In the street, now littered with bodies of the dead and dying, a full-on firefight raged. Connor heard the screech of tyres as another guest’s vehicle pulled away, then veered off the road and crashed into a lamp post. With the street turning into a war zone, Connor had to evacuate his Principal at all costs. He peeked over the bonnet of the car they were hiding behind and spotted Eduardo’s driver cowering below the SUV’s dashboard. The driver couldn’t see them but at least he hadn’t fled the scene … not yet, anyway.
As Connor calculated their chances of reaching the SUV alive, Eduardo cried out, ‘Cuidado, Connor!’
Connor spun round to see a masked man sneaking up behind them, a Glock 17 pistol aimed at them. Grabbing the piñata-buster in his back pocket, Connor struck out with lightning speed at the man’s outstretched hand. There was a sharp crack as a wrist bone broke. The man grunted in pain and dropped the gun. Then Connor whipped the stick hard under the attacker’s chin, snapping his head back. A final blow to his knee crippled the assailant and he collapsed to the pavement, barely conscious.
Eduardo stared wide-eyed and awestruck at Connor’s lethal martial arts skills.
‘Move!’ Connor commanded, pulling Eduardo to his feet. ‘To the SUV.’
Gunfire roared around them as they sprinted towards their vehicle. Connor did his best to shield Eduardo from the shots with his own body. He felt a round clip his shoulder, but the bulletproof fabric of his jacket absorbed the worst of the impact. The driver, spotting their approach in his rear-view mirror, unlocked the vehicle. Bullets pinged off the armoured panels. Eduardo cried out and stumbled but Connor kept him on his feet. Wrenching the tailgate open, he bundled Eduardo into the back, leapt on top of him and slammed the tailgate shut. The thud of multiple rounds hammered the metalwork like hail.
‘VAMOS!’ Connor screamed in Spanish.
The driver hit the gas and the SUV roared away. But another van appeared, blocking their escape. Executing a handbrake turn, the driver now drove straight at the two remaining gunmen. The attackers dived for cover as the SUV rammed the corner of the first van at speed, sending it spinning aside with a bone-shuddering crunch. Having forced its way out of the kill zone, the SUV weaved between the traffic, the reinforced rear window ringing with the impact of more high-velocity rounds. Then their vehicle turned a corner and they left the ambush behind.
Clear of danger, Connor lifted himself off Eduardo. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
But Eduardo didn’t respond. His face was pale and his breathing rapid and rasping. At first Connor thought it was just shock, but then he noticed the spreading pool of blood on the boy’s shirt.
‘Please, no!’ Connor gasped. Leaping over the back seat, he grabbed the medical kit from the footwell. Finding a sterile dressing and applying pressure to Eduardo’s chest wound, he ordered the driver, ‘Al hospital. Ahora!’
Connor stood at the kerb of the pick-up zone at London Heathrow Airport Terminal 5. But no car came to collect him. His suitcase dumped at his feet like a bodybag, he waited a full half-hour, hoping it was simply traffic holding up his ride. But as he watched the other passengers being whisked away in limos, picked up by family and friends, and numerous taxis come and go, he realized that the traffic wasn’t the problem.
He tried calling Buddyguard HQ but got no response. He guessed Alpha team must be occupied sorting out the mess in Mexico – not surprising really. He’d failed in his assignment.
His Principal was dead.
Despite the driver having gone flat out, they’d reached the hospital too late. And, even though Connor had done his best to stem the bleeding, Eduardo had died from massive internal haemorrhaging. The post-mortem report concluded that a bullet had struck Eduardo in the upper chest, passing through his left lung before ripping through a main artery.
In the aftermath of the attack, Connor had sent Alpha team a short report, too devastated to do much more than provide the bare facts. Eduardo’s father, beside himself with grief and rage, had dismissed Connor on the spot. Connor hadn’t argued. Numb and shell-shocked, he’d simply gone back to the politician’s residence, showered the boy’s blood off himself, packed his bags, then taken the first available flight back to the UK.
The fact that HQ hadn’t sent a car to collect him clearly meant that he was in disgrace.
Not sure what to do next, Connor took a taxi to Paddington Station. On the journey there he contemplated heading straight home to his mum and gran in East London. But how would he explain his unexpected return? Too many questions would be asked. And he didn’t have the answers. His mum still had no idea that he worked as a covert young bodyguard, protecting the sons and daughters of the rich, famous and powerful. She thought he attended a private school on a sports scholarship programme – and that the bruises, knocks and scrapes he came home with at the end of each term were the result of energetic rugby games, mountain bike accidents and martial arts tournaments.
