Bodyguard (Bodyguard 5)

by Chris Bradford

  Above the grand edifice of the GUM department store that bordered the square’s north-eastern edge, a lone figure crouched on the roof. Concealed from public eyes behind a stone parapet, white gloved hands removed a Vanquish .308 collapsible sniper rifle from its oblong backpack and assembled it with workman-like efficiency: extending the telescopic shoulder butt, deploying the bi-pod supports, screwing the slender barrel on to the stock. Then attaching a suppressor to the barrel, ramming home a full magazine of 7.62 mm calibre bullets, and finally chambering the rifle with a live round.

  All in under sixty seconds.

  Careful to stay behind the glare of a mounted spotlight, the sniper knelt down in the icy snow and put an eye to the rifle’s tactical scope.

  The scope’s cross hairs swept the square, seeking out their target.

  But the multitude of constantly shifting people hampered the search. There were also other factors to consider.

  First, the cold. The longer the wait, the more stress on the body. So the harder it would be to control the breathing – and, as a consequence, the smooth pull of the trigger finger.

  Second, light. There was a risk of glare in the magnified view of the scope from the dazzle of sun on the ice sculptures, perhaps with temporary loss of vision. There was also a danger that the scope itself would be spotted by a stray reflection of sunlight on its lens.

  Third, wind. The flags were fluttering in the breeze, indicating a crosswind speed of at least twelve kilometres per hour: enough to cause the bullet to drift. Depending upon the range of the shot, the rifle would need to be aimed anywhere between two to ten centimetres to the left of the target in order to compensate.

  Finally, distance. The kill would have to be made over a range of anywhere between fifty and three hundred metres. There would be little time to take aim and adjust for the shot.

  As soon as the target entered the cross hairs, the trigger would have to be squeezed.

  The ice dragon loomed over Connor and the others, its taloned wings spread, fanged jaws open wide and tail raised to the sky like a scorpion’s, ready to strike. Connor was struck speechless by the colossal ice sculpture. From its sheet-thin wings to the needle-sharp teeth, the dragon was a magical work of art and intricate craftsmanship. Through its ice-block body, fiery rays of sunshine lent the dragon’s skin a glistening sheen and the eerie impression that it was alive and moving.

  Among the other ice sculptures on display were a royal carriage pulled by two horses, a swan in mid-flight, a scene from a Russian folk tale and a huge bear rearing up on its hind legs. Now, despite his security concerns about visiting Red Square, Connor was glad they’d made the effort. The winter festival was truly worth seeing.

  Connor’s gaze swept along the rows of wooden stalls, decorated with holly, silver baubles and multicoloured fairy lights. On sale were Christmas ornaments, nesting dolls, wooden spinning tops, painted boxes, handmade shawls and sheep-felt valenki boots. The sweetness of warm pancakes and cinnamon bagels filled the air, along with the odd whiff of vodka fumes from passing revellers and the sharp tang of citrus, vanilla and aromatic spices from various teas being brewed in a steaming bronze samovar on a nearby stall.

  Jason’s phone beeped with a text message and he glanced at the screen. ‘Ana’s running late,’ he told them. ‘Delays on the metro.’

  ‘I told her we should have picked her up!’ Feliks muttered irritably.

  He seemed more annoyed about Anastasia texting Jason instead of him than the fact she’d be late. Connor was surprised at this development too. He hadn’t known that Jason and Anastasia had exchanged mobile numbers. Perhaps she was switching her affections …

  ‘Let’s get a pancake while we wait,’ Jason suggested, completely unaware of the reason for Feliks’s sour mood.

  As they wandered over to a food stall, Lazar walked a discreet couple of steps behind them – or at least as discreet as a tattooed towering bodyguard with a boxer’s nose could, his bulging puffer jacket half-unzipped so he could swiftly draw his concealed MP-9 sub-machine gun at a moment’s notice. The other bodyguard, Timur, had been instructed to wait with the car in case they needed to make a speedy exit.

