Big T shot her a sideways look. ‘Now you’re stealing all my lines!’
Surrounded by his entourage, Ash made his way along the corridor towards the stage like a prize fighter about to enter the arena. No one could have got near the rock star. Any attacker would have to battle through a first ring of bodyguards, then tackle Big T and his legendary right hook, after which they’d still face Charley, the final invisible ring of defence.
Of course, Brandon Mills knew from experience that Charley was someone to be reckoned with and he might even suspect she was Ash’s personal bodyguard. But now the whole team knew who Brandon was, every eye in the place would be on the lookout for him.
As they approached the auditorium, the entourage split. Ash headed beneath the stage with Big T to the toaster lift, while Charley and the other bodyguards peeled off to take up strategic posts around the venue. Stationed in the wings, Charley peered out at the stage to be confronted by an endless sea of faces. Once more the task ahead seemed insurmountable.
How am I supposed to spot a killer in a crowd of fifty thousand screaming fans?
Her eyes scanned the front rows of frenzied teenage girls, embarrassingly excited mums, pockets of rocker boys and a handful of reluctant fathers dragged along yet secretly thrilled by a live rock concert. The lack of adults, Charley realized, should make it easier to spot a lone man in the crowd. But she couldn’t take anyone for granted. Brandon had already shown a cunning talent for disguise.
As her gaze swept the audience, Charley spied a familiar ratty face in the press pit.
Gonzo.
How the hell has he, of all paps, blagged a press pass for the final shows? she wondered.
Then the house lights went down and the video screens began their countdown. The crowd shouted along, cheering as the number one flashed up on the monitors and a huge explosion rumbled through the arena. The cascade of red and gold sparks lit up the stage like a supernova and the gut-thumping throb of a heartbeat blasted out of the speakers.
At that moment Charley was blind and deaf to any threats.
The sound of a blazing fire grew and the silhouette of a winged boy flitted from screen to screen until consumed by the flames.
INDESTRUCTIBLE … IMPOSSIBLE … I’M POSSIBLE!
Charley felt her stomach clench as a thunderclap heralded Ash’s dramatic entrance. From now on until the end of the concert, Ash would be exposed and unguarded on the stage.
Charley could only watch, hope … and react.
Shooting up from the toaster lift, Ash flew through the air and landed to the sound of euphoric screaming. He stood, legs astride, relishing the adulation.
Then Ash pumped a fist in the air and cried, ‘What’s up, Los Ang–’
But he didn’t finish the sentence. On the massive screens overhead, in full glorious definition, every fan watched in horror as a spurt of blood burst from Ash’s chest.
Charley was running before Ash even hit the ground. At first she thought she was experiencing déjà vu, a flashback to when the spotlight had almost crushed Ash. But then reality struck. She’d seen the red laser dot – a second too late.
Charley was first at Ash’s side, shielding his body from whatever attack might come next. He lay in a pool of his own blood, spluttering and writhing in pain. His shades dislodged, hazel eyes bulging, he caught sight of Charley and desperately tried to focus on her face.
‘H-h-help!’ he gasped, clasping her wrist.
‘Don’t try to speak,’ said Charley as she rapidly assessed his condition. His shirt was soaked with blood, his breathing wet and rapid, and his pulse erratic.
Ripping off his top to examine the damage, Charley discovered a small round puncture wound in his upper-right chest.
A bullet hole.
Big T, now at her side, barked into his mic. ‘Gunshot confirmed. Secure all exits. Suspect armed and dangerous.’
In her earpiece, Charley heard a burst of security chatter. More and more people crowded round the bleeding body. Kay, Terry, Zoe, Jessie, band members, roadies … even Gonzo, who’d broken through the security line determined to capture the money shot that would become the defining image for the world’s media. In the background, Charley was dimly aware of chaos in the arena, fans screaming and panicked parents fleeing with their children in their arms.
The venue’s medic appeared with a first-aid kit and dropped down opposite Charley.
Ash was now panting rapidly, each breath more strained. His chest barely moved and there was a blue tinge to his lips.
‘Oh my!’ exclaimed the medic, turning pale at the profusion of blood.
When he failed to act, and simply stared at the dying rock star, Charley took the situation into her own hands. ‘Give me your med-kit,’ she ordered.
In his shocked state, he handed it over. Rummaging through the bag, Charley found a large-bore needle with a one-way valve and tore off the sterilized wrapper.
‘What are you doing?’ the medic cried, suddenly alert that a teenage girl was about to perform a serious medical procedure.
‘He’s suffering a tension pneumothorax,’ explained Charley, locating the second intercostal space on Ash’s chest. ‘His injured lung will collapse and he’ll die if we don’t release the pressure.’
Placing the sharp point against his skin, Charley prayed her diagnosis was correct and that she didn’t puncture any vital organs. But there was no time to hesitate. Ash’s life was on a knife’s edge. She drove the needle in at ninety degrees. Ash was in too much pain to notice it slide between his ribs and penetrate deep into his chest cavity. Opening the valve, a sharp hiss of air was heard and Ash’s breathing immediately eased.