His gran knew the truth, though. Despite her age and frailty, her mind remained sharp as a tack and she’d seen straight through the ‘scholarship’ smokescreen. Connor had confided in her about the true nature of the so-called school in Wales that was headed by the formidable Colonel Black. And, although she disapproved, his gran begrudgingly understood the necessity of the job. The Buddyguard organization funded the medical support for his ailing mother, including the provision of a live-in carer – without which his mother would likely have to go into a nursing home, his gran into a care home and Connor into fostering. Those weren’t desirable options for any of them. And, without his father around, Connor felt responsible for keeping the family together.
So he couldn’t go home – not yet.
Boarding a fast train to Cardiff Central, Connor took a seat in a half-empty carriage and stowed his Go-bag in the luggage rack overhead. He’d picked up a sandwich for the journey but now found he had no appetite. Slumping in the threadbare seat, he stared blankly at the passing view instead, a blur of grey towns and industrial estates eventually giving way to green fields and rolling hills.
Entering a tunnel, his world was suddenly plunged into darkness and Connor briefly saw a red flash of gunfire. A distant cry of pain echoed in his ears … and Eduardo’s face, pale and lifeless, swam before his eyes.
Connor shuddered at the ghostly vision in the window. A second later a train shot past and jolted him back to reality, daylight burning bright as they exited the tunnel. Connor pressed the palms of both hands to his eyes and took a long, slow breath. He knew he was burnt out. It had been one mission too many. And he’d made a mistake – a fatal error of judgement that had resulted in the loss of a boy’s life.
Why didn’t I warn the other two bodyguards of my suspicions about the pollution mask? Should I have tried getting back to the compound instead of making a dash to the SUV? What if I’d picked up the dropped gun and shot back? Or just stayed behind the cover of the car and waited for reinforcements? Would Eduardo still be alive? Would he have even been shot? What if I’d …?
Connor felt the hot sting of tears and the view outside the window became even more blurred. So many what ifs. Every time he thought of Eduardo a surge of anger, sadness and guilt overwhelmed him – anger at the gunmen who’d launched the attack, mixed with sadness at the boy’s tragic death. And guilt at the fact he’d failed in his duty to protect his Principal.
Wiping away the tears with his sleeve, Connor knew in his heart that it was time to quit – to leave Buddyguard for good and put his days as a ‘hidden shield’ behind him. Somehow he’d have to find another way to pay for his mother’s care …
But his father, a decorated SAS soldier, had never quit. Had he ever even failed a mission in his life? If so, how had he coped with the crushing guilt? But Connor could never imagine his father failing at anything. Even when he was shot and mortally wounded in Iraq, his father had still managed to get his Principal to safety. On that fateful mission the Principal had been none other than the US Ambassador Antonio Mende
z, a man who ultimately became President of the United States. What would Eduardo have become if he’d survived the attack? Now no one would ever know …
Connor blinked away yet more shameful tears. How he wished he could be with Charley at this very moment, wrapped in her arms, and forget all about Mexico and Eduardo, and the bullet that had ripped through his Principal’s chest. Thinking of his girlfriend put his own situation into perspective. Unlike Charley, who had lost the use of her legs, he was alive and – apart from a painful bruise on the shoulder – uninjured. So he was the lucky one.
But what would Charley think of him now? What would the others in Alpha team think of him? Ling, Jason, Richie, Marc and Amir – they all depended upon one another, trusted each other with their lives. Now they had good reason never to put their faith in his bodyguard skills again.
Connor rested his head against the carriage window and felt the thrum of the wheels on the track. Jet lag finally catching up with him, he closed his eyes …
When he next opened his eyes, the train was pulling into their final destination – Cardiff Central.
Retrieving his Go-bag and suitcase, Connor wearily made his way to the empty passenger collection point. He’d sent Alpha team a message informing them of his travel plans and arrival time at the station. But still no one had turned up to meet him. Colonel Black must be really furious. Connor may have decided to quit Buddyguard, but it appeared Buddyguard had already quit him!
Getting money from a cash machine, Connor hailed a taxi and gave the driver directions. The driver, a large man with grey stubble, hangdog eyes and a belly that threatened to consume the steering wheel, shot him an incredulous look. ‘That’s in the Brecon Beacons, in the middle of nowhere!’
‘I know,’ said Connor, putting his suitcase in the boot and clambering into the back seat with his Go-bag.
The driver whistled. ‘It’ll cost you an arm and a leg. Sure you don’t want to take a bus?’
Connor shook his head. ‘The school’s a long walk from any bus stop.’
‘All right, boyo,’ said the driver with a shrug.
An hour later they were wending their way between stone-walled fields of green and hills dotted with sheep.
