by Zoe Sharp
And who knows? One of these days, when I’ve worked out exactly what I still feel for him, I might even be able to make that call.
But I’m not holding my breath.
From the Author’s notebook
This story was inspired by the real-life problems in the town near where I used to live. An Asian shopkeeper had bought a store on a predominantly white, run-down sink estate and a nastier element of the local population seemed intent on making his life a misery. I remember reading the regular news reports about the latest trouble and eventually they fermented into RIOT ACT.
I started writing this book, the second in the Charlie Fox series, at the end of 2000. At the time there hadn’t been any civil unrest in the UK for about five years and I was hoping people would find that element of the plot credible. Soon afterwards, however, several northern cities erupted into violence.
Weirdly, just as I was preparing to put RIOT ACT out in eBook form in summer 2011 – making it available again for the first time in several years – there was suddenly more rioting here, starting in parts of London and spreading outwards from capital. Spooky.
When I was originally planning this story, Charlie’s reason for being in Pauline’s house on the Lavender Gardens estate was going to be because she was looking after Pauline’s cat. I don’t remember at what point the cat morphed into a Rhodesian Ridgeback called Friday, but from that point on he became an integral character. So integral that the only concern of my early test readers was to find out what happened to the dog at the end of the story.
Acknowledgements
First of all, there are people to thank who patiently provided technical information, particularly Ian Cottam and Lee Watkin for their self-defence expertise; Glynn Jones for his in-depth practical knowledge of body armour and ballistics; all the staff at the DFW Gun Club & Training Center in Dallas, Texas for letting me brush up my handgun skills; John Robinson at Safety Services Agency in Northern Ireland; Dr Andrew Parkes MB BS for invaluable inside information on gunshot wounds; Jonathan Lodge and Tim Winfield for the low-down on shotguns; former Magistrate Sue Pickles; and Peter Gilmore, for introducing me to the right people. I take full credit for any errors.
Once again, many people were kind enough to offer their opinions during the early stages, including everyone at the Lune Valley Writers’ Group. My grateful thanks for particularly critical reading go to Peter Doleman, Claire Duplock, Sarah Harrison, Clive Hopwood, Glynn Jones, Iris Rogers, Tim Winfield, and my copy editor, Sarah Abel.
Thank you, also, to Timothy Hallinan for generously allowing me to include an excerpt from LITTLE ELVISES as a bonus feature at the end of this novel; to ZACE-eBookConversion for immaculate conversion of the printed book to e-format; and to Jane Hudson for the stunning cover design.
But the biggest thank you of all belongs to my husband, Andy, who has suffered with me through every twist and turn.
if you’ve enjoyed RIOT ACT, why not try Zoë Sharp’s Other Works:
Buy the Books!
the Charlie Fox crime thrillers
KILLER INSTINCT
(RIOT ACT)
HARD KNOCKS
Excerpt from HARD KNOCKS
FIRST DROP
ROAD KILL
SECOND SHOT
THIRD STRIKE
FOURTH DAY
FIFTH VICTIM – out in e-format Spring 2012
Short stories – eBook exclusive
FOX FIVE: a Charlie Fox short story collection
A Bridge Too Far
Postcards From Another Country
Served Cold
Off Duty
Truth And Lies
KILLER INSTINCT
Charlie Fox book one
by Zoë Sharp
‘Susie Hollins may have been no great shakes as a karaoke singer, but I didn’t think that was enough reason for anyone to want to kill her.’
Charlie Fox makes a living teaching self-defence to women in a quiet northern English city. It makes best use of the deadly skills she picked up after being kicked out of army Special Forces training for reasons she prefers not to go into. So, when Susie Hollins is found dead hours after she foolishly takes on Charlie at the New Adelphi Club, Charlie knows it’s only a matter of time before the police come calling. What they don’t tell her is that Hollins is the latest victim of a homicidal rapist stalking the local area.
Charlie finds herself drawn closer to the crime when the New Adelphi’s enigmatic owner, Marc Quinn, offers her a job working security at the club. Viewed as an outsider by the existing all-male team, her suspicion that there’s a link between the club and a serial killer doesn’t exactly endear her to anyone. Charlie has always taught her students that it’s better to run than to stand and fight, But, when the killer starts taking a very personal interest, it’s clear he isn’t going to give her that option . . .
‘Charlie looks like a made-for-TV model, with her red hair and motorcycle leathers, but Sharp means business. The bloody bar fights are bloody brilliant, and Charlie’s skills are both formidable and for real.’ Marilyn Stasio, New York Times
‘Sharp deserves a genre all her own – if you are just discovering Zoë Sharp then you are in for a real treat.’ Jon Jordan, Crimespree Magazine
‘Charlotte (Charlie) Fox is one of the most vivid and engaging heroines ever to swagger onto the pages of a book. Where Charlie goes, thrills follow.’ Tess Gerritsen
HARD KNOCKS
Charlie Fox book three
by Zoë Sharp
'Perhaps if the army had known what was inside me, what I would eventually turn into, they might not have been so keen to let me go.'