But the medical emergency wasn’t over yet. In her head Charley ran through Dr ABC again. Big T was dealing with the danger. Ash was still responsive. His airway and breathing were stabilized, at least for the time being. But, judging by the ever-expanding pool of blood on the stage, Ash’s circulation was the critical issue now.
Kay was on the phone to the emergency services. ‘Of course he has insurance! Just send a bloody helicopter!’
‘He needs fluids,’ said Charley urgently.
The medic nodded and took out a pouch of saline solution, a sterile tube and a cannula. With practised efficiency, he inserted the cannula into Ash’s forearm, while Charley set to work bandaging and sealing the open chest wound.
Yet, despite all their efforts, Ash’s condition continued to deteriorate. His breathing was shallow, his heart rate more erratic than ever. Then suddenly his eyes rolled back in their sockets and his head flopped to the side.
‘Ash! Stay with us!’ cried Charley, shaking his shoulder. ‘The ambulance is on its way.’
But Ash no longer responded. Charley looked to the medic for help.
‘Possible internal bleeding,’ he said, noticing the saline solution already three-quarters empty. ‘Little we can do until we get him to a hospital.’
He took out the other saline pouch in the med-kit, but as he was attaching it to the drip Charley noticed Ash had stopped breathing altogether. The medic checked his pulse. ‘His heart’s stopped!’
The two of them immediately commenced CPR, the medic administering chest compressions while Charley delivered the rescue breaths. They were still going when two paramedics arrived on the scene.
Exhausted and emotionally drained, Charley didn’t put up any resistance as the paramedics took over.
Not long after their initial assessment and attempts at resuscitation, the older of the two spo
ke to his colleague: ‘Record time of death as 20:16 hours. Cause of death: gunshot trauma.’
The words hit Charley like a punch to the guts. For a moment, she simply stared at the paramedic, imagining … hoping … praying she’d heard wrong. Ash couldn’t be dead.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said the paramedic, as he ran through the routine death-declaration procedure.
Stifling a sob, Kay’s knees went weak and Terry had to support her. Big T stood motionless and silent as a rock. Charley clutched Ash’s lifeless hand in her own and wept.
Gradually she became aware of a heartless photographer snapping away right next to her, capturing her grief from every angle.
Charley could take no more.
‘You vulture!’ she spat at him. ‘Have you no respect?’
Zooming his lens in on her tear-stained face, Gonzo answered with another flash of his camera.
Big T wrapped Charley in one of his massive arms and led her away from the frenzy of photographers that had now descended on the stage.
‘Charley, you did all that you could for Ash,’ he said, his voice on the point of cracking. ‘But we still have a job to do.’
Stunned with grief, Charley barely heard him. Ash was unique among all the boys she’d ever met. And only now did she realize how much he’d worked his way into her heart. She felt another hole of grief open up next to those for her parents and Kerry.
‘Brandon’s somewhere in this building and we have to hunt him down,’ said Big T fiercely. ‘We owe it to Ash to find his killer.’
Charley gazed at the white-gold bracelet on her wrist, now glittering against the blood from Ash’s wound. Her sorrow turned to anger: Brandon would pay. He couldn’t be allowed to escape. Leaving the stage, she took a last glance back at her rock star. The paparazzi buzzed like flies over his dead body as the paramedic removed the cannula from Ash’s tattooed arm.
Then it hit her. ‘That’s not Ash!’
‘Charley, don’t fool yourself,’ said Big T softly. ‘Denial is a natural stage of the grie–’
‘Ash’s phoenix tattoo is on his left arm, not his right!’ she cut in.
Big T’s bald head swivelled round like an owl’s and he stared at the body lying on the stage. ‘Sweet Mother of Mercy!’
‘That’s got to be Pete,’ said Charley, at once saddened and elated at her discovery. ‘Which means … Ash must be at the psychiatric clinic.’
Big T’s thick brow creased into a frown as he tried to get his head round this. ‘Keep it quiet until I’ve got confirmation from the clinic. We don’t want to raise anyone’s hopes … or alert Brandon to his mistake.’
As Big T stepped away to tell Kay, Charley spotted Gonzo heading backstage. She wondered what the little creep was sticking his nose into now. Then a thought struck her. On his camera he probably had photos of the moments running up to Ash’s – or Pete’s – murder. This might give vital clues about where the gunshot had come from and Brandon’s location, even his possible escape route.
Maybe Gonzo could prove useful for once.
‘Hey, Gonzo!’ called Charley, hurrying after him.
But he didn’t seem to hear. Pushing through the blackout curtains, she saw his wiry figure disappear down a corridor. Why is he in such a rush? she wondered.
She chased him through the warren of backstage tunnels, always several steps behind. He rounded a corner and when she reached it Gonzo was nowhere in sight.
Then she heard a door click shut at the far end of the hallway. Dashing down to the door marked BAY D: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, she barged her way through into a darkened loading bay. Gonzo was scurrying across the concrete towards an as-yet unsecured exit.
‘Hey, Gonzo, hold up!’ she shouted.
