Bodyguard (Bodyguard 5)

by Chris Bradford

  Roman’s granite face slowly cracked into a sly grin. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, studying the chessboard closely. He responded to his opponent’s move by claiming the rook with his bishop. ‘Capture the pieces you can and one by one his campaign will fail. Nika, take someone close to Malkov out of play.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ said Nika with a curt nod. Understanding the kill order implicit in her boss’s words, she added, ‘I’ll put our best asset on to this.’

  Roman’s dark eyes followed his assistant as she strode away. While he appreciated her toned figure and flaming red hair, she was one woman he wouldn’t mess with. Like her muscled physique, Nika was as hard as nails and just as sharp. Above all, he valued her brutal efficiency, ruthless nature and absolute loyalty – characteristics that were essential for someone in her position.

  Once she’d left the room, Roman returned his attention to the game in hand, his earlier grin quickly fading as his opponent made an unanticipated attack.

  ‘Knight to Queen four,’ his opponent announced. ‘Check.’

  ‘A new torch? What good is a torch?’ said Jason as he examined the contents of the Go-bag Amir had just given him. ‘Haven’t you read Richie’s threat report? What we need are weapons for this mission.’

  ‘It is a weapon,’ Amir replied, switching on the torch and blinding Jason with a bright green laser strobe.

  Jason shielded his face. ‘Get that out of my eyes!’

  Connor laughed. ‘Effective, isn’t it?’ Testing his own torch, he added, ‘The Dazzler worked well for me against a Somali pirate.’

  Blinking away spots of light, Jason turned to Connor who stood next to him in the logistic supply room. They’d flown back to Buddyguard HQ the previous night after five days of intensive firearms training. Upon their return, Operation Snowstorm had been given the all-go for the next day, so Bugsy had instructed them to gear up.

  ‘We’re dealing with gangsters, not pirates,’ said Jason. ‘A flashlight won’t cut it against the Russian mafia.’

  ‘This one will,’ said Amir confidently. With a single sharp flick of his wrist, the torch extended to three times its original length.

  ‘Well, that’s new,’ remarked Connor.

  Amir slammed the baton down on the countertop with a sharp crack. Both Connor and Jason flinched.

  ‘This is an XT tactical torch with hidden extendable baton,’ Amir explained, ‘constructed from a high-carbon steel alloy. I guarantee it won’t break – however hard you hit your target.’

  He pointed to the torch’s hexagonal prong at the opposite end. ‘This reinforced strike-ring will break glass panels if you need a quick escape. And in a fight the ring can do serious damage. You can easily knock out an attacker by hitting them hard on the temple or forehead. You wanted a weapon, Jason? This is the best!’

  Amir jabbed the tip down on to the desk, collapsing the baton back into its casing. Once again, it looked like an ordinary torch. Amir shot them a smug look. ‘And,’ he added, ‘it’s concealed.’ Connor grinned at his friend. Amir could always be trusted to come up with the goods – and he’d put Jason in his place.

  Jason took the XT from Amir and re-examined it. ‘Well, now we’re talking,’ he said, extending the baton himself and wielding it like a samurai sword.

  ‘Oi! Watch it!’ cried Connor, ducking as the rod skimmed his chin.

  ‘Just testing your reactions,’ said Jason with a smirk. He flipped the torch in his hand and tested the strike-ring on the countertop. It gouged a deep hole in the wood. Jason whistled in admiration. ‘You’re right, Amir – this can do some serious damage.’

  ‘Bugsy won’t be happy you’ve left that dent in his desk,’ said Connor.

  Jason shrugged. ‘I’ll just tell him you did it. Amir, you’ll back me up, won’t you?’

  Amir rolled his eyes and held up his hands. ‘I’m not getting involved.’

  Retracting the baton, Jason tossed the torch into his Go-bag. ‘So what else have we got?’

  Amir handed them a pair of sleek mobiles along with tiny wireless earpieces. ‘I’ve updated the operating systems on your smartphones. The translation app now works in Russian.’

  ‘Fine, but boring,’ said Jason, tossing them in with the rest of his gear.

  ‘How about these then?’ said Amir. He placed two small plastic cases, each the size and shape of a thickened ten-pence piece, on the table.