  While their pancakes were being cooked, Connor kept his eyes on the passing crowd, alert for threats. He’d noticed the FSB’s black Toyota Corolla pull up to the kerb when they arrived, but hadn’t seen the agent who stepped into the square. Connor had been trying to spot their tail ever since, but so far he’d had no luck.

  Then a tall man in a blue beanie and black ski jacket headed their way, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Connor tensed, wary of what his pockets might conceal. But the man walked straight past, not even looking at them.

  At a nearby stall a young woman with a bob of dark hair was browsing through a display of shawls. Next to her, a smartly dressed gentleman in a fur hat was texting on his phone. He was showing no interest in the winter festival at all and Connor’s sixth sense for danger buzzed. He was sure this gentleman had been loitering around the ice dragon for at least as long as they had.

  Is he the agent? Another threat? A hit man for the Bratva?

  Raising his alert level to Code Orange, Connor went to tell Lazar … when the suspect’s wife and daughter arrived, greeting him with a hug, and the family disappeared happily into the crowd.

  Connor eased back to Code Yellow, relaxed but still aware.

  Jason handed him a warm pancake, dripping with honey. Feliks was already tucking into his own, the food seeming to have lightened his mood.

  ‘Spot any threats?’ Jason asked casually, through a mouthful of sweetened batter.

  Connor shook his head. Then, just as he raised his own pancake to his lips, his attention was caught by a lean-faced man with a complexion as pale and lifeless as cigarette ash. Four stalls away, the man was inspecting an ornately painted box, but his grey eyes seemed to see straight through it; he was observing Connor and Feliks. Apart from his ashen skin, the man’s features were strangely forgettable. Yet there was still something vaguely familiar about him. Was he at the funfair? As their eyes met, Connor felt his flesh creep.

  Jason’s phone beeped again. ‘Ana will be here in five minutes. She’s asking where to meet?’

  ‘Tell her by the ice dragon,’ Connor instructed, noting that Jason was calling her Ana now.

  With pancakes in hand, they strolled back to the sculpture and waited. Feliks impatiently looked at his watch, every so often checking his phone, clearly hoping for a message from Anastasia too.

  As Connor glanced over his shoulder to check on the grey-eyed man, the dragon suddenly exploded. Shards of lethal ice flew outward as if the beast was spitting teeth. And, alongside the shattering of the sculpture, Connor heard the telltale supersonic crack of a bullet.

  From the moment the bullet struck, time for Connor seemed to tick by in horrifying freeze-frames. Dragon ice raining down like razor-sharp hail. Jason raising his arms as a shield. Feliks flinching forward, mouth open in a pained scream. Lazar reaching into his jacket for the MP-9. Connor discarding his pancake like a frisbee to seize Feliks. Drops of bright red blood in the trampled snow. Festival-goers whirling in wide-eyed shock as the sculpture disintegrated before them.

  Then, in a rush of noise and screams, time caught up with itself and the situation accelerated like a rollercoaster. Seeing Lazar with a sub-machine gun, the crowd panicked and began to scatter. Heart pounding, Connor hustled Feliks towards the shelter of the nearest market stall, Jason in front, barging people out of the way, Lazar covering behind, his MP-9 seeking out the enemy …

  Another bullet tore through the air.

  Connor dived with Feliks into the compacted snow, coming up hard against the wooden panels of the tea stall. Hunkering down, he covered Feliks with his body, his jacket acting as a bulletproof shield for them both. Jason did the same on the other side before noticing streaks of blood running down Feliks’s pale face.

  ‘He’s been shot,’ said Jason.

  Con
nor made a quick inspection and found a small gash across Feliks’s scalp. ‘It’s just a grazing shot,’ said Connor with relief.

  ‘Where’s Lazar?’ asked a groggy Feliks.

  Connor looked back and saw the bodyguard sprawled in the snow, blood spilling from a large hole in his throat, as if the dagger tattoo on his neck had pierced his very skin. Having taken the full impact of the second bullet, the bodyguard had likely saved Feliks’s life.

  In spite of his horrific injury, Lazar clawed at the snow, trying to drag himself into cover. But a second later another bullet ripped into him, targeting his heart with pinpoint accuracy. The bodyguard lay lifeless in the blood-red snow.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here. NOW!’ said Jason, taking hold of Feliks’s arm.

