As they neared the wall, Connor spotted a burning fuse amid the grass.
“Grenade!” he cried.
Amir’s eyes widened in panic and he attempted to alter their course. But their feet became tangled up by the sudden change in direction. They both tumbled to the ground, landing face-first in the dirt. The grenade exploded inches from their heads. There was a blinding flash. An earsplitting blast. Then a shower of red sparks rained down on them.
“That was close,” remarked Amir, laughing nervously as the firecracker burned out.
Connor dislodged Amir from his back and glared at him. “Not as close as this sheep muck!”
Amir stifled a snigger as Connor wiped off a dark brown smear of dung from his face with his sleeve.
“Gross,” said Amir, but his amusement was brought to a swift end when he heard the angry shouts of their instructor.
“A-C-E,” said Jody despairingly as the two of them rejoined Alpha team on the school’s front lawn. “Amir, have you forgotten what that means?”
Amir shook his head. “Assess the threat. Counter the danger. Escape the kill zone.”
“Then why didn’t you assess your escape route? It’s no good running with your Principal if you’re heading in the wrong direction. Or worse—toward the threat itself!”
Jody was teaching Alpha team the concept of “body cover”: how to effectively shield a Principal from an attack. They’d spent all day doing “action-on drills”: grabbing their Principal from sitting, standing, walking and running positions, and covering them against various assaults from the front, rear, left, right, and even from above. Through constant practice, the aim was to make A-C-E as instinctive as ducking.
“Whenever there’s an apparent danger, you must assess the situation before you react,” Jody reminded them. “This might take a millisecond or ten seconds, but it’s vital to your survival. The threat—whether it is a punch, a knife, a bullet or even an egg—determines your response. Then, once the assessment is made, you cover your Principal, placing yourself between them and the threat. For example—”
She grabbed Marc, stepped in front of him and shouted, “STAY BEHIND ME!”
The demonstration took less than a second, but was effective.
“You need to control the Principal both physically and verbally,” she explained, still holding on to Marc’s arm. “The shock of the attack might have caused fight, flight or freeze. This could mean the Principal is either functioning with you or has brain fade. Whatever the case, you need to stay in control and ensure they don’t hamper the evacuation.” Jody held up her right hand. “Leave your strong arm free to punch and defend. And, when you do evacuate, the body cover must remain on. As you’ve just witnessed with Connor and Amir’s spectacular belly flop into the sheep dung, this isn’t easy. Which is why you need to practice.”
She released Marc and asked Connor to step forward. “Punch Marc,” she instructed.
Marc looked shocked. “But he’s a kickboxing champion!”
“And I’m your bodyguard,” replied Jody with a wink.
Obeying his instructor, Connor swung a fist at Marc’s face.
“GET DOWN!” screamed Jody, leaping forward and driving her hip into Marc. He was shoved so violently sideways that he was thrown several feet. But he was no longer under any direct threat, and Jody now engaged with the attack. Effortlessly blocking it, she countered with a hook punch that stopped just short of Connor’s jaw.
“You see, by suddenly moving your Principal, the assailant doesn’t know where to look: at his original target or at you, his new threat.”
Jody lowered her fist and patted Connor on the shoulder. “Remember to block next time,” she said with a grin.
“Isn’t the technique a bit aggressive?” Connor asked as Marc stood, rubbing his bruised hip. “You could hurt the Principal.”
“In a life-threatening situation, this technique needs to be aggressive,” Jody replied. “The Shove, as I like to call it, will save your Principal from any direct attack—a punch, a knife or even a bullet.”
“We’re expected to take a bullet for someone else?” exclaimed Amir.
Jody’s expression became solemn. “Ideally, with your training, it won’t ever come to that. And even if it did, you should be wearing your issued body armor. But when you’re on assignment, you take on the very same danger your Principal faces. You are their shield. That’s why bodyguards are sometimes known as bullet-catchers.”
20
The waves rolled toward the shore, long white lines that peeled in perfect curls. Bobbing on the sea’s surface like eager seals, local surfers waited to catch their ride and follow the surge in. Along the three-mile stretch of golden sand, a few families dotted the shoreline, but otherwise the beach belonged to Alpha team. After twelve weeks of basic training, they’d finally earned some proper time off and Steve had driven them to the Gower Peninsula to relax. Now it was June, and the sun was warm, the sky cloudless and the day perfect for a barbecue on the beach.
Jason prodded the sausages and slapped on a couple more burgers.
“These should be done in a minute,” he announced, swigging from a can of Coke.
Ling lay on her beach towel, soaking up the sun’s rays. “Did you keep my veggie kebabs separate?”
“Of course,” said Jason, quickly shuffling Ling’s food to one side and sharing a guilty grin with Connor and Marc. Now that training was over, the rivalry between them had relaxed a little. Although their relationship was still fractious, Connor had come to realize that Jason wasn’t a bad guy. It was just that neither of them wanted to be second best.
