Still scanning for threats, the bodyguard stumbled, blood now soaking through his combats.
“We must get you to a hospital,” the ambassador insisted, taking his arm.
The bodyguard looked absently down at himself. Only now with the adrenaline fading did the pain register. “Too late for that,” he said, grimacing.
United Nations soldiers rushed out, surrounding them in a protective cordon.
“You’re safe now, sir,” said the bodyguard as he collapsed at the ambassador’s feet, a small bloodstained key fob clutched in his hand.
1
Six years later . . .
The fist caught Connor by surprise. A rocketing right hook that jarred his jaw. Stars burst before his eyes, and he stumbled backward. Only instinct saved him from getting floored by the left cross that followed. Blocking the punch with his forearm, Connor countered with a kick to the ribs. But he was too dazed to deliver any real power.
His attacker, a boy with knotted black hair and a body that seemed to have been chiseled from stone, deflected the strike and charged at him in a thunderous rage. Connor shielded his head as a barrage of blows rained down on him.
“GO, JET! KNOCK ’IM OUT!”
The shouts of the crowd were a monstrous roar in Connor’s ears as Jet pummeled him. Connor ducked and weaved to escape the brutal onslaught. But he was boxed in.
Then the ding of the bell cut through the clamor and the referee stepped between them. Jet glared at Connor, his advantage lost.
Connor returned to his corner. He sported spiky brown hair, green-blue eyes and an athletic physique—the benefit of several years of martial arts training. Spitting out his mouth guard, he gratefully accepted the water bottle Dan held out for him. His kickboxing instructor, bald-headed with narrow eyes and a flattened nose that had been broken one too many times, didn’t look happy.
“You have to keep your guard up,” Dan warned.
“Jet’s so quick with his hands,” gasped Connor between gulps of water.
“But you’re quicker,” Dan replied, his tone firm and unquestionable. “The championship title is yours for the taking. Unless you persist in exposing your chin like that.”
Connor nodded. Summoning up his last reserves of energy, he stretched his arms and breathed deeply, trying to shake the stiffness from his burning muscles. After competing in six qualifying bouts, he was tired. But he’d trained hard for the Battle of Britain tournament and wasn’t going to fall at the last hurdle.
Dan wiped the sweat off Connor’s face with a towel. “See the guy in the second row?”
Connor glanced toward a man in his late forties with silver-gray hair trimmed into a severe crew cut. He sat among the cheering spectators, a tournament program in one hand, his eyes discreetly studying Connor.
“He’s a manager scouting for talent.”
All of a sudden Connor felt an additional pressure to succeed. This could be his chance at the international circuit, to compete for world titles and even earn sponsorship deals. Besides his own ambition, he knew his family could really use the money.
The bell rang for the third and final round.
“Now go win this fight!” Dan urged, giving Connor an encouraging slap on the back.
Popping the mouth guard into his mouth, Connor stood to face Jet—determined to win more than ever.
His opponent bobbed lightly on his toes, seemingly as fresh as in the first round. The crowd whooped and hollered as the two fighters squared up beneath the white-hot glare of the ring’s spotlights. They stared at each other, neither willing to show the slightest sign of weakness. As soon as their gloves touched, Jet launched straight into his attack—a blistering combination of jab, cross, jab, hook.
Connor evaded the punches and countered with a front kick. The ball of his foot collided with Jet’s stomach, and his opponent doubled over. Keeping up the pressure, Connor trapped Jet against the ropes with a torrent of punches. But Jet refused to back down. With the ferocity of a cornered tiger, he blasted Connor with multiple body blows. Each strike weakened Connor a little more, and he was forced to retreat. As he stepped away, Jet caught him with a crippling shin kick to the thigh. Connor buckled, opening himself up to another hook punch. Jet threw all his weight behind the attack. At the last second, Connor ducked, and the fist glanced off the top of his head.
Realizing he’d been lucky to escape the hook this time, Connor now knew Jet was gunning to knock him down with that punch.
