to wear his father’s aftershave as a child, but couldn’t remember. It was so hard to remember anything these days.
The little girl turned and noticed Jeffrey standing beside her. “Hello,” she said, slightly wary.
“Hello, there,” Jeffrey said. “How are you doing today, young lady? Enjoying the fete?”
The girl nodded and grinned. Two of her front teeth had fallen out, revealing the buds of permanent ones underneath. “I won a teddy bear,” she gushed, pointing to a wonkily-stitched gypsy prize tucked beneath her arm, “on the darts game over by the duck pond.”
“How splendid,” Jeffrey said, then knelt down to pat the girl’s mongrel on the head. It was some kind of diluted beagle; a half-breed, like most of the world nowadays. “And what is this little fella’s name?”
“Ruby. She’s a girl.”
“Ruby? What a pretty name.”
“I called her it cus it’s my favourite stone. When I gets married, I’m gunna have a big ruby on my weddin’ finger.” She raised her hand and wiggled her ring finger at Jeffrey.
Jeffrey sighed. “Don’t you dream of doing something other than getting married and having an expensive ring? Don’t you want to do anything special?”
Jeffrey’s voice had unwittingly taken on a disapproving tone which upset the girl. “I… I’d like to be a vet and help animals,” she said. “I like animals.”
Jeffrey nodded. He reached down and patted the young girl’s head. “Now, that’s a good profession, young lady. Your mummy and daddy will be very proud.”
“I don’t have a daddy,” the little girl said.
Jeffrey shook his head and sighed. “Another careless pregnancy, no doubt; so many of them nowadays. Women today have such little self-respect — and men no better; work-shy hoodlums and ignorant bastards, the lot of them.” Jeffrey realized his lack of manners and covered his mouth with a withered old hand. “Forgive my language, young lady. The internal filters start to go at my age.”
The little girl backed away with her dog. “You said a bad word. Mummy!” The little girl scanned the crowd, yanking at the poor mongrel’s neck, until a heavyset woman emerged from the crow
d, grasping a beaker full of cider in one hand and a grease-dripping burger in the other. Her flabby breasts spilled from an undersized halter-top and she sported a ghastly tattoo of a flower on her flabby right foot.
“Was up, bab?” the woman asked in a thick ‘brummie’ accent. “Was wrung?”
Ugly way of talking, Jeffrey thought to himself. If ever there was a region so proud of sounding stupid, it’s Birmingham. Jeffrey had visited Smethwick once for a football match that a work colleague invited him to. Never again. It had been a dirty, grimy, uncivilised place, full of people spitting and snarling. There had been a pub near the stadium with boarded-up windows and peeling blue paint. The North was a much nicer area of the country, but even that was going downhill fast.
The little girl pointed an accusing finger at Jeffrey. “The man said a bad word.”
The fat mother glared at Jeffrey suspiciously, narrowing her heavily made-up eyes. Jeffrey hid his disdain of the woman behind a polite smile. “Completely by mistake, Ma’am, I promise you. Your sweet daughter has already had an apology from me. Forgot my manners. Mind starts to go at my age, I’m afraid.”
The woman wrapped a chubby arm around her daughter. “Nay problem,” she said, but as she moved away she muttered, “dirty old perv.”
Jeffrey shook his head and rolled his eyes. You couldn’t have a conversation these days without somebody accusing you of something. Probably because most people these days were indeed up to something. Jeffrey was usually the exception, but today even he had sins to commit
Nearby, a teenage girl writhed inappropriately up against an older boy. A group of lads leered at the thong peeking out the back of her jeans. Nobody took exception to the lewd display. The sight of flesh-on-flesh and tongue-in-mouth was something the younger generations took no offence to. Things that had once been private and intimate, were now frivolous and undervalued. Jeffrey sighed and wondered where it would end. Would people rut in the street fifty years from now?
Jeffrey remembered the green and pleasant land of his childhood and missed it dearly. He remembered when a foreigner was a novelty, instead of a sucking parasite or a potential criminal. He remembered when women, like his beloved Margaret, had self-respect and men knew what hard work was. He remembered when children were seen and not heard.
It had all turned to shit. Jeffrey had seen more of this life than he ever intended to, and it was making him sick. He pushed his way through the crowd, receiving a drenched elbow from a carelessly held cup of cider. He winced and frowned as cuss words flew over his head like fluttering sparrows. Exposed cleavages sullied the scenery along with great puddles of alcohol and half-eaten food. All around, people danced in their own tawdry filth.
Jeffrey made his way to the bandstand, suffering the glancing blows, drunken shoves, and reckless swearing with gritted teeth. He felt like Jesus walking the Via Dolorosa, disregarded and misunderstood, but history would show that he was the righteous one in the end, and that it was everybody else who was damned. Jeffrey’s sacrifice would be remembered. What he did today would help future generations by making them see what was truly important.
By the time Jeffrey reached the bandstand, his arthritic knees felt like hot coals, and his ribs stung from a dozen elbow-points. The tribute band had just finished their latest number and were interacting with the crowd. “Who’s enjoying themselves?” the lead singer crowed.
The audience sang and cheered. Beer and cider flew from their cups and spattered the ground and each other, a dirty baptism of cigarette ash and alcohol.
“Is everybody ready for a rocking summer?” asked the lead singer of the band.
There were more cheers.