  Connor picked one up and unscrewed the lid to reveal its contents. ‘A contact lens?’

  ‘Augmented reality system, actually,’ explained Amir. ‘The lens has a tiny camera and heads-up-display implanted in it for taking photos and film footage, with just the blink of an eye. And –’ he looked proud of his device – ‘a facial recognition program is installed. Once a suspect is uploaded to its memory, the lens will flash red three times any time it identifies the subject in its field of vision. There’s also what I like to call an “eye-translate” feature. Just focus your gaze on a Russian sign, menu or whatever and the lens will scan and display the words in English. Try it.’

  Amir held up a printed card with the words: Удачи на русском языке!

  Popping the lens into his eye, Connor blinked as he got used to it, then looked at the card. On the lens’s display the words now read: Good luck in Russia!

  ‘Wow, that’s neat!’ said Connor, genuinely impressed. ‘Shame Jason can’t read, though.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Amir replied with an earnest look on his face. ‘His lens translates the words into easy-to-understand pictures!’

  Jason responded to them both with a thin smile. ‘Ha, ha,’ he said, as Bugsy entered the supply room carrying a large cardboard box.

  ‘You’ve also got a new set of stab-proof and bulletproof clothing,’ announced their surveillance tutor, depositing a pile of T-shirts, tops and trousers on to the counter. ‘Third-generation design, these garments have been interwoven with a graphene fibre so they’re lighter, thinner and ten times more effective. They’ll now withstand a close-quarter attack from all types of handgun. But you’ll still need these jackets for anything more powerful, like an assault rifle.’

  Bugsy produced a couple of winter ski-style black coats, complete with hoods. ‘The integral liquid body-armour panels will reduce the risk of blunt trauma too,’ he explained.

  Connor tried on one of the new T-shirts for size. ‘I’ll need this if Jason tries to shoot me again.’

  ‘Hey, that was just a bit of friendly fire,’ Jason said with a shrug. ‘Besides, you should be more worried about your own aim. Bugsy, you should see Connor shoot. He’s like a blind man playing darts. I’m surprised he ever hit the target!’

  Connor sighed. ‘Give it a rest.’ Right through breakfast, Jason hadn’t let up about his own shooting prowess to Ling and the others. It was true Jason had excelled in the firearms training, progressing quickly from static shots to firing on the move, then to one-handed shooting. And, compared with that, maybe Connor was still a novice. But he wasn’t the poor shot Jason made out. He could hit the target seven times out of ten – and that was what mattered.

  ‘Well, the report I had from Gunner said you both passed,’ replied Bugsy, his jaw working a piece of chewing gum. ‘Now, have you got everything you need?’

  Connor nodded and slung his Go-bag over his shoulder. ‘Yeah, thanks. This should do it.’

  ‘We could do with more weapons,’ suggested Jason. ‘Like a gun?’

  Bugsy shook his domed head. ‘That’s asking for trouble. Remember: don’t rely on your gear, rely on your wits to avoid danger in the first place.’

  Our wits will have to be razor-sharp then! thought Connor, remembering Charley’s warning. But he felt confident they could deal with most threats using the gear they’d just been given..

  ‘That’s good advice, Bugsy, to use your wits,’ said Jason, heading for the door. ‘That’s why I’ll leave Connor to explain what he did to your desk.’

  ‘Jason’s a loose cannon,�
� said Connor as he tossed his washbag into the suitcase for that night’s flight to Moscow. ‘He’s a danger to me and the Principal.’

  ‘Just because you two don’t get on doesn’t mean he’s not up to it,’ replied Charley.

  Connor looked at Charley, her slender cheekbones half-lit by the low winter sun shining through his bedroom window. He’d hoped she’d be on his side. ‘Our relationship’s got nothing to do with it. I question his judgement. Jason almost shot me in Switzerland!’

  ‘From what I hear, that was a momentary lapse of concentration.’

  ‘That’s all it takes,’ said Connor. ‘Jason’s gung-ho, doesn’t listen and doesn’t follow safety protocol. With that attitude, he shouldn’t be assigned to this operation.’

  Charley frowned. ‘I know Jason can be brash and big-headed sometimes, but he’s dependable and a decent bodyguard. Just look at his track record.’