Like two gladiators, they battled back and forth across the ring. Sweat poured from Connor’s brow, his breathing hard, his blood pumping as the punches and kicks came thick and fast. Connor felt his energy ebbing. But he couldn’t give up now. There was too much at stake.
“Stay light on your feet!” bawled Dan from his ringside corner.
Jet launched a roundhouse to the head. Connor double-blocked it with his arms and countered with a side kick. Jet leaped away, then immediately drove back in, fists flying. The crowd now going wild at the epic to-and-fro of combat. Connor’s name was chanted to the rafters by his friends from the Tiger Martial Arts Dojo: “CON-NOR! CON-NOR!”
Jet’s supporters screamed back with equal ferocity. The shouts reached fever pitch as they entered the closing seconds of the bout. Connor realized that if he didn’t knock Jet down, his opponent would likely win on points. But exhaustion was getting the better of him.
“Don’t drop your guard!” Dan screamed at him in frustration from his corner.
Jet spotted the gap in Connor’s defense and went for it. Jab, cross . . . hook!
But Connor had been feigning the weakness to draw his opponent in . . . and Jet had taken the bait. With lightning speed, he sidestepped the attack and thrust in a jab, stunning his opponent. Then, whipping his rear leg around, he executed a spinning hook kick. Jet never saw what hit him as Connor’s heel connected with the side of his head. Jet’s black mouth guard shot out of his mouth, and he crashed to the deck in a heap. A second later the bell rang to end the fight.
A dazed Jet staggered to his feet, helped by the referee. Connor bowed his respect to his opponent, who gave a begrudging nod in return. The presiding judge stepped into the ring. Clasping a microphone, he announced: “The UK title for the Battle of Britain Junior Kickboxing Tournament goes to . . . CONNOR REEVES!”
The crowd roared in celebration as Connor was presented with the trophy, a silver figure of a kickboxer atop a column of white marble. Connor felt a wave of elation and raised the prize high above his head in acknowledgment of his supporters.
Dan gripped him around the shoulders. “Congratulations, champ!” he said, grinning. “Your father would be so proud of you.”
Connor looked up at the glittering trophy and at the cheering spectators. He dearly wished his dad could have been by his side to share this moment. His father was the one who’d encouraged him to start martial arts in the first place. It had been his passion—and it was Connor’s too.
“I have to admit, you had me worried there for a second,” said Dan.
“Feign and fight,” replied Connor. “You taught me that trick, remember? So you deserve to hold this as much as me.”
Passing Dan the trophy, he glanced toward the second row and was disappointed to see the silver-haired man had gone.
“Wasn’t the manager impressed, then?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him,” Dan admitted with a playful wink as he brandished the trophy. “I’ve no idea who that man was. I just wanted you to fight at the top of your game—and you did!”
2
A chill wind hit Connor as he emerged from the ExCel Center in the London Docklands and headed for the bus stop on Freemasons Road. The gray February sky was unforgiving, the tail end of winter refusing to loosen its grip. But not even the dismal weather could dampen Connor’s spirits. He was the UK Kickboxing Champion and had the trophy in hi
s duffel bag to prove it. He couldn’t wait to show his gran—she was his biggest fan, after all.
Pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt, Connor shouldered his duffel bag and crossed the bridge spanning the Docklands Light Railway. He dodged the traffic on the opposite side and was passing a row of boarded-up shops when he heard a cry for help.
Halfway down a littered alley, he spotted a well-dressed Indian boy surrounded by a gang of youths. It was obvious that a man heading for the train station had also heard the cry. But, averting his gaze, the man hurried past the scene.
Scared of being knifed, thought Connor. And who’d blame him?
But Connor couldn’t walk away. The strong have a duty to protect the weak, his father had taught him. That was the reason his father had joined the army. And why he’d encouraged Connor to take up martial arts. He never wanted his son to be a victim.
The gang leader shoved the boy against the alley wall and began to rifle through his pockets.