“Now, before we play our next number, me and the band would just like to thank you for being such a wicked audience.”
‘Wicked’ is the correct word, thought Jeffrey.
“You people really know how to have a good time.”
In case Jeffrey had any doubt about what he was going to do, he studied the crowd one last time and reminded himself of the reasons he was there. To his horror, he spotted a group of people his own age gyrating and snogging like teenaged lovers. It was sickening.
Jeffrey’s mission had begun the moment his beloved Margaret had died at his feet, clutching her chest and pleading for life not to leave her. But it had left her. There had been nothing he could do for her but watch her die on the worn carpet of their living room.
The heart attack had been inevitable as soon as the government started housing benefit seekers and minorities in their once idyllic neighbourhood. He and Margaret had broken their backs working to pay-off their cosy, three-bed semi; worked their whole lives so that they could enjoy a retirement together. But when their twilight years finally arrived, they were full of stress and aggravation, not peace and tranquillity. Petty crime had taken over the area, theft and vandalism on every corner. Pretty soon, Margaret had become afraid to leave the house, unwilling to risk the haranguing of the local youths congregating in every underpass. The constant fear and worrying had eventually taken Margaret from Jeffrey. She’d been too gentle to cope like he had. That was why she had gone on to a better place, while he was stuck in the cesspit that had become the UK.
When someone had given him a chance to change things, he hadn’t needed to think twice about it. He’d accepted his mission willingly, eagerly, and was now finally ready to follow through with it. His action would set something magnificent in motion. His would be the opening act of a grand scheme designed to make the world take a long look at itself. Only then would people change. Only then would kind souls like his Margaret no longer be preyed upon.
Jeffrey took the first step towards the bandstand.
The lead singer noticed him immediately. “Hey up, we’ve got a new member of the band. You lost, old fella?”
Jeffrey ignored the singer and carried on up the steps.
This only amused the singer more. “Here, looks like he’s coming to sing one with us. Do we all want to see the old fella sing?” The crowd cheered. “I’m not sure we have anything by George Formby, though. How about When I’m Sixty-Four?”
The crowd bellowed with laughter.
Jeffrey made his way up the last steps. He took advantage of the band’s confusion and moved quickly. The bewildered frontman allowed Jeffrey to stroll right on up to the nearest mic stand, where he proceeded to say exactly what he came there to say.
“You people disgust me.” Jeffrey pulled open his anorak and detonated the bomb strapped around his waist.
FALLING DOWN
Summer was here and so were the bugs. Sarah hopped from the bus to the sticky pavement and swatted at a wasp. When the buzzing menace refused to flee, she gritted her teeth and snarled, but the wasp only seemed further amused by her frustration. As it dove at her head for a third time, Sarah’s temper flared and she snatched it out of the air and crushed it in her fist. The dickish creature managed to get off its stinger before it died, and the piercing pain in her palm reminded Sarah of the virtue of staying calm. Somehow, getting angry only ever seemed to hurt her, yet it was her default emotion. She threw the dead carcass to the pavement and resumed her journey. Sorry, Mr Wasp, but you picked the wrong woman to mess with.
As she marched through the high street, Sarah could have ignored the gawking strangers glancing at her scars, but instead met their stares head-on. If they wanted to gawp, then she had the right to stare right back at them. Either that, or they could pay for the freak show.
It didn’t take long to reach the bank. It was in the middle of Birmingham’s busy Corporation Street. Sarah joined the winding queue inside and grunted. Out of the six serving windows, only two were manned. She glanced at the gaping arse-crack of the woman queuing in front of her, and at the snot-nosed toddler running around screaming, and sighed.
The toddler stopped its screaming for a second when it spotted Sarah’s disfigured face. Sarah bared her teeth and the child hurried away. Its mother was too busy with her iPhone t
o give a shit. Sarah often wondered why people had children when they couldn’t be bothered to watch them.
If Sarah could’ve helped it, she’d do away with her monthly trips to the bank. Other aspects of her life could be dealt with via the Internet or over the phone, but there was no choice when it came to the bank. She needed to visit the city once a month to pay in her foreign cheques for US dollars.
“Come on,” she mumbled as the queue moved down by only a single body. Her wasp sting was itching now. She ran her ragged nails over her throbbing palm and tried to ease it. She regretted crushing the wasp. They were alike. People flinched at the sight of Sarah, too.
A well-kempt businessman strolled away from the tellers, having concluded his business. He smiled at Sarah as he approached, but once he got close enough to see the far side of her face, his eyes fixed on the floor and he sped up.
Men often gave Sarah a smile if they caught her good side — from that angle she was merely a shapely blonde woman — but as soon as they glimpsed the badly-scarred left side of her face, their stomachs would turn and they’d act as if they suddenly realised they were in a hurry. It happened so often that Sarah didn’t even care anymore
The queue inched forward. Sarah shuffled along irritably. It was Monday morning, didn’t the bank expect to have so many customers? What made things worse was that there was clearly another three members of staff available, but they were hanging around in an office area behind the serving windows. One guy was even swigging coffee and laughing, oblivious to the customers waiting.
Sarah thought about the bomb that had gone off yesterday, in the village of Knutsford. Were all those people hanging around just like this, thinking everything was normal? Did they even see it coming?
Soft Target (Major Crimes Unit Book 2) Page 1