Charlie really didn't care who shot dead her traitorous ex-army comrade Kirk Salter during a bodyguard training course in Germany. But when old flame Sean Meyer asks her to go undercover at Major Gilby's elite school and find out what happened to Kirk she just can't bring herself to refuse.
Keeping her nerve isn't easy when events bring back fears and memories she's worked so hard to forget. It's clear there are secrets at Einsbaden Manor that people are willing to kill to conceal. Some of the students on this particular course seem to have more on their minds than simply learning about close protection. Subjects like revenge, and murder. And what's the connection between the school and the recent spate of vicious kidnappings that have left a trail of bodies halfway across Europe?
To find out what's going on, Charlie must face up to her past and move quickly before she becomes the next casualty. She expected training to be tough, but can she graduate from this school of hard knocks alive?
'If you only know Charlie Fox from First Drop, Second Shot, and Third Strike, you don't know Charlie. What you've got in your hands is a rare and special treat. It’s like finding some lost Jack Reacher novel or a couple of non-alphabet Kinsey Millhones that nobody knew existed. Don't let anyone tear it from your hands without drawing their blood.
'These early Zoë Sharp books haven’t been a secret, but they've been harder-to-get than Charlie Fox in your bed. Think of these as the early years of Charlie Fox – she’s lethal and relentless, but still raw from the military experience that made her the kick-ass, take-no-prisoners bodyguard that she’s become.
'But there’s more going on in these books than breakneck action and adventure. Charlie has heart, maybe too much for a woman in her profession . . . and it’s that caring, that humanity, that makes her much more than a killer babe on a motorbike. These books are your chance to discover Charlie Fox as she discovers herself, her strengths and her weaknesses, and sustains the scars to her body and soul that make her such a unique and compelling character.' US crime author and TV producer, Lee Goldberg
HARD KNOCKS
Charlie Fox book three
excerpt
part of Chapter Two
. . . Outside Stuttgart airport, I snagged one of the line of Mercedes diesel taxis, and gave the driver the address of the bodyguard training school at Einsbaden. As he pulled out into traffic he radi
oed to his controller, in German, complaining about the distance he was having to travel outside town.
“If it’s too much trouble, mein herr,” I said, a little tartly, “then please tell me.”
I saw his eyes flick sharply to meet mine in the rear-view mirror. It was only then that I realised the old cupboard in my brain had fallen open. The one where I stored those years of school German lessons. I’d forgotten it was there, let alone what might be still inside.
It took just short of an hour to reach the little village of Einsbaden where the school was located. At normal speeds it probably would have taken two, but once we were out onto one of the main twin-lane roads my driver put his foot down. He cruised with the speedo needle quivering at a hundred and sixty-five kph. I did some mental juggling from klicks back into miles per hour and found we were doing a sliver over a hundred. Even at that speed he was constantly being flashed out of the way by other drivers.
Once we’d got away from the uniform industrial drabness of the city itself, the countryside was surprisingly pretty, even if I was holding on too hard most of the time to really appreciate the scenery.
He flashed through Einsbaden village itself hardly lowering his speed. The little I saw of the place was picture postcard stuff. A square with a fountain, a small café, a couple of shops, a bar. Then the houses thinned and we were back into thickly wooded countryside again.
A couple of klicks the other side of Einsbaden the driver finally slowed and swung the Merc between a pair of tall stone gateposts with poised griffins on the top of them. There was no signage, but the driver seemed confident over direction.
The driveway was narrow, pocked with water-filled ruts. It twisted out of sight into the forest that surrounded us. The driver proceeded with caution, and I let go of the centre armrest for probably the first time in the journey, edging forwards in my seat to peer out of the windscreen.
The afternoon was slipping away and the light level had started to drop fast. Under the thick, evergreen canopy it was downright gloomy. The driver switched on his headlights.
Just round the next bend there was a small security checkpoint, like some throwback to the Cold War. The lowered barrier across the road gave us no choice but to stop.
We braked to a halt alongside a hut that looked as though it had started out life as a large garden shed. A figure in camouflage gear emerged, carrying a clipboard. He and the driver spoke together too quickly for me to catch the words, and the driver grunted.
“He says this is far as I go,” he said to me. I paid the seemingly exorbitant fare without complaint, even though it bore no relation to the amount displayed on the meter. It was Sean’s money I was spending, after all.
I grabbed my kit bag and climbed out into a temperature that was cold to the point of hostile. The driver didn’t bother to wave goodbye as he performed a rough five-point turn, his headlights bright enough now to carve swathes and shadows through the trees.
The wood went back much further than the reach of the lights, shrouding the sound of the Merc’s engine and tyres so there were no echoes. It hinted at a scale that was monumental, like something alive and breathing. Something implacable in its patient pursuit, and without mercy.