Startled, the pap guy froze and turned, as if caught in the beam of a searchlight, but immediately relaxed when he saw Charley. ‘If it isn’t Ash’s guardian angel,’ he sneered. ‘Not much left to guard now, have you?’
Charley ignored the cruel taunt. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ she demanded, running over to him.
‘None of your business.’
‘I think it is. The venue’s in lock-down.’
‘I’ve got to take these photos to my agency right now,’ he snapped. ‘If I don’t, I’ll miss the scoop of a lifetime.’
‘Can I have a look first?’ Charley asked.
Gonzo blinked. ‘Not on your life.’
‘I’m not going to delete them,’ she said, reaching out to the camera dangling round his neck. ‘They could hold clues to identify the gunman.’
Gonzo clasped the camera to his chest as if she was asking him to hand over his own baby.
‘I only want to look,’ insisted Charley. ‘Surely you owe me that?’
‘I owe you nothing!’ he spat, turning to leave.
Big T’s voice sounded in her earpiece. ‘Charley, where are you?’
‘In loading bay D,’ she responded into her mic.
‘Security upda …’ Interference broke up the signal. ‘Caught … in San Jose … killer is …’
‘Say again,’ said Charley, clasping a hand to her ear.
‘… the killer isn’t Brandon.’
‘Stop!’ Charley cried as Gonzo reached the emergency exit. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’
Gonzo swivelled round to face her.
‘How about a last shot?’ he said, pointing his camera at Charley. ‘The grieving girlfriend.’
‘Gonzo, I don’t have time to play games,’ said Charley. ‘You might have evidence of the killer. Hand it over.’
Gonzo adjusted the flashgun on his camera. ‘Smile for the birdy!’
Charley noticed the little red laser dot on her chest a moment too late. The flashgun was a real gun!
Gonzo’s finger depressed the shutter button. Charley braced herself for the impact … There was a click but no flash.
With a blast of expletives, Gonzo furiously tapped away at the button.
‘Run out of film?’ asked Charley, diving forward to tackle him before he could clear the jam.
Gonzo tried to bat her away with his camera. The flash caught her a glancing blow on the cheek, but she managed to pin him against the wall. As she tried to wrestle the lethal camera off him, Gonzo grabbed her hair and yanked her head backwards. She gave a shriek as he tugged mercilessly. Before she could tear herself free of his grip, he whipped her head to the side and she collided, bone to brick, against the wall. Stars burst across her vision, her skull rang like a bell and she was forced to let him go.
Taking advantage of her dazed state, Gonzo swept her legs from under her. Charley fell to the floor where he roundly kicked her in the stomach. Winded and retching up bile, Charley lay gagging for breath, pain racking her body. She heard the scrape of metal and saw Gonzo picking up a crowbar from the top of a crate.
‘I said you’d live to regret your actions, chica.’
As Gonzo raised the crowbar to deliver a killing blow, Charley gasped, ‘Ash isn’t dead!’
‘What?’
‘You shot his decoy.’
‘You’re lying.’
But the hesitation in his attack was all she needed.
Fight smarter, not harder.
Charley drove her fist into his groin – always the smartest move in female self-defence.
Gonzo yelped like a wounded puppy and dropped to the floor, the crowbar clattering to the concrete. As he knelt with his hands clasped between his legs, s
he slammed her palm into the bridge of his crooked nose. There was a satisfying crunch and blood streamed from his nostrils. Stunned and in obvious pain, Gonzo hissed and bared his teeth like a cornered rat. He lashed out at her with a fist, but she caught his hand and spiralled it into a wrist lock. Applying pressure, Charley forced him to the concrete, where he lay squirming like a pinned beetle.
Though restrained, Gonzo still struggled and spat at her. Charley took hold of his index finger. Any further injury, she reasoned, could be blamed on his own force in resisting.
‘I assume this is the trigger finger you use to take your vile photos?’ she said coolly. ‘So I suggest you keep still.’
She applied an extra-hard twist to his wrist to drive home her warning.
Wincing, Gonzo glared up at her and snarled, ‘Shove it, Wild Cat!’
Charley smiled, then wrenched the finger all the way back. A sickening crack resounded through the loading bay, swiftly followed by Gonzo’s agonized scream, just as Big T and two other security guards burst through the door.
‘I told you to keep still,’ she said, confident her action was necessary, reasonable and proportional to the pain and suffering he’d inflicted on her and Ash.
Big T came running over, stared at the deformed finger, then smirked at Gonzo. ‘Well, you won’t be taking any shots for a very long time!’
‘It’s an impressive piece of kit,’ remarked the officer in charge, inspecting the flashgun weapon before it was bagged for evidence. ‘Criminals are becoming more inventive every day.’
He sipped from a takeaway coffee cup and grimaced at the taste. ‘Man, that’s gross! Don’t they have any decent coffee in this venue?’
Tossing the cup into a nearby bin, he turned to Charley and Big T in the loading bay. They’d given their statements and were just waiting to be dismissed. ‘I think we’re done here. That was pretty brave of you, young lady, to tackle the suspect alone. But next time leave it to the professionals, like your bodyguard friend here. Without proper training, you could easily have been killed.’
Bodyguard: Target Page 28
