Bodyguard: Ransom (Book 2)

by Bradford, Chris

  Harry opened his desk drawer and pulled out his silver hip flask. With an unsteady hand, he removed the stopper and took a swig to calm himself. As the whisky delivered its familiar warming kick, the burn continued down his throat, into his stomach … and kept spreading.

  His chest began to tighten, his throat constricted, his breath became short and pained.

  Harry hunted for his tablets. He fumbled with the lid, scattering beta blockers across the desk as his heart was seized in a vice-like grip. Harry rolled from his chair on to the floor, his lips foaming with spittle. He clutched at the little white tablets strewn around him. But his body was racked with pain, fire raging through his veins.

  ‘H … h … help!’ he moaned. ‘Heeelp …’

  The man in the grey suit re-entered the room.

  ‘P … p … please,’ Harry begged, clawing at the tablets.

  But the man merely observed Harry writhe on the carpet with an almost inhuman detachment. Harry’s eyes bulged, unable to comprehend the man’s indifference. A sharp pain speared his chest. He shuddered once more then lay still.

  The man in the grey suit checked Harry Gibb’s body for signs of life. Satisfied, he picked up the documents from the desk and the poisoned hip flask from the floor. Quietly closing the office door behind him, he headed for the emergency exit, the first phase of his mission accomplished.

  ‘Enter,’ barked Colonel Black.

  Taking a deep breath, Connor stepped inside the colonel’s office. An old-fashioned wood-panelled affair with high-back red leather chairs and a heavy mahogany desk the size of a small boat, it reminded Connor of M’s office in the old Bond movies. Yet, despite the room’s antique appearance, it was equipped with the most advanced state-of-the-art technology. Built within the desk was a discreet multi-core computer, its slim glass monitor retractable into a hidden recess. A super-thin LED display hung on the wall, broadcasting international news feeds and up-to-the-minute security intel. There was a high-definition video-conferencing system enabling the colonel to govern Buddyguard operations worldwide, while hidden CCTV cameras provided total security for the room.

  As Connor approached the desk, the colonel lowered his monitor and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘That’s an impressive black eye,’ he remarked.

  Connor managed a pained smile. ‘An apology from Ling during combat training.’

  The colonel grunted in amusement. ‘Glad to see you’re getting along so well. Let’s hope the bruise has faded by the time of your assignment. It wouldn’t be professional to turn up looking like some street brawler.’

  Connor nodded. ‘I’m putting ice on it. But it wasn’t exactly my fault. I don’t think Ling likes me.’

  The colonel looked surprised. ‘Whatever makes you say that?’

  ‘She’s …’ Connor wasn’t sure how to phrase it and didn’t want to sound like he was whining, ‘she’s waspish with me. Has been since my return from America.’

  ‘Ling can be like that,’ replied the colonel, brushing away Connor’s concerns with a wave of his hand. ‘I’m aware her social skills require a touch more finesse. But she comes from a tough background.’

  Connor frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Colonel Black sucked his teeth and shook his head. ‘Not my place to say. But don’t concern yourself over whether Ling likes you or not. I’m confident she respects you. And that’s what counts on a mission.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Connor.

  The colonel offered a wry grin. ‘She wouldn’t want to fight you if she didn’t respect you.’

  He indicated for Connor to take a seat. ‘Now, why did you want to see me? I’m sure it’s not just to show me your black eye.’

  Perching on one of the red leather chairs, Connor summoned up the courage to talk. Unable to meet Colonel Black’s piercing gaze, he admitted, ‘I … don’t think I’m ready for this assignment.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ snorted the colonel. ‘I’ve just been reviewing your progress. That video of you and the refuse bin was inspirational. I’m even considering showing it to the other teams.’

  ‘But I failed to protect my Principal.’

  ‘No,’ he instantly corrected Connor, ‘you learnt what you should do next time to prevent that happening. Failure is the key to success; each mistake teaches us something. So when you’re out in the field all that training comes together and you avoid such mistakes.’