  ‘Call Timur first,’ Connor ordered. ‘Emergency evac. Rendezvous Point Delta.’

  Before their visit to Red Square, the Russian bodyguards had agreed planned Action-On Drills in the event of a crisis. What they’d do in a bomb attack. What they’d do if they were mugged. What they’d do if they lost Feliks. And what they’d do in the event of a shooting …

  Rendezvous Point Delta was one of four key evacuation sites. On the north-east corner of the square, near St Basil’s Cathedral, it was the closest to where they now sheltered.

  Connor forced a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The worst thing was to act blindly and on instinct alone. His bodyguard training had ingrained into him the importance of A-C-E.

  Assess the threat. Counter the danger. Escape the kill zone. In that order.

  If they made a run for it without assessing the threat first, they could head straight into the enemy’s path.

  Keeping Feliks covered, Connor looked around for the shooter. The scene was utter chaos, people running everywhere, slipping and sliding on the icy snow in their attempt to flee. It was easier to spot those who weren’t moving.

  Crouched in the shadow of the market stall that sold shawls was the young woman with the bob of dark hair. In her hand she held a semi-automatic pistol … but she didn’t have it trained on them. Or for that matter on the dead Lazar. Instead her eyes were darting round the square, apparently searching for the shooter herself, more keen on self-preservation than attacking them.

  Connor realized she had to be the FSB agent, having stupidly assumed all this time their shadow had been male.

  The grey man, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘There’s a shooter in the crowd,’ Connor informed Jason. ‘Look for a man of average build with grey eyes and –’

  ‘No, it’s a sniper,’ cut in Jason.

  ‘I spotted a definite suspect,’ Connor stated.

  ‘That might be the case, but I saw a glint of light on the roof of that building at the same time as Lazar was shot,’ Jason insisted, pointing in the direction of the GUM department store. ‘It can only be a sniper’s scope.’

  ‘Whether it’s a sniper or a shooter or both, we’re sitting ducks here,’ said Connor. He couldn’t believe they were arguing over who was trying to kill them.

  ‘Feliks has brain fade,’ said Jason, indicating the glazed look in their Principal’s eyes. ‘He’s frozen up in shock.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to drag him to the rendezvous point.’

  ‘Yeah, but how do we evade the sniper?’ asked Jason, his eyes fixed on the store’s roofline.

  Or the grey man, thought Connor.

  ‘We need a diversion,’ Connor said, glancing at the tall bronze samovar on the tea stall’s counter.

  As he crept over towards the front of the stall, leaving Feliks exposed, Jason hissed, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Countering the danger,’ Connor replied. ‘We can’t see the enemy, but what if they can’t see us either?’

  He shoved the bronze samovar off the counter. It clattered to the ground, spilling its contents everywhere. The wave of boiling water evaporated the snow in its path, sending up great clouds of steam.

  ‘Go! Go! Go!’ Connor ordered as he grabbed Feliks’s other arm and dashed with Jason into the billowing mist.

  Jason took no prisoners as he shoulder-barged his way to the rendezvous point, bulldozing anyone who stepped into their path. Connor followed close on his tail, urging the dazed Feliks on and shielding his Principal as best he could. By now the mist had evaporated and the three of them were exposed to the mystery shooter. But the riot of panicking people helped cover their movements and by some miracle they reached the north-east corner of the square without getting shot.

  They hunkered down behind the last stall. Timur was waiting at the kerbside and sprang the doors as soon as he spotted them. Connor scanned the area for threats. They had to sprint across fifteen or so metres of open ground to reach the safety of the armoured vehicle. That would take three to four seconds – more than enough time for a professional hit man to take aim and fire off an entire clip.

  ‘It’s now or never,’ said Jason, glancing nervously at the roof of the GUM department store.

  Connor couldn’t see his gunman anywhere, or the supposed sniper. Still, that didn’t mean the assassin wasn’t watching and waiting for his target to break cover. Then Connor spotted the FSB agent pushing through the crowd, her gun held aloft as she talked rapidly into a radio. They had no choice but to risk running.