  ‘Yeah! Like when he got second-degree sunburn on a Caribbean assignment!’ Connor replied, throwing a spare fleece into the suitcase. ‘I question if Jason’s really been tested. It’s not like he’s had to fight off Somali pirates or rebel gunmen.’

  Charley pursed her lips. ‘Perhaps the fact that nothing’s happened on his assignments is down to his close-protection skills.’

  ‘Or to luck,’ Connor shot back. He stopped packing and turned to her. ‘Why are you defending him anyway?’

  ‘Because he stood by me when I needed a rock to cling to,’ Charley replied, her hands unconsciously clasping the arms of her wheelchair. ‘Look, I’ll admit we weren’t the best of friends to begin with, but once Jason accepts and respects you he’s fiercely loyal. I’d trust him with my life.’

  ‘Well, that’s OK for you,’ said Connor. ‘But we don’t exactly see eye to eye on things. And he’s not taken well to me being in charge on the ground. This operation is a disaster waiting to happen.’

  Charley edged herself away from the window and took Connor’s hand. ‘Listen, I understand your concerns about Jason. He can be full of himself and a bit of a joker. But he’s also dedicated, experienced and more than able to handle himself and protect the Principal. The problem is you’re both alpha males.’

  Connor made a face. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re like two tigers in a cage,’ Charley explained. ‘But instead of fighting one another you should be combining your strengths. And, from what I heard the colonel say, you’ll need to watch each other’s backs. This mission is more dangerous than most. So please, work it out with Jason, not just for me but for your own safety.’

  Connor slumped down on the bed. He realized Charley was most likely right; perhaps his pride was getting in the way. He hadn’t liked it when Jason outgunned him in Switzerland and disliked it even more that everyone knew. Ever since joining Buddyguard, he’d always been in competition with Jason and maybe that was the real reason he didn’t want to partner with him on Operation Snowstorm. It seemed more of a contest than an assignment – and one neither of them could afford to lose, if only for the sake of their Principal.

  But he had to give Jason some credit. He’d stood by Charley after the accident left her in a wheelchair. Whatever their differences, he respected Jason enough for that alone to work at his side. But he didn’t know if the reverse was true.

  ‘OK, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt,’ he said, ‘but only because you vouch for him.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Charley, squeezing his hand. ‘Jason won’t let you down. And, once you show him what you’re capable of, he’ll come to respect you. What worries me more in all this is that Colonel Black had you two learning firearms in the first place.’

  Connor frowned. ‘Surely it’s good we’re being taught how to defend ourselves?’

  ‘Then why didn’t the rest of Alpha team receive firearms training?’

  Connor shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Time? Expense? What’s with all this questioning about the Buddyguard organization and the colonel? You’re his star recruit –’

  ‘Was,’ corrected Charley. ‘You have that honour now.’ She glanced with rare contempt at her chair. ‘I can’t exactly go on missions any more.’

  Connor knelt beside her. ‘Maybe not, but you’re the heart of Alpha team. Without you, the operations would fall apart. I couldn’t do what I do without knowing you’re there to back me up.’

  A tentative smile replaced the scowl on Charley’s face. ‘Just take care, Connor. I’m worried –’

  Connor put a finger to her lips. ‘It’s only cos we’re together now. You never used to worry like this.’

  Charley looked deep into his green-blue eyes. ‘I’ve always worried about you, Connor.’

  Unable to resist, Connor leant forward and kissed her. Charley responded and for a moment all their concerns and fears melted away. Then, from down the corridor, they heard raised voices.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, that isn’t what I meant!’ cried Ling.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Jason shouted back. ‘Then why do you keep going on about him? Do you fancy him or something?’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Ling. ‘Get a grip! I only asked you to be nice. Why do you have to be such a pig-headed oaf about this?’

  ‘Me? Pig-headed? You’re one to talk, Lippy Ling!’

  There was a sharp slap, then Ling yelled, ‘Shove off to Russia and freeze, for all I care!’

  Connor and Charley watched Ling storm past the bedroom door and down the stairs. Jason briefly appeared, his cheek red, before retreating back into his own bedroom. Charley glanced at Connor and whispered, ‘I wonder what that was all about?’