  ‘But I feel like I’m rushing too fast into my next assignment,’ Connor argued. ‘I’ve only just got over my injury –’ he rubbed his thigh where the assassin’s bullet had struck – ‘and I’ve hardly had any advanced training.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get more training once you’re out there,’ assured Colonel Black. ‘The Ship Security Officer on board Mr Sterling’s yacht is a former member of the Australian SAS. I’ve checked his background. Brad Harding is a good man. He’ll back you up and he’s agreed to teach you and Ling the necessary maritime security skills.’

  ‘But …’ Connor stopped. He realized he was losing this line of argument, so went straight to the heart of the matter. ‘But I’m worried my first assignment was just a fluke. Beginner’s luck.’

  The colonel fixed Connor with an incredulous stare. ‘If that’s the case, you have the luck of the gods, since you protected your Principal on three separate occasions. Listen, Operation Hidden Shield was a challenging assignment for any bodyguard. Don’t doubt your abilities. You’ve proven your reactions are second to none. Without question, you’re a chip off your father’s block.’

  ‘But I’m not my father,’ said Connor firmly. ‘I bet he never doubted himself like this.’

  Colonel Black leant back in his chair, steepled his fingers and gazed thoughtfully at Connor. ‘I’ll tell you a story about your father.’

  Connor’s ears suddenly perked up. This was one of the reasons he’d joined Buddyguard in the first place. To learn more about his dad and the secret life he’d led as an SAS operative. Colonel Black, having been in his father’s squadron, was the key to much of his hidden past.

  ‘We were based in Afghanistan at the time, when two SAS troopers were seized by the Taliban who had infiltrated the Afghan police,’ began the colonel. ‘Our commander immediately initiated a rescue operation. We knew that the hostages were still being held in the police station, but that they could be spirited away at any moment. Our unit was all ready to go in, when we got word from Operation Command that permission for the rescue hadn’t been granted by the MoD. There were apparently more important matters at stake than the lives of two soldiers … diplomatic reasons.’

  Colonel Black’s face grew thunderous at the memory of such political betrayal.

  ‘The men were furious, none more so than your father, Justin. He lived by the decree that “no man is left behind on the battlefield”. So, as the unit’s captain, he decided to launch the rescue mission anyway.’

  ‘He disobeyed a direct order?’ said Connor, shocked.

  The colonel nodded. ‘I know Justin harboured doubts as to whether he should go ahead with it. After all, his actions were tantamount to mutiny. Failure would result in catastrophic consequences, not just militarily but diplomatically. But his priority was the captured soldiers.’

  Connor nodded and smiled. ‘That sounds like my father. My mother often said he always put others first.’

  ‘And that he did. Your father and the rest of his unit blasted their way into the police station. The soldiers fanned out, firing stun grenades and clearing each of the rooms in turn. As your father entered the last cell, he was confronted by a Taliban militant slicing a knife across one of the hostage’s throats.’

  Connor swallowed, instinctively putting a hand to his own throat at the gruesome image.

  ‘Your father’s reactions were second to none. He dispatched the militant with a single shot to the head.’

  ‘What about the hostage?’ asked Connor, breathless.

  Colonel Black reached
up and pulled his shirt collar down to reveal the long white scar that circled his neck.

  ‘He survived,’ the colonel said with a smile. ‘That’s why I have such faith in you, Connor, to protect others – just like your father did.’

  Connor pulled on his board shorts and stuffed his belongings into the locker. Stifling a yawn, he made his way through the empty changing room to the pool. Never in his life had he got up so early to go swimming. In fact, he’d rather do an early morning run than a swim any day – and on a Sunday a lie-in was preferable to both. But, with his forthcoming operation being at sea, Connor figured that he needed to work on his swimming skills.

  As he stepped from the changing rooms, he caught sight of an abandoned wheelchair lying up-ended by the side of the pool. He glanced around, but nobody was to be seen.

  ‘Charley?’ he called, his voice bouncing off the white tiled walls and echoing his concern.

  No one answered. Then he spotted her body at the bottom of the pool. Connor tossed aside his towel and dived in, the chill water shocking his system. Opening his eyes, the underwater scene was a blur of blue shadows and refracted sunlight from the pool’s glass ceiling. He spied her black swimsuit against the white tiles and swam hard toward her. Grabbing hold of an outstretched arm, he kicked upwards with all his strength.

