by Zoe Sharp
I curled my forefinger delicately around the trigger.
At that moment Al-Ghazi raised his free arm and signalled to his men. As they began to gather he moved again, and now the boy’s body was once more hidden behind his own.
I swore under my breath, as if the boy’s safety was my only concern. The only thing holding me back.
One of Al-Ghazi’s men jerked the muzzle of his rifle into the ribs of a teenage villager until the youth stooped and, with great reluctance, picked up a rock. As he straightened, I recognised Zameer’s nephew, Dil. His face, his eyes, showed a torment that was almost physical. More villagers were forced to do the same, forming a rough circle around where the old man was half-buried. Al-Ghazi stood and watched, talking to the boy he held, their foreheads close to touching.
Just behind him, visible in the reticle of the scope, several of his men who were not tasked with cajoling the villagers climbed into the back of the six-wheel Russian truck they’d brought with them. It had planked side boards and a canvas tilt on a hooped frame. I shifted my aim, my focus. One of the men pushed back the tilt and they began shifting the cargo. As they turned, struggling with the weight in the awkward space, I saw what that cargo was.
And before I could second-guess my decision or my motives, I squeezed the trigger and took the shot.
Epilogue
“On the back of the truck were about a dozen thirty-pound propane cylinders,” I said, keeping my voice even, my tone neutral. “I fired at them.”
“Why? Were you hoping for an explosion?”
The man asking the questions wore the pip and crown of a lieutenant colonel on each shoulder, but no regimental insignia. He hadn’t given a name at the start of this interview, and I knew better than to ask for one.
The two officers flanking him were familiar, though. On his left was my CO, scowling. On his right was Captain MacLeod. He didn’t look much happier.
All three were seated at a table with files and folders and notes spread in front of them that I was not close enough to read. I remained standing, having been marched into the room as if to courts martial.
“I thought that unlikely, sir. There was no flame to cause ignition, and I was using standard ammunition, not tracer or incendiary rounds.”
“So, what was the reason for this…unusual choice of target?”
Was that a hint of sarcasm slipping into the cracks of his question? It was hard to tell. I tried not to let it rattle me.
“I wanted to prevent the imminent deaths of Zameer and his nephew, without giving away my position or endangering the lives of the other villagers. I also wanted to give the Special Forces team the opportunity to snatch their target, so I needed to create a viable diversionary tactic, sir.”
“And shooting at gas bottles you knew were not going to explode was what you came up with?”
“Yes, sir.” I swallowed. “I knew the rounds would go straight through and out the other side. I, ah, saw it done once on the ranges. Because the gas is so highly pressurised, when it’s suddenly released like that you tend to get a kind of violent cartwheeling effect. I reasoned that having several steel cylinders weighing thirty pounds apiece suddenly flipping up into the air might just…distract them a bit.”
“Indeed,” the lieutenant colonel said. His voice was devoid of emotion now. I couldn’t get a read on him one way or another. “And then?”
“Once we’d confirmed that the team had achieved their objective we made a tactical withdrawal to the rendezvous point with them and our transport—”
“Your horses?”
When the Chinook landed to pick us up I could still remember the surprise on Ramin’s face as Scary had not only let him loose but told him to keep the animals. Seems like he hadn’t needed my lecture about winning hearts and minds. He was already way ahead of me.
“Yes, sir. Then we headed for the HLZ and were brought back to Camp Bastion. We—Corporal Brookes, Private Tate and myself—were kept quarantined from the rest of our unit. This morning we were put on a Hercules back to Brize Norton and now…here I am, sir.”
“Indeed,” the lieutenant colonel said again, only now he was frowning. “Well, soldier, you got yourself caught up in an operation that was highly classified and is likely to remain so. You are not to discuss any of the details outside this room, with anyone. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Even with the other members of your unit who were there with you—nobody. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I repeated.
He nodded, gaze dropping to his notes. “Very well. That will be all.”
I stiffened to attention, muttered, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” But then I hesitated when I knew I should just do a smart about-face and march straight out of there.
“Was there something else, Charlie?” It was Captain MacLeod who asked. I flicked my eyes in his direction and found his expression just unbending enough to give me courage.
“Sir…am I…?” I swallowed again. “That is to say, sir, have I done something I might be facing charges for?”
My CO scowled some more and opened his mouth, no doubt to lambast me, but the lieutenant colonel cut him off sharply.
“Charges? What makes you ask that? Do you think you’ve done something wrong?”
“I’m not sure, sir. I’m not sure if I’ve done too much, or not enough.”
He sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised.
I tried to work up some spit in my mouth, glanced down at the bulled toecaps of my boots as if hoping to see inspiration reflected in their shiny depths. Ah well, may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. I straightened my shoulders.