“Leave him alone!” shouted Connor.
Almost as one, the gang turned to face their challenger.
“This ain’t got nothing to do with you, mate,” said the leader. “Leg it!”
Connor ignored the warning and strode toward them. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“This loser ain’t got no friends,” the boy said, spitting at his victim’s feet, clearly not believing Connor’s bluff.
Drawing level with the gang, Connor eyeballed the leader. Dressed in baggy jeans and a Drake T-shirt, the lad was a good few inches taller than him and well built. With a broad chest, bulging biceps and fists like hammers, the boy regarded Connor as though Connor were a nail waiting to be pounded.
The rest of the gang—two boys and a girl—were less intimidating but still dangerous as a pack. One boy in Converse sneakers, baggy jeans and a gray hoodie held a skateboard, his face pockmarked with pimples. The other wore carbon-copy baggy jeans, a puffer jacket and a red Nike baseball hat, tipped at a “too cool for you” angle on his bleached-blond hair. The girl, who looked to be of Asian origin with a jet-black bob and a piercing through her nose, wore dark eyeshadow, emo-style, and Dr. Martens boots. She shot Connor a hard stare.
“Let’s go,” said Connor to his new friend, keeping his voice low and even. He didn’t want to show how nervous he really was. He might be trained in kickboxing and jujitsu, but he wasn’t looking for a fight. His jujitsu teacher had drilled into him that violence was the last resort. Especially when outnumbered four to one—that was just asking for trouble.
The boy took a hesitant step toward him, but the gang leader planted a hand on his chest. “You’re going nowhere.”
Frozen to the spot with fear, the boy looked to Connor in wide-eyed desperation.
A tense standoff now ensued between Connor and the gang. Connor’s eyes flicked to each gang member, his duffel bag at the ready to protect himself in case one of them pulled a knife.
“I said, leave him alone,” he repeated, edging between the gang and their victim.
“And I said, mind your own business,” replied the leader, launching a fist straight at the boy’s face.
As the terrified boy let out a yelp, Connor moved in and deflected the punch with a forearm block. Then he took up a fighting stance, fists raised, defying the gang to come any closer.
Glaring at Connor, the leader broke into a mocking laugh. “Watch out, everyone! It’s the Karate Kid!”
Don’t laugh too soon, thought Connor, unshouldering his duffel bag.
The leader sized up Connor. Then he swung a wild right hook at Connor’s head. With lightning reflexes, Connor ducked, drove forward and delivered a powerful punch to the gut in return.
The unexpected strike should have floored the gang leader, but he was much stronger than he looked. Instead of collapsing, he merely grunted and came back at Connor with a combination of jab, cross and uppercut. Connor went on the defensive. As he blocked each attack, it became blindingly obvious that the leader was a trained boxer. Having underestimated his opponent, Connor rapidly reassessed his tactics. Although Connor was faster, the gang leader had the advantage of power and reach. And, without gloves, this fight had the potential to be deadly—just one of those sledgehammer fists could land him in the hospital.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall, thought Connor, recalling how in jujitsu a larger opponent could be defeated by using their strength against themselves.
As the gang leader let loose a vicious roundhouse punch to his head, Connor entered inside its arc and spun his body into his attacker. Redirecting the force of the strike, he flung the boy over his hip and body-dropped him to the concrete. The leader hit the ground so hard, all the breath was knocked out of him. The gang stared in disbelief at their fallen leader, while the well-dressed boy could barely suppress a grin of delight at seeing his tormentor squirm in the dirt.
“Get . . . him!” the leader wheezed, unable to rise.
The boy with the Nike baseball hat charged in, executing a flying side kick. Connor leaped to one side before realizing his new friend was right behind him. With no time to spare, Connor shoved him out of the kick’s path.
Nike’s foot struck the wall instead. Incensed, he turned on Connor and launched a furious succession of spinning kicks. Surprised at the boy’s skill, Connor was forced to retreat. As he backed away, only instinct—born from hours of sparring—warned him of a simultaneous attack from behind. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Hoodie step forward and swing the skateboard at his head.