  Charley’s head bobbed to the surface at the same time as his.

  ‘Hey!’ she spluttered. ‘What’re you doing?’

  Connor blinked away the water from his eyes and stared at her. ‘You’re OK?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ she replied, floating easily at his side. ‘I was practising holding my breath. Useful if you’re pinned down by a wave while surfing.’

  ‘B-but I thought … you’d drowned.’

  Charley crinkled her nose in puzzlement. ‘Why on earth would you think that?’

  ‘Because …’ Connor glanced towards her wheelchair.

  Charley immediately gave him that look. The one that said, Don’t judge me by my chair.

  ‘Sorry,’ Connor mumbled, treading water. ‘My mistake … I haven’t had breakfast yet, not thinking straight,’ he added by way of a lame excuse.

  ‘Forget it,’ she replied with half a smile. ‘It’s kinda sweet that you dived to my rescue, though. A true bodyguard reaction. The chair tipped over as I got in the water. I must have forgotten to apply the brake. But I can handle myself in the water.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ he said, annoyed at himself for forgetting that she’d once been a surfing champion. ‘Still, isn’t it a bit dangerous to be swimming on your own?’

  ‘I could say the same about you,’ she countered, a steely flash in her eyes. ‘Since I’ve been in a wheelchair, I’ve had countless people tell me what I can and can’t do. They see my disability as inability. But I soon realized the only person who can place restrictions on me is me.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Connor replied, holding up a hand in apology. ‘I was just … worried about you.’

  Her expression softened slightly. ‘What are you doing here anyway? You’re never in the pool, not at this time at least.’

  ‘I’m trying to prepare myself for Operation Gemini. And you?’

  ‘Swimming, of course!’ she said, laughing, her mood lightening as she lay back in the water. She splashed, twirling effortlessly with a single stroke of her arm. ‘This is the one place where I can forget about my disability. All day long I’m like a prisoner in that chair. So this pool offers me the most freedom I can experience since losing the use of my legs.’

  Connor didn’t know what to say to this. He still had no idea what had happened to Charley on that fateful assignment the previous year. But he didn’t press her for details. No doubt Charley would tell him in her own time, if she ever wanted to.

  ‘I virtually grew up in the sea,’ she continued. ‘For me, swimming is second nature. Now it’s the one thing I can do free of my chair. Yet –’ Charley spun to look directly at Connor and he saw the fierce burn of determination in her gaze – ‘my real dream is to surf again.’

  She grinned at the impossibility of the challenge she’d set herself. ‘And when that day comes I intend to be ready for it.’

  Ducking her head beneath the water, she swam off down the length of the pool. Connor watched her speed away with the grace of a dolphin and could only admire her resolve. He realized Charley was the sort of person who, when faced with a barrier, wouldn’t stop and turn round; she’d just smash through it. Inspired by her spirit, Connor questioned how he could doubt his own abilities, when Charley with her disability wouldn’t even let doubt enter her mind.

  With a new resolve, Connor put his head down and swam after her.

  But after only eight lengths he found himself completely out of breath and his pulse racing. Gasping for air, he splashed the last few metres and clung on to the lip of the pool to recover.

  ‘It’s your breathing technique that’s the problem,’ said Charley as she towelled herself off on the poolside.

  Connor glanced over. Blessed with slender limbs, tanned golden skin and beach-blonde hair, Charley looked the quintessential Californian beach girl. Legs dangling in the pool, it was hard to imagine that she had a disability at all.

  ‘Your stroke is basically fine,’ she continued, ‘but you’re trying to inhale and exhale when your head’s above the water. Exhale under the water, then when you go to breathe you only have to inhale.’

  ‘OK,’ said Connor, nodding his appreciation.

  Charley put down her towel and pulled herself into her chair. ‘Next time I’ll teach you how to breathe bilaterally. That’ll make a massive difference to your swimming technique. You’ll be able to cut through the water like an arrow.’

  Wondering whether he’d heard right, Connor tried to clear his ears. ‘Next time?’