“I don’t know if there were times I should have engaged, and didn’t. And other times when I probably exceeded my remit, sir.”
The lieutenant colonel let out a snort. “Soldier, you exceeded your remit from the moment you became a part of that operation,” he said, his voice like a cracked whip. “The British Army does not—and to this point never has—put its female personnel into forward combat situations. At some point in the future that may change, but at the moment it is entirely against the regulations, as you no doubt well know?”
“Yes, sir.”
“‘Yes, sir.’ And yet you agreed to go into hostile territory in the role of sniper for a Special Forces team who were already well aware they had been compromised, and that the likelihood of capture was proportionally increased.”
“They made no secret of the risks, sir. Neither did Captain MacLeod. And I did volunteer, sir.”
“Hm, yes, so I understand, but that’s beside the point. The fact remains that Captain MacLeod should not have allowed you the option to volunteer.” He leaned forwards, resting his forearms on the tabletop. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
He held my eyes for a moment longer, then nodded. “However,” he said, drawing out the word. “I have read the debrief from my team, and heard the verbal reports from Brookes and Tate about the manner in which you conducted yourself out there.”
I heard a voice in the back of my head going, “Uh-oh.”
“It would seem,” the lieutenant colonel went on, “that you showed extraordinary levels of marksmanship under fire, as well as considerable initiative in your selection of targets. This not only saved the lives of your fellow soldiers but also led to the successful capture of a high-value enemy asset when it might have seemed that our only option was to eliminate him, with all the loss of potential intelligence that entailed.”
“Um, yes, sir,” I said faintly.
He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “So, Charlie, is it? No, you will certainly not be facing any charges, if that puts your mind at rest?”
“Yes, sir. It does.”
“Good.” He nodded again. “You’re dismissed.”
I snapped to attention, executed an about-face of parade ground quality, and stomped out, my boots echoing very loud on the polished wooden floor.
Ou
t in the corridor, I finally slumped against a wall and ran my hands over my face. It was no surprise to find I was sweating.
“Scary in there, was it?” asked a voice.
I jerked upright, found myself facing the Special Forces sergeant we’d given just that nickname to. He was leaning on a doorway opposite, in black jeans and a donkey jacket, and looking no less dangerous for being out of uniform.
“Scary out here, too,” I blurted before I could stop myself.
He gave me a puzzled frown. “Oh?”
It must have been the relief at making it out of that room alive that made me light-headed and loose-lipped. As we headed for the exit I explained, finally, about how we’d nicknamed him and his team after the Spice Girls.
I wasn’t sure how he’d take it, but he actually laughed. “I’ll let them know,” he said. “Only, I think I’ll tell Ben you dubbed him Baby rather than Sporty. Otherwise there’ll be no living with his ego. We can hardly prise him out of the gym as it is.”
We pushed through the double doors leading to the outside world. The air was cold and crisp, with the smell of dead leaves that marks a turning season. It seemed a long way from the unrelenting heat of Helmand.
“So they were OK with you in there?” he asked as we moved down the steps and paused, the way two people do when they’re about to head off in opposite directions and they know this is goodbye.
“Yeah,” I said. “At least I’m not in trouble.” I thought of my CO’s glowering face and amended that to, “Well, not much, anyway.”
“Trouble?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “Christ, Jesus, if you were one of the lads they’d be pinning a medal on you.”
“And here was I thinking I’d done well not to get booted out for it.”
He was silent for a moment. I stood waiting and tried not to shiver. It seemed bloody cold back in England.
“I never really got a chance to ask you,” he said then, “just before you hit those gas bottles, what went through your mind?”
I stared at him blankly. “It was the way Al-Ghazi was holding the boy,” I said at last. “Like…he had sons of his own. I took a chance that, when something happened, he’d try to get him to somewhere safe—like back inside Zameer’s house.”
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “And there was I thinking you were being squeamish again.”
I smiled and avoided giving him an answer to that one. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Oh yeah. Which is why, although officially they may be pretending this never happened, unofficially you want to take full advantage, before they forget exactly what you did.”
“Take advantage how?”
“There’s talk of allowing an intake of female soldiers to try their hand at Selection.”
“What—for the SAS?”
“For Special Forces, in whatever specialty best suits your abilities. Tell them you want to put your name forward.” At my look of disbelief, he turned towards me, too close, and suddenly he’d slipped straight back into the skin he’d worn in Afghanistan. It was all I could do not to take a step back from him. “I’m serious. You’ve just more than proved yourself in a combat situation, not some training exercise. That’s not something they can easily ignore.”
“You reckon?”
“I know. You’ve got a lot going for you. Don’t let them tell you any different.”
“I won’t. And thank you…I don’t even know your name. Or is that classified?”