For Connor, the past twelve weeks had flown by, and he felt like a completely different person. When a geography lesson was paired with survival in hostage situations, a physics class with fire training, and cross-country running with anti-ambush drills, the mix was mind-blowing. It was as if he now wore special lenses that identified every threat surrounding him on a daily basis. Connor no longer classed this as “paranoia”—he was simply aware of the world, living in Code Yellow. When he walked down a busy street, passersby seemed to be in a perpetual, and worrying, state of half sleep. Did they notice the security camera above the shopping center entrance recording them? Did they have a clue where the fire exit was in an emergency? Had any of them spotted the suspicious individual hanging near the ATM? As a direct result of his training, Connor instinctively picked up on these details. And though he was alert to more danger, he paradoxically felt safer, since he was now prepared to deal with any trouble that might occur.
Connor wondered if his mum or gran would notice the difference in him when he returned to London for summer vacation. Despite the intensity of the training, he’d managed to call home every week. His mother always sounded upbeat and eager to hear news of his progress, although he could tell by the edge in her voice that she was often in a great deal of pain. He had to gloss over the details of his bodyguard training, but she was pleased he was learning new subjects as well as continuing his martial arts. His gran seemed happy too, and particularly glad he was paying attention to his “other” studies. Sally was proving a great help around the house, and she’d taken his mum and gran to local parks and gardens and on day trips out of London, something the two of them never could have managed before. Any doubts Connor had about joining Guardian were dispelled each time he heard about the care they were receiving. Whatever the commitment in becoming a bodyguard, the sacrifice was worthwhile.
Connor watched a surfer catch a wave and ride it all the way in.
“So could you do it?” asked Amir.
“Surf like that?” said Connor. “No chance.”
“I mean”—Amir dug his foot into the sand—“take a bullet for someone else?”
Connor glanced at his friend. Ever since their body-cover lesson, the specter of being a “bullet-catcher” had hung over them
. No one really talked about it, but Connor had thought long and hard about the matter. Was this a risk he was willing to take? Had his father made such a sacrifice? He’d never been told the full story. And, if his father had, did he have the guts to throw himself in the line of fire?
“Perhaps,” replied Connor. “If I cared enough about the person.”
“But as a guardian you won’t know the person at first,” said Marc.
“And worse—you might not even like them!” added Jason, flipping a burger and glancing in Connor’s direction.
Ling pulled out her headphones. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Amir. Jody says such a situation rarely happens.”
“Rarely doesn’t mean never,” replied Amir. “And who’s to say another person’s life is worth more than mine?”
“I suppose it’s about standing up for what is right,” said Connor. “The strong protecting the weak.”
“That’s easier said than done,” Ling pointed out. “And Charley should know.”
Charley had rolled down the beach to the point where the last gush of the waves fingered the shore. The sea rushed around her wheels, and her feet were lost in the swirling white waters.
“Is Charley all right down there?” asked Connor.
Ling glanced from beneath her shades and nodded. “She likes to get close. Reminds her of her competition days.”
Connor thought back to their unarmed combat scenario. “So Charley actually was a pro surfer?”
Jason laughed. “Do koalas live in trees? Charley was awesome! Youngest Quiksilver Champion ever.”
Connor looked at Charley, constrained by her wheelchair. He could only imagine the frustration she was experiencing at being unable to surf—if he couldn’t practice martial arts, he’d go mad. “I’ll go tell her the food’s ready.”
Grabbing a drink from the cooler, he wandered down to the shoreline.
“I thought you might like a Diet Coke,” he said, offering Charley the ice-cold can.
She accepted it and offered him a brief smile.
“There’s a good swell today,” she said wistfully. “Nothing like LA, but the breaks are clean and long.”
Connor nodded as if he knew what she was talking about. He wished he had more knowledge of surfer speak. The icy cold sea washed up his legs, soaking his shorts, and he jumped back.
Charley didn’t move. “I just love the feel of the waves. Their power. The overwhelming rush as the surf seizes you. Nothing in the world compares to riding a wave.”
Connor studied her face, bathed in the golden sun, her bright eyes keenly following a surfer. He noticed that in her hand she clasped the gold Guardian badge.
She’s certainly brave, he thought, but was the sacrifice worth it?
21
“Mr. President, here are the files on the organization you inquired about.”
“Thank you, George,” said President Mendez, taking the folder marked Confidential from his White House chief of staff.
Leaning back in his leather chair in the Oval Office, he studied the winged shield on the first page, then read the opening summary. After a thoughtful pause, he glanced over to a broad-chested man dressed in full military attire.
“You can vouch for this Colonel Black, General?”
“One hundred percent, Mr. President,” replied General Martin Shaw, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the highest-ranking military officer in the United States Armed Forces. “Colonel Black and I go back a long way. Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan. I’d trust him with my life.”
“What about your child’s?” remarked a tall man pointedly, who sat ramrod straight on the Oval Office’s cream upholstered couch. With premature gray hair and stress lines around his eyes, Dirk Moran, the director of the Secret Service, was far less enthusiastic about the proposal on the agenda.