  ‘Yes,’ beamed Charley, flipping the towel over her shoulder and wheeling away. ‘I can’t leave a job half-finished. Meet me in the pool tomorrow.’

  ‘What time?’ called Connor as she disappeared into the girls’ changing room.

  ‘Same time,’ her voice echoed back.

  Grateful as he was for her training offer, Connor groaned at the thought of another early morning start. Why couldn’t my assignment have been on dry land?

  Dust swirled in the hot dry air as a white-and-chrome Land Cruiser bumped its way down Hobyo’s unpaved street. In the furnace of mid-afternoon, the Somalian harbour town was largely deserted, except for a few scrawny children kicking a football made of plastic bags.

  Sharif, a pot-bellied Somali with a thin moustache, gazed through his vehicle’s blacked-out windows at the crumbling concrete buildings beyond. Some were whitewashed, others matched the dull brown of the road. All were topped with green corrugated tin roofs that had warped under the glare of the African sun.

  The driver honked his horn and a goat, bleating indignantly, trotted out of the path of the oncoming 4x4. Turning a corner, the Land Cruiser entered the central square where, unexpectedly, the town was bustling with life. A throng of people crowded outside a two-storey building with flaking yellow walls, pockmarked by bullet holes.

  The Land Cruiser ground to a halt beside three other 4x4s that were haphazardly parked in the middle of the road, their stereos blaring reggae-inspired tunes. Several young men in T-shirts and loose wrap-around ma’awis sarongs were slumped beneath a tree, chewing green khat leaves, AK47 machine guns cradled in their laps. They eyed the Land Cruiser with mild suspicion but made no move to investigate.

  Sharif clambered out of the air-conditioned cocoon of the vehicle, his blue cotton shirt instantly sticking to him in the sapping heat as he strode over to the gathered mob.

  ‘Ii warran?’ he asked a woman wearing a black headscarf.

  The young woman, her face dark and smooth as ebony, grinned at him. ‘A ransom payout!’ she replied in Somali and held up a slip of paper. ‘I’m waiting to collect my share. I invested my ex-husband’s rocket-propelled grenade in the company.’
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  Other fortunate investors, who’d gambled their money, weapons or belongings with the successful pirate gang, pushed and jostled their way forward to make their claims. But not everyone was jubilant. An elderly woman in a long blue jilbaab squatted in the dirt, her eyes red raw with tears.

  ‘Has … anyone news … of my son?’ she sobbed, raising her hands to the heavens.

  Another woman crouched at her side, trying to offer comfort. ‘I’m sure he’s still at sea –’

  Ignoring the old woman’s sorrow, Sharif shouldered his way through the crowd into the former mayor’s office that now housed the pirates’ ‘stock exchange’, a facility for raising funds for hijack operations. Six brokers were dealing with the numerous claims of the town’s investors, as well as welcoming new investments.

  Sharif approached a round-faced man wearing gold-rimmed glasses. Sitting at a rickety wooden desk, the broker welcomed him with a gap-toothed grin.

  ‘Soo dhowow!’ he said in greeting. ‘Cousin, please sit down.’ He gestured to a battered plastic chair. ‘How can I help you?’

  Sharif immediately got down to business. ‘I represent a client who wishes to invest in a pirate gang.’

  ‘You mean “maritime company”,’ corrected the broker with a knowing wink.

  ‘Ah … yes, of course,’ Sharif agreed amiably, although both men knew what they were really talking about. ‘And he only wants the best, the most reliable.’

  The broker didn’t even pause before replying. ‘That’ll be Oracle and his men.’

  Flipping to a fresh page in his battered ledger, the broker licked the tip of his pencil, wrote the date and scored a line down one side. He glanced up at Sharif. ‘What does your client have to invest? Weapons? Supplies? Cash?’

  ‘Cash. And moreover he wants to be the sole investor in an operation.’

  The broker’s eyes widened, gleaming like silver coins in his black moon-face. ‘I trust your client has deep pockets … start-up costs are a minimum of thirty thousand dollars.’

  Sharif nodded and placed a blue sports bag on the table. ‘There’s fifty thousand. My client wishes to ensure the “maritime company” has the best resources for the job.’