Hoping to question Charley on her own about Colonel Black, Connor slowed his pace and walked alongside her. Although the off-road tyres and motor-assist of her wheelchair made light work of the ruts and dips, she was still a little behind the rest of the group. Amir hung back too, but Connor decided to ask Charley anyway. ‘Are you sure that’s what the colonel said?’
Charley glanced up at him. ‘Yes. I overheard the instructors arguing with the colonel in his office about the level of risk this mission entails. They’re not happy with the lack of operational information. But Colonel Black’s determined to push ahead. And, I quote, “That’s what we train them for. The size of the contract is worth the risk of a buddyguard or two.” ’
Amir’s eyes widened in shock at hearing this for the first time.
Connor shook his head. ‘I just can’t believe the colonel would say that. You must be taking it out of context.’
‘Well, that’s what I heard,’ said Charley stiffly.
Amir glanced anxiously at them. ‘Knife survival yesterday, medical trauma training this morning, and now gun defence. I certainly get the sense the colonel is preparing us for the worst!’
‘He’s always prepared us for the worst,’ replied Connor. ‘That’s what makes him so good as commander of Buddyguard. He takes nothing for granted.’
‘Apart from us perhaps?’ said Charley pointedly.
‘Bugsy does seem more tense than usual about this mission,’ Amir commented. ‘This morning he asked me to triple-check the route itinerary for Operation Snowstorm.’
Connor shrugged. ‘Bugsy lives by the army’s seven Ps: Proper Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss-Poor Performance!’ He laughed but Amir and Charley didn’t.
‘Both Steve and Jody are acting out of character too,’ Amir went on. ‘Usually they’re cool with a bit of banter in their lessons, but it’s like their sense of humour has been surgically removed. I agree with Charley. I think this high-level mission to Russia has them spooked.’
‘Why would they be spooked?’ asked Connor. ‘They’re both experienced operatives.’
‘You’re protecting the son of a politician who’s in direct opposition to the government and the mafia,’ said Charley. ‘It’s not exactly the safest side to be on.’
‘But no side is safe in our job,’ argued Connor. ‘Besides, we’ve protected other high-profile clients, including Alicia, and she was the US President’s daughter! Why should this be any different?’
‘It’s Russia,’ explained Charley. ‘Normal rules don’t apply.’
‘Russia can’t be any worse than Burundi,’ said Connor. ‘Can it?’
Charley and Amir just stared at him.
Ahead of them, Ling suddenly cried out in pain and grabbed her right buttock.
‘Bullseye!’ Jason laughed. He wielded a paintball gun in his hand.
Ling glared at Jason. ‘You’re so childish!’ she yelled before storming off.
‘Hey, it was just a joke,’ Jason called out.
Ignoring him, Ling marched fiercely across the field and into the school’s main building, slamming the outer door behind her.
‘You were supposed to return that,’ said Connor, pointing to the gun.
Jason aimed the weapon at him. ‘Careful what you say. You’re my next target.’
‘Aren’t you going after her?’ asked Charley.
Jason frowned. ‘Why?’
Charley sighed in exasperation. ‘To apologize.’
‘Nah,’ he mumbled, kicking at a clod of wet grass. ‘I’ll do it later once she’s cooled down.’
They tramped the rest of the way in silence, Jason brooding over Ling, and Connor thinking about what Amir and Charley had said. Was this mission more dangerous than the others? Would the colonel really risk their lives just for a fat contract payment? Connor didn’t think so. The whole point in them learning knife survival, medical trauma and gun defence was to reduce the risk. Charley must have misheard or misunderstood the colonel’s meaning.
As they crossed the old playground, the bald head of their surveillance instructor emerged from the building. ‘Connor! Jason! Get an overnight Go-bag packed,’ ordered Bugsy. ‘Your flight’s in three hours.’
Connor’s pulse quickened. ‘But I thought our assignment wasn’t for another week.’
‘You aren’t going to Russia,’ said Bugsy.
‘Then where are we going?’ asked Jason.