  The businessman’s black leather shoes scraped on the edge of the Moshe Aviv Tower as he tried to keep his footing. His pudgy arms flailed and his heart beat so fast he thought his pacemaker was short-circuiting.

  ‘No use trying to fly, Mr Agasi,’ said the lean-faced man, gripping his tie like the lead of a misbehaving dog. Despite his apparently slender build, the man stood firm as a rock on the rooftop helipad of the tallest building in Israel, one foot planted against the metal runner for anchorage. The sun was fierce in the desert-blue sky and the air hot and still, despite the immense height they were at.

  ‘Please, I beg you, Mr Grey!’ rasped Mr Agasi, his piggy eyes fixed upon the frail lifeline that was his silk Armani tie.

  Mr Grey glanced at the city of Ramat Gan far below, the cars as small as bugs and the pedestrians as insignificant as ants. ‘Some people believe if you fall from a great height you’ll be dead before you hit the ground,’ he said, ignoring the man’s pleas. ‘I’m afraid the reality isn’t so pain-free.’

  Mr Agasi tried to reply, but his tie had pulled taut like a noose round his neck. He clawed desperately at Mr Grey’s arm.

  ‘If I let go, Mr Agasi, you’ll fall exactly two hundred and thirty-five metres to the pavement below,’ Mr Grey went on, his wintry eyes showing no pity for his victim. ‘In the seven seconds that will take, you’ll accelerate to over one hundred miles per hour. Not quite terminal velocity. But it won’t be the fall that’ll kill you. It’s the dead stop when you hit the ground.’

  Mr Grey released his grip for a fraction of a second. Mr Agasi’s eyes widened in horror before he jerked to a halt as Mr Grey reclasped the very end of the tie.

  ‘A sudden deceleration from such a speed to zero will cause everything in your body to effectively weigh seven and a half thousand times more than normal,’ Mr Grey explained in a monotone, suggesting he was delivering a university lecture rather than a death threat. ‘Your brain will momentarily peak at ten tonnes. In that instant, your body’s cells will burst open and your blood vessels will be torn apart. Your bones will shatter. And your aorta will rip loose from your heart. For a few beats, your heart will continue to pump blood into the cavity surrounding your lungs, but no longer to your brain. After the initial impact, your weight will of course return to normal. But that makes little difference since your blood is now seeping through your irreparably damaged brain. What doctors re
fer to as massive internal haemorrhaging.’

  Mr Agasi spluttered in panic, one foot slipping off the edge of the tower. The abyss opened up below him and he experienced a sickening distortion of vision – the buildings warping and the ground rippling like a wave beneath him. Somehow he regained purchase with his foot. All the while, the assassin observed his futile efforts to survive with the sadistic pleasure of a child torturing a spider.

  ‘Now there was a case of a parachutist who survived a freefall when her chute failed to open,’ said Mr Grey, with an attempt at a comforting smile that had all the warmth of a shark’s grin. ‘However, as I understand, the ground was very soft. I’m not sure the concrete pavement will be as forgiving.’

  Mr Agasi held up his trembling hands. ‘OK, OK,’ he gasped. ‘I’ll give you the names. Elias Borgoraz, Nir Levy, Beni …’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere, Mr Aga–’ Mr Grey’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. ‘Hold on.’

  With the man still dangling over the precipice, Mr Grey tapped his wireless earpiece to answer the call. After a short burst of static on the encrypted line, a voice said, ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Israel,’ replied Mr Grey.

  ‘You’re needed in Russia.’

  Mr Grey frowned slightly. ‘I’m in the middle of a negotiation.’

  ‘That can wait,’ said the caller. ‘We need you to take care of Viktor Malkov.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Immediately. Drop everything.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ said Mr Grey, releasing his grip on the tie and heading for the stairwell.

  Confusion and terror briefly registered on Mr Agasi’s face before he plummeted out of sight.

  When Mr Grey emerged from the Moshe Aviv Tower a few minutes later and hailed a taxi, a small crowd had gathered round a deformed and broken body on the pavement.

  ‘Did you get any sleep on the flight?’ asked Connor, rubbing his eyes and yawning.