  With a nod to Jason, the three of them charged over to the waiting Mercedes. Feet pounding on the tarmac, Connor braced himself for a lethal round to take him or Feliks down.

  Ten metres … five metres … three metres …

  Jason dived into the back of the car, followed by Feliks and finally Connor, who slammed the door shut behind them.

  Wheels screeching, the Mercedes tore away.

  ‘There’s Ana!’ cried Jason, as they whipped past a metro station.

  Connor caught a glimpse of ice-blonde hair and the black oblong backpack of her violin case. Then she was gone.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Connor, seeing the concern on Jason’s face. ‘She looked as if she was heading away from the danger.’

  Police sirens wailed throughout the city as Red Square was put into lockdown. Timur took a hard right and the three of them were thrown around in the back seat. Riding up the kerb, weaving between vehicles and speeding down the wrong side of the road, Timur drove the Mercedes like a rally racing car.

  Connor and Jason strapped Feliks into his seat belt before securing themselves.

  ‘Where’s Lazar?’ grunted Timur, his brow a knot of concentration as he drove.

  Connor caught the bodyguard’s eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘He didn’t make it,’ he replied.

  Timur punched the steering wheel and swore heavily in Russian. ‘What happened?’ he demanded, his voice gruffer than ever.

  ‘Professional hit,’ Connor replied. ‘Gunman in the crowd –’

  ‘Sniper!’ corrected Jason.

  Connor wasn’t going to argue with Jason’s opinion as more furious swearing issued forth from the bodyguard. In fact, it was best to keep all options open. He was aware there could easily have been more than one gunman.

  With Feliks strapped in, Connor did his best to patch up the bleeding graze to his Principal’s head with the emergency first-aid kit from his Go-bag.

  ‘Connor, I must admit that was quick thinking back there,’ said Jason, passing him a bandage. ‘That steam cloud was genius!’

  ‘Thanks,’ Connor replied. He half-smiled at his partner. ‘And you did a good job of clearing a path through that crowd. You see, we do make a good team!’

  ‘Don’t get all mushy on me,’ said Jason. But Connor could see that his partner was smiling too. Was this a breakthrough in their relationship?

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it!’ Connor replied as he tied off the bandage round Feliks’s head and checked he was OK.

  Feliks gave a wide-eyed nod. Then Connor took out his smartphone and dialled Buddyguard HQ to report in. The attack would soon register on their international security feed and he wanted Charley
to know they were safely out of the kill zone.

  ‘Another hailstorm!’ he informed Charley. ‘Assassination attempt. Little Bear secure, but Alpha BG down. Jason thinks it was a sniper, but I also saw a suspect shooter in the crowd.’

  ‘Did you ID the shooter?’ asked Charley.

  ‘No, but I swear I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s of average build, with a greyish complexion and …’ Connor frowned. The man’s features were fading from his memory like sand through his fingers. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember much about him. It was crazy back there.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Charley. ‘Amir tells me your contact lens should have recorded the last hour automatically. He’s going to remotely upload the video file to our server to identify the man you’re talking about.’

  ‘But how will he know which one I mean?’

  ‘Amir says the camera automatically focuses on where you’re looking. It should be obvious. I’ll report back to you as soon as we have an ID match.’

  The Mercedes pulled up to the mansion’s main gate, having crossed Moscow in record time. ‘We’re back at the cave,’ Connor told her.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ said Charley, relief in her voice. ‘Stay safe, Connor.’ She signed off.

  As the Mercedes rolled to a stop by the driveway’s marble fountain, they were greeted by an unexpected sight.

  ‘Papa!’ called Feliks, suddenly breaking from his daze and jumping out of the car.

  Waiting on the stone steps, Viktor Malkov clasped his son tightly in his arms. The billionaire looked drawn and haggard from his time in jail, but also hardened like a beaten nail. He glanced over at the car as Timur, Connor and Jason emerged.

  ‘Lazar?’ he questioned.

  Timur simply shook his head.