‘You’ll find out when you get there.’
Disembarking the plane at Geneva Airport, Connor and Jason were met by a stocky man in a bright red ski jacket, beanie and snow boots. Despite the unfamiliar outfit, Connor would have recognized Joseph Gunner’s weather-beaten face and goatee beard anywhere.
‘Gunner!’ he cried in surprise. ‘What are you doing here in Switzerland?’
The South African park ranger greeted Connor with a hug and a slap on the back. ‘I’m your instructor for the next five days,’ he explained, his voice as gravelly as his looks. The ranger had been Connor’s guide during his last assignment to Burundi, after which Colonel Black had hired him as a specialist tutor. ‘Come along. This way to the car park.’
Looking disgruntled at their obvious camaraderie, Jason muttered, ‘So what are you teaching us … skiing?’
Gunner laughed. ‘I couldn’t ski if you tied me to a tree and threw me down a mountain! My orders are to instruct you in firearms.’
‘Firearms? I thought the colonel hired you for survival training?’ said Connor as they exited the airport and were hit by a blast of ice-cold alpine air.
‘This is survival training. For Russia,’ Gunner replied grimly. ‘You won’t be facing leopards with claws on this assignment, Connor, but you might have to deal with some Russian “bears” armed with guns. So the colonel thought you’d better have firearms training.’
‘Cool!’ said Jason, his eyes lighting up. ‘Does that mean we’ll have our own gun on this mission?’
Gunner shook his head as he tossed their Go-bags into the boot of the hire car. ‘No. Besides being illegal, even in Russia, you’d set yourself up as a target and risk revealing your true role. But there’s little point learning to disarm an attacker if you don’t know how to fire their darn weapon!’
They clambered into the car and set off. The motorway skirted the industrial edge of a large city before heading towards the snow-capped mountains in the distance. They’d only been travelling for half an hour when Gunner pulled up at a motel by a fast-food restaurant. ‘That’s our digs,’ he announced, then pointed to a grey concrete bunker set into the mountainside. ‘And that’s the firing range.’
After checking in, Gunner wasted no time in taking them over to the range for their first lesson. Inside, the reception was surprisingly warm and cosy, with a coffee bar and sofas in one corner. The only difference from a normal sports club was that racks of weapons were displayed along the walls. Connor and Jason stared in astonishment. It was like a sweet shop for gun fanatics: stacks of pistols, revolvers, auto-loaders, shotguns, assault rifles, sub-machine guns and even tactical sniper rifles.
‘Can I try that one?’ asked Jason, pointing to a massive Bushmaster assault rifle.
Gunner grinned. ‘I like your style, Jason, but these will be your weapons to start with,’ he said, as the range’s owner placed three compact handguns on the counter top.
Jason’s shoulders slumped; he was unable to hide his disappointment.
‘Don’t be fooled by their appearance. These are Glock 17s,’ explained Gunner, signing for the weapons along with several boxes of ammunition. ‘An excellent sidearm favoured by security forces worldwide. It’s lightweight, easy to use and reliable – just what you need in a high-pressure situation.’
Jason picked one up and weighed it in his hand. ‘Yeah, it is light.’
Dropping into a cowboy stance, he pointed the gun at Connor’s chest. ‘Stick ’em up, punk!’
Gunner snatched the weapon from him. ‘It’s not a toy!’ he snapped.
His angry disappointment evident even to Jason, Gunner escorted them to the firing range, a long narrow concrete room with electric runners overhead for positioning the paper targets.
‘OK, safety first!’ he said, laying the guns on the floor, barrels facing the wall. ‘The four unbreakable rules are: one, treat every weapon as a loaded weapon with no exceptions. Two, do not point a weapon at anything you do not intend to destroy. Three, your finger stays off the trigger until the target is in the sights. And four, be sure of your target and surroundings at all times. Understood?’
He eyed Jason fiercely. Both Jason and Connor nodded. Gunner took them through the basics of gun handling before instructing them in the Weaver stance – two hands on the grip, both arms raised and slightly bent, and feet in a boxing stance with the body bladed.