The general nodded. “If you met the colonel, you would too.”
“But we’re not talking about him, are we?” replied Dirk, pushing his objection further. “We’re considering a child protecting the president’s daughter.”
“Yes, but they’re fully trained in the intricacies of close protection,” argued the White House chief of staff. “And this Guardian organization has an impressive track record.”
“So does my son on sports day, but I’m not considering him for the Olympics,” said Dirk, standing up as he struggled to control his frustration. “A child bodyguard is a joke! Trained or otherwise, they’re simply not in the same league as a Secret Service agent.”
“That’s true. They’re in an entirely different league,” observed the general, raising an eyebrow. “No one would ever suspect a kid of being a bodyguard. A guardian would provide an ‘invisible’ ring of protection around the president’s daughter. He or she can go where your Secret Service agents can’t.”
Dirk turned to the president, whose dark brown eyes followed their discussion with interest.
“Mr. President, you have at your disposal the finest and most dedicated close-protection force in the world,” he implored. “Are you convinced this is necessary?”
The chief of staff stepped forward and interrupted with a polite cough. “Dirk, you can’t deny that there have been a few holes in the Secret Service net recently.”
Dirk’s jaw tightened. “Granted, but they have been plugged.”
“I have complete faith in your team, Dirk,” assured President Mendez. “But, considering the severe threat level the director of National Intelligence has advised us of, a guardian seems like a sensible extra precaution.”
“I’ve read Karen Wright’s report,” Dirk said. “All the more reason to tighten security. Not to introduce a weakness. We need only double the Secret Service team.”
“You know my daughter won’t stand for any increased protection,” replied the president, holding his hands up in resigned despair. “That was the source of the problem in the first place.”
“We can function low profile. There’s no need to resource externally—”
“Dirk, I understand your concerns. But I must consider every option when it comes to my family’s safety. Let me examine the profiles first. If none prove suitable, we won’t pursue the matter any further. Is that acceptable?”
Dirk nodded reluctantly and sat back down.
When it came to serious decisions, President Mendez always kept his cards close to his chest. Therefore he hadn’t disclosed the similar doubts that he shared with his Secret Service director. It seemed unbelievable that he was considering entrusting the life of his daughter into the hands of someone her own age! The guardian in question would have to be truly exceptional to deserve his approval.
He studied each of the profiles in turn, his forefinger rubbing at his temple as he read. The list of potential candidates was short but impressive, their credentials and training equal to any professional close-protection officer.
Dirk watched as the president turned over each page, setting none aside. When the final profile was reached, he allowed himself a satisfied smirk. At last he could put this absurd proposal back into his filing cabinet where it belonged and get on with his job of protecting the president and his family.
“I cannot believe this,” uttered President Mendez under his breath.
“I’m glad you agree, Mr. President,” said Dirk, shooting a subtle but triumphant glance at his associates. “However, you can be assured that my department will maintain impenetrable security around your daughter.”
But President Mendez wasn’t listening. He held up the last sheet and handed it to his chief of staff.
“Contact Colonel Black immediately,” he instructed. “Tell him that we’ll be requiring his organization’s services.”
Dirk leaped from the sofa to look at the profile in George’s grasp. As he scanned the president’s choice, his expression crumbled into one of sheer disbelief. “But this guard
ian hasn’t even completed a single assignment yet!”
The president closed the file and replied with complete conviction. “He’s the one.”
22
Hazim sat alone in the study of the large rented house. The residence had come partly furnished, and he tapped his fingers impatiently on the mahogany desk as he watched the clock on the wall, its second hand ticking by. It was two minutes to seven.
His phone rang, and Hazim snatched it up from the desk. “Hello?”
“Hazim, it’s your mother,” said the voice at the other end of the line. “Are you still coming over for dinner?”
Sighing, Hazim rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. “Sorry, Mother, I have to work late. Perhaps tomorrow.”
He clicked on the eBay home page on his laptop and began browsing the sporting goods section.
“Again?” she protested. “This new job of yours might pay well, but they’re overworking you.”
“I have to make a good impression.”
He glanced up at the clock. It was one minute to seven. Ten seconds to go.
“But I’m worried for your health. It’s no good working all hours. You need to rest too—”
“I recently took a vacation,” interrupted Hazim, his mouse hovering over the bike category. The minute hand flicked to 19:00.
“Yes, and the family are desperate to know how your trip went. Your sister and brother are missing you. Please come over. Your father will be most disappointed if you don’t . . .”
As his mother ranted on, Hazim selected the category filters: Men’s, Mountain Bikes, Used, 20-inch frame, red color. Five postings were listed. The last of the bikes was in a terrible state, its frame dented and chipped, the front wheel bent, a pedal missing: starting price two hundred dollars. No sane person would bid for such an item. Nonetheless, Hazim clicked on the link, and the image of the bike popped up with a basic description. The auction was set for a day—twenty-three hours and fifty-eight minutes were remaining. But Hazim had no interest in placing a bid.
Bodyguard--Recruit (Book 1) Page 8