“Not anymore.” His eyes were very dark, almost black, and he hardly seemed to blink. It was unnerving. “It’s Sean,” he said. “Sean Meyer.”
He held out his hand and we shook. It seemed absurdly formal under the circumstances. Considering what we’d been through.
“Thank you again, Sean.”
“You’re welcome, Charlie. Don’t forget what I said.”
“I won’t.”
“Good,” he said, turning up the collar of his jacket against the autumn chill. “Because I won’t forget you.”
Afterword
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I’m only human…
We all make mistakes from time to time. This book has gone through numerous editing, copyediting, and proofreading stages before making it out into the world. Still, occasionally errors do creep past us. If by any chance you do spot a blooper, please let me, the author, know about it. That way I can get the error corrected as soon as possible. Plus I’ll send you a free digital edition of one of my short stories as a thank you for your eagle-eyed observational skills! Email me at [email protected].
Please Note
This book was written in British English and UK spellings and punctuation have been used throughout.
About Zoë Sharp
Zoë Sharp opted out of mainstream education at the age of twelve and wrote her first novel at fifteen. She created her award-winning crime thriller series featuring ex-Special Forces trainee turned bodyguard, Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Fox, after receiving death threats in the course of her work as a photojournalist. She has been making a living from her writing since 1988, and since 2001 has written various novels: the highly acclaimed Charlie Fox series, including a prequel novella; standalone crime thrillers; and collaborations with espionage thriller author John Lawton, as well as numerous short stories. Her work has been used in Danish school textbooks, inspired an original song and music video, and been optioned for TV and film.
Zoë is always happy to hear from readers, reader groups, libraries or bookstores. You can contact her at [email protected]
Visit Zoë’s Amazon Author Page
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Acknowledgements
Angela Norton
Derek Harrison
Dina Willner
Hazel Child
Hermann Schade
Jane Hudson, NuDesign
Jill Harrison
John Dowling
John Lawton
Matt Johnson
Pippa White
Robert Roper
Tim Winfield
The stories so far…
the Charlie Fox series
KILLER INSTINCT #1: Charlie Fox teaches women to defend themselves against rapists and murderers—just like the man who comes looking for her.
RIOT ACT #2: Charlie is supposed to be dog-sitting, not leading the resistance, but what else can a girl do when her housing estate turns into an urban battlefield?
HARD KNOCKS #3: Does Major Gilby’s school in Germany specialise in training bodyguards—or killing them? When an old army comrade dies there, Charlie is sent undercover to find out.
Books 1–3 are also available as eBoxset #1
CHARLIE FOX: THE EARLY YEARS
FIRST DROP #4: Charlie’s first bodyguard job in Florida should have been easy—until people start dying and she and her teenage charge are forced on the run.
ROAD KILL #5: When a motorcycle ‘accident’ almost kills her best friend, Charlie promises to find out what really happened. Even if that paints a huge target on her back.
SECOND SHOT #6: New England. A young child is in danger and Charlie will risk everything to keep her safe. But this time she’s in no state to protect anyone, herself least of all.
Books 4–6 are also available as eBoxset #2
CHARLIE FOX: BODYGUARD
THIRD STRIKE #7: What’s Charlie’s worst nightmare? A ‘bring your parents to work’ day. When her surgeon father falls foul of a pharmaceutical giant, only Charlie stands in their way.
FOURTH DAY #8: A man joins the Fourth Day cult to prove they killed his son. By the time Charli
e and Sean get him out, he’s convinced otherwise. Then he dies...
FIFTH VICTIM #9: How can Charlie protect the daughter of a rich Long Island banker when the girl seems determined to put them both in harm’s way?
DIE EASY #10: A deadly hostage situation in New Orleans forces Charlie to improvise as never before. And this time she can’t rely on Sean to watch her back.
ABSENCE OF LIGHT #11: In the aftermath of an earthquake, Charlie’s working alongside a team who dig out the living and ID the dead, and hoping they won’t find out why she’s really there.
FOX HUNTER #12: Charlie can never forget the men who put a brutal end to her army career, but she swore a long time ago she would never go looking for them. Now she doesn’t have a choice.
BAD TURN #13: Charlie is out of work, out of her apartment and out of options. Why else would she be working for a shady arms dealer?
TRIAL UNDER FIRE #prequel: The untold story. Before she was a bodyguard, she was a soldier...
FOX FIVE RELOADED: short story collection. Charlie Fox. In small bites. With sharp teeth.
Where to Start?
If you enjoy reading about Charlie Fox right in the thick of it, working in close protection and travelling all over the world, I’d recommend you start with FIRST DROP: #4, or CHARLIE FOX: BODYGUARD eBoxset #2.