“What’s your name?” the man asked. He was short and dark, with an aggressive Northern Ireland accent that made his words sound like an invitation to a fight. He had a long scar that ran from the lobe of his left ear across his cheek to his nostril, then curved down to his upper lip, so maybe someone else had felt the same. I gave him my details trying not to hold my breath.
Madeleine was something of a master hacker and there wasn’t much she couldn’t get out of – or add into – anyone’s computer records. She had managed to slip my name to the top of a standby list of people waiting to go on courses at Einsbaden Manor. Sean had called in favours to make sure there was a suitable dropout. Some unsuspecting would-be bodyguard from another agency would be waiting for the next intake before they could undergo their training.
The man ticked my name off without any apparent alarm bells ringing and I let my breath out slowly, like I was on false papers. He jerked his head towards the shed. “Wait in there.”
Inside, it was bright, clean, and surprisingly businesslike. A fan heater was going full blast, provoking heat and condensation in roughly equal measures. It was sitting precariously propped up on the narrow bench which was fixed along one wall.
There were two other people already in the shed, a man and a woman. My arrival made it cramped. The woman had taken the single folding canvas chair and she didn’t look set to relinquish her prize without a struggle.
I didn’t have to hear her speak to know she was German. Even sitting down she was tall and solid, with dark hair cut in a ruthless bob, and wearing glasses with thin rectangular frames. The man was lounging against the bench, youngish, much more casual, with wavy mid-brown hair brushing his collar. By the looks of her stiff discomfort, and the obvious amusement dancing behind his eyes, the man had been trying to hit on her.
“Ah,” he said as I came in, “another willing victim to the slaughter.” He was Irish too, but in contrast to the gatekeeper his voice had the soft flows and rhythms of Dublin running through it. “Will you not come in, darlin’, and make yourself at home?”
I shut the door, and set my canvas bag down next to the other cases. If this was all their luggage, everyone was travelling light.
“I’m Declan, by the way, Declan Lloyd,” the Irishman said, holding out his hand for me to shake.
“Elsa Schmitt.” The woman’s grip was firmer than his. Behind lenses which had a faint pink tint to them, her eyes had that watchful quality. It set up a warning jangle somewhere in my subconscious.
“I’m Charlie Fox,” I said, perching on the edge of the bench and hoping it was up to the weight of two of us. “How long have you been waiting?”
Declan shrugged. “Not so long. They don’t seem to know quite what to do with us.”
I was about to ask more, but the door opened and the scarred man with the clipboard stuck his head inside.
“OK,” he said. “They want the three of you to head on up to the house now.”
We picked up our bags and stepped back out into the rapidly encroaching darkness. After the stuffily overheated shed, the cold was dazzling.
Declan shivered, looking round. “So where’s the transport?”
“There isn’t any,” the man said, with a certain amount of relish. He waved a hand along the barely discernible track towards some hidden point in the distance. “It’s only a kilometre or so. You walk.”
The three of us looked in the direction he’d pointed. The sky had darkened through indigo towards an inky darkness, but above the jagged black outline of the treetops, a waxing moon had risen.
“Oh you have to be feckin’ kidding me,” Declan muttered.
Elsa squared her jaw. “If you want to stay, stay,” she told him, dismissive, “but I am going. Charlie?”
I hoisted my bag higher onto my shoulder. “I’m with you,” I said with a smile.
Declan groaned. “Ah well, I suppose I can’t let you two ladies venture out alone on a night like this.”
Elsa threw him a withering glance and set off at a determined pace. I fell into step alongside her. Within a couple of strides, Declan had caught us up.
He immediately started up the conversation, as though he was using the sound of voices to keep at bay whatever might be lurking in the trees. He asked where we were from, and I learned that Elsa was born in Bochum, and had lived most of her life there. Declan’s family owned land outside Wicklow.
“Before you arrived we were swapping our life stories,” he said to me then, grinning suddenly in the silvery light. “So, Charlie, what do you do in the outside world that bores you so much you want to be a bullet catcher?”
I returned his grin. It was difficult not to. “I work in a gym,” I said. Supervising weight training programmes was something I’d only begun in the l
ast year. It kept me occupied and fit, although lately I’d found the monotony suffocating. Sean had warned me against telling anyone about my army background, or the women’s self-defence teaching I’d done after that.
“Keep it simple, but keep it light,” Sean had said. “Invent as little as possible, just leave a lot out. They’ll be watching the best and the worst more closely than the middle ground. You’re just going to have to hold back a little, and keep to the centre of the pack.”
“What if they check up on me?” I’d fretted.
“Don’t worry,” he’d said. “Madeleine will make sure they only find out what we want them to.”
“So what’s your story, Declan?” I asked now.
“Oh, my old man is in this business – works out in the States wet-nursing rock stars. He wanted me to join up first. You know, see the world, meet lots of interesting people, and kill them.” He laughed. “I thought I’d miss out the rough-arsed bit where you have to spend four years cleaning out lavatories with your toothbrush, and go straight to baby-sitting the Hollywood babes.”