‘This is ideal for target practice and learning how to shoot,’ explained Gunner. ‘But in the real world you won’t have time to perform the Weaver. So, once you’ve mastered this stance and can hit the targets, we’ll advance to one-handed shooting and firing on the move. But let’s learn to walk before we run, eh?’
Wearing safety goggles and ear defenders, Connor and Jason practised loading and unloading the magazine, quick-drawing the Glock from their hip holster and finishing with the tap, rack and roll to clear the chamber of any rounds if the gun failed to fire.
‘You seem to be getting the hang of it,’ said Gunner with a satisfied nod. ‘Let’s start shooting.’
When Gunner set up two paper targets with body outlines only three metres away, Jason rolled his eyes. ‘That’s a bit close. I could spit on those from here.’
‘Most handgun engagements are less than two to three metres apart,’ explained Gunner. ‘And this is the ideal distance to nail your accuracy before shooting at longer ranges.’ He indicated they should move to the firing line. ‘Now, in your own time, take aim and engage.’
Jason immediately drew his gun, lined up the target between the sights and squeezed the trigger. The bang reverberated off the concrete walls and a small hole appeared in the middle of the target.
Gunner cocked an eyebrow. ‘Good shooting. You’re a natural.’
Jason grinned and reholstered his Glock. Now Connor withdrew his weapon, aimed and fired. He felt the gun’s jarring recoil in his wrist but, to his amazement, missed the target entirely. He gritted his teeth and tried again. Still the target remained unmarked.
‘You’re too tense,’ said Gunner. ‘Relax your arms, slow your breathing and shoot just after the exhale.’
Connor followed his instructions and this time the bullet clipped the edge of the paper target. But it was still embarrassingly way off compared to Jason’s shot. Meanwhile Jason scored another direct hit in his target’s torso.
‘Maybe my gun’s faulty?’ Connor said when he failed again to hit anything. ‘The sights must be off.’
Gunner shook his head. ‘The gun’s fine. You’re just pulling the trigger too hard. That jerks the weapon down. Shoot with your mind rather than your finger.’
Jason turned to watch, his expression smug. ‘We can bring the target closer if that’d help!’
This made Connor even more determined. He couldn’t go back to Alpha team with Jason bragging what a crackshot he was compared to him. He’d never live it down. Before unholstering the gun again, Connor slowed his breathing and calmed himself. Then, slowly and smoothly as if performing a martial arts kata, he pulled out his Glock and took careful aim at the centre of the target. On the exhale, he imagined gently squeezing the trigger. The gun in his hand seemed to almost fire by itself …
The bullet went straight into the heart of the target.
Connor felt a frisson of excitement course through him. Beaming at his achievement, he turned to Jason. ‘Beat that, hotshot!’
Jason replied by firing a round into the target’s head.
Gunner whistled in admiration. ‘I can see the competitive spirit brings out the best in both of you. Let’s move the targets back a bit,’ he said, increasing the gap to seven metres.
‘An attacker would cover this distance in less than one and a half seconds,’ he continued. ‘Now the average handgun round delivers four hundred foot-pounds of force – roughly the equivalent of a strong punch. So there’s no guarantee the attacker will go down with your first shot. They may also be wearing body armour or be high on drugs. And it’s been known for a bullet to bounce off bone! That’s why you need to practise the Mozambique drill – a rapid-fire pattern of two to the body, one to the head.’
Setting up his own target, Gunner demonstrated the technique. In less than a second, he drew his gun, executed a double tap to the target’s torso and, after the briefest pause, followed up with the head shot. It all happened so fast Connor wasn’t certain he’d even seen Gunner move.
‘That’s guaranteed to neutralize any attacker,’ he said, stepping aside. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
At seven metres, the target was noticeably harder to hit – especially when attempting the triple-shot Mozambique drill. But Connor’s marksmanship rapidly improved with Gunner’s expert tuition. After another hour of shooting, the target’s distance was increased to ten metres. Jason’s draw, aim and fire were now so skilled that he consistently placed a double tap to the target’s centre mass and a final shot to the head. Connor was less fluid and his groupings of shots were wider spread, but all his shots now hit the mark.