At the last second, Connor ducked. The tail of the deck missed him by a whisker and struck Nike full in the face instead. The boy fell to his knees, semi-concussed.
Hoodie, horrified at his mistake, was now an open target. Connor took advantage and shot out a side kick. But the boy reacted faster than Connor expected and held up his deck as a shield. Having broken wooden blocks to pass his black-belt grading, Connor knew the right technique. Gritting his teeth, he drove on through—the board shattering rather than his foot. From there, it took Connor a simple palm strike to floor Hoodie.
With all three boys out of action, the girl now advanced on him.
Connor held up his hands in peace. “Listen, I don’t fight girls. Just walk away and we can forget all about this.”
The girl stopped, tilted her head and smiled sweetly at him. “How nice of you.”
Then she punched Connor straight in the mouth, splitting his lip. With barely a pause, the girl followed through with a kick to the thigh, her heavy Dr. Martens giving him a dead leg exactly where Jet had struck him earlier in the bout. He crumpled against the wall.
“I fight boys, though!” she said as Connor, stunned and hurting, tried to recover his balance.
The girl went to kick him again, but rather than retreat, Connor moved in and caught her leg in midswing. Struggling to free herself, she sliced the edge of her hand at his neck. But Connor grabbed hold of her wrist and twisted her arm into a lock, forcing her to submit. The girl squealed in pain.
“LET THAT GIRL GO!”
Connor glanced back down the alley. Two police officers—a tall black man and a slender white woman—were hurrying toward them. Connor reluctantly released the girl, who promptly kicked him in the shin before running off in the opposite direction. The rest of the gang followed close on her heels.
Connor went to go after them, but the policeman seized him by the scruff of the neck. “Not so fast, sonny. You’re coming with us.”
“But I was trying to save this boy,” Connor protested.
“What boy?” questioned the policewoman.
Connor looked up and down the alley . . . but it was deserted. The boy had gone.
3
The officers escorted Connor across Freemasons Road and down a side street to an imposing redbrick building. As they neared the entrance, the traditional blue lamp of the Metropolitan Pol
ice came into view. Below this was a sign in bold white lettering declaring Canning Town Police Station. They climbed the steps, passing a poster warning Terrorism—If You Suspect It, Report It, and entered through a set of heavy wooden doors, the blue paint chipped and worn.
The station’s foyer was poorly lit and depressingly drab, the walls bare, apart from a bulletin board promoting a local Neighborhood Watch meeting. The sole pieces of furniture were a bench and a glass reception booth, manned by a single bored custody officer. As the three of them approached, he looked up and tutted upon seeing Connor’s split lip and the splashes of blood dotted across his sweatshirt.
“Name?” the custody officer asked him.
“Connor Reeves.”
He noted this in a ledger. “Address and contact number?”
Connor gave his home in Leytonstone.
“Family?”
“Just my mum and gran,” he replied.
As this was added to the ledger, the policewoman explained the reason for detaining Connor, and the custody officer nodded, seemingly satisfied.
“In there,” he said, pointing with his pen to a door labeled Interview Room.
Connor was marched across the foyer. The policeman stayed behind to log the contents of his duffel bag with the custody officer.
“After you,” said the policewoman, ushering him through.
Connor stepped inside. In the center of the room was a large desk with a single lamp and a couple of hard wooden chairs. A single fluorescent strip buzzed like a mosquito, casting a bleached light over the depressing scene. There was a musty smell in the air, and the blinds were drawn across the window, giving an unsettling sense of isolation from the rest of the world.
In spite of his innocence, Connor’s throat went dry with apprehension, and his heart began to beat faster.
This just isn’t right! he thought. He’d tried to stop a mugging and he was the one being arrested. And what thanks had he gotten for stepping in? None. The boy had disappeared without a trace.
Bodyguard--Recruit (Book 1) Page 2