‘Load up a full mag. Let’s have a little competition to finish the day,’ suggested Gunner, sending two fresh targets down the range to fifteen metres. ‘Best out of seventeen rounds.’
Jason glanced at Connor. ‘I’ll only need half those to beat you.’
‘And I’d only need one bullet to hit your big head!’ Connor replied, ramming home a new mag.
They took up position on the firing line. On Gunner’s command, they engaged with the targets. The range roared with the sound of gunfire, then thirty seconds later fell silent as the two of them reholstered their weapons.
Gunner retrieved the targets and counted the bullet holes. ‘Not bad, Connor,’ he said. ‘Out of a possible seventeen shots, you scored eight to the body and three to the head.’
Connor couldn’t help grinning as he glanced at Jason. He thought he’d done pretty well, considering he’d only begun firearms training that morning.
But then Gunner checked Jason’s target. ‘What can I say? Eleven to the body and five to the head. You’re a true Billy the Kid!’
‘Eat bullet, Connor!’ laughed Jason, drawing his weapon and pretending to blow off Connor’s head.
Gunner snatched the Glock 17 out of Jason’s hand. ‘Don’t you listen? NEVER point your gun at someone on the range!’
‘But it isn’t loaded,’ Jason protested. ‘I’ve emptied the magazine.’
Gunner glared at him. ‘First unbreakable rule – treat every weapon as a loaded weapon. No exceptions!’ He pulled back the slide to reveal the seventeenth bullet still in the chamber.
Connor rounded on Jason in shock and horror. ‘You could have killed me!’
And for once Jason had nothing to say.
A sharp knock on the wood-panelled door caused Roman Gurov to glance up from the game of chess. ‘Da?’ he grunted.
The door opened and a red-headed woman in a dark tailored suit entered. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Gurov.’
‘What is it, Nika?’ said Roman, beckoning his assistant into the elegantly furnished drawing room.
Crossing a red Persian rug in three quick strides, Nika approached the antique chess table upon which a finely crafted set of ebony and ivory chesspieces were in play. She gave a respectful nod to Roman’s opponent, then addressed her boss. ‘You asked for an update. The banker has adjusted his accounting error and returned the money.’
‘Good,’ said Roman. ‘Now dispose of the banker. Permanently.’
‘As you wish.’
‘What about the Malkov situation?’
‘There are pla
ns for another anti-corruption rally,’ replied Nika. ‘This time much larger. And in Moscow. Malkov’s becoming a serious problem.’
Roman reclined in the high-backed leather chair and steepled his long hard fingers beneath his dimpled chin. ‘Then fix the problem.’
Nika gave a small cough, clearing her throat. ‘It’s not as simple as that. We can’t get near him.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Malkov has serious protection in place.’
The Pakhan waved away the excuse. ‘That’s not stopped us before.’
‘True, but our intelligence indicates someone powerful is backing him.’
Roman raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘CIA?’
Nika gave an almost-imperceptible shrug of her shoulders. ‘That’s our usual line. But this doesn’t feel like the Americans.’
‘Then who?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, but our sources have come up blank so far.’
Roman’s deep-set eyes narrowed as his patience wore thin. ‘Then they’re not looking hard enough,’ he growled.
Nika’s whole body tensed, bracing herself for a blow. But none came. Not this time, at least. Although Nika was by no means a weak woman, skilled as she was in the Russian art of Systema and able to benchpress her own bodyweight, her boss held a third dan black belt in Kyokushin karate, one of the most brutal styles of Japanese martial arts, and he was notorious for demonstrating his skills on incompetent employees.
‘The game isn’t won in a few moves,’ remarked the Pakhan’s opponent, sliding his rook forward two spaces. ‘If the king is too well protected, weaken his position.’
Bodyguard (Bodyguard 5) Page 4