‘Are you sure this is the right way?’ asked the driver as the road narrowed and entered a hidden valley. ‘Doesn’t look like there’s anything down here.’
Connor nodded. ‘It’s a private school.’
‘Must be very private.’
As they were nearing the brow of a hill, a cattle truck came speeding over the rise and blasted its horn. Cursing, the driver swerved sharply into a thorn hedge, narrowly missing a head-on collision.
‘Bloody farmers!’ said the driver, as the cattle truck thundered on. ‘Think they own the roads round here.’
His heart still in his mouth, Connor could only nod in agreement as a delivery van followed in the truck’s wake.
‘Bloomin’ rush hour, by the looks of it!’ snorted the driver before continuing down the lane, far more cautiously this time. A few minutes later a pair of wrought-iron gates came into view.
‘You can drop me off just here,’ said Connor.
The driver frowned. There was no building in sight. Just a long gravel drive with open fields on either side. ‘Don’t you want me to take you to the door?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Connor, handing over several crisp notes. It was still a fair walk to the old school, but he didn’t want the driver to see the training facilities. ‘Keep the change.’
Watching the taxi go, Connor stood before the gates. Perched atop the arch like a bird of prey, a winged shield glinted in the morning sunlight. It appeared to be an ancient coat of arms but was in fact the emblem for the Buddyguard organization. Connor remembered the first time he’d passed through these gates, driven by his close-protection instructor, Jody. He’d been nervous, excited and unsure what his future held. Now that he knew, he wished he’d never set foot inside the grounds.
Surprisingly, the gates were open. They were clearly expecting him. But what sort of welcome will I get?
With his suitcase weighing as heavily as his conscience, Connor set off down the driveway. He passed the hidden CCTV camera that would have observed his arrival and crossed one of the many concealed perimeter alarms encircling the estate. Then, as he crested a rise, the familiar old castle-like building of Buddyguard HQ came into sight. Familiar … except for the ominous spiral of smoke rising from its roof and the body lying in the centre of the gravel forecourt.
Connor dropped his suitcase and ran towards the smoking building. What the hell had happened? Who was the casualty? He couldn’t tell at this distance. Was it a client? One of the instructors? A recruit? Or … an intruder?
Connor stopped dead as sense took over from reflex, his initial shock hardening into professional instinct. Rushing into a situation without thinking was the equivalent of jumping out of a plane without a parachute. He could just as easily become a casualty himself before he had a chance to help anyone. First, he had to ACE the incident.
Assess the threat.
Counter the danger.
Then, in this instance, rather than Escape the kill zone … Enter it!
Taking a moment to sweep his eyes over the terrain, Connor searched for threats in the grounds and surrounding fields. At this stage he didn’t know for certain what the actual danger might be. The casualty could simply have tripped down the entrance steps while escaping the building; or been overcome with smoke inhalation; or even suffered a heart attack. The smoke indicated there was a fire in one section of the school building. But Connor had to assume the worst-case scenario: an attack or a bomb had caused the fire.
His gaze scanned the small lake, football pitch, summer house and old well in the gardens, spotting no one at all. That was unusual in itself – unless everyone was gathered at the evacuation point on the tennis courts on the far side of the building. A dense patch of woodland to the north and low stone walls bordering the estate provided potential cover to any hostiles. Yet Connor couldn’t see any apparent threats.
That wasn’t entirely surprising. Apart from clients – whose self-interest ensured their confidentiality – and the select few in the know, Buddyguard was a well-kept secret. So the idea of an assault on its covert headquarters was highly unlikely.
Still, after Mexico, he wasn’t taking any chances. Crouching low, Connor followed the line of the drystone walls to make himself less of a target and to avoid spooking the sheep in the nearby fields. As he scurried along, he was acutely aware that this wasn’t the most direct route, but it paid to be paranoid in his line of work.
Darting diagonally across the football pitch, Connor approached the main building from the east. With the sunlight behind him, he had the advantage of clear sight, while any hostile would be looking straight into the sun. Reaching the corner of the building, he peered round it. The body still lay face down in the forecourt.
Up close, Connor could now see who the casualty was and felt his stomach lurch. He instantly recognized the shaved dark head of his combat instructor, Steve Nash. An ex-British Special Forces soldier with a physique that outgunned the movie star Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson, he was the toughest member on the staff. If someone had managed to take him down, then –
Connor started laughing to himself. How stupid could he be! This was simply a training exercise, like one of the dozen or more he’d participated in during his own close-protection course. Whenever possible, Colonel Black insisted on authenticity to ensure his recruits were ready for real-world encounters. His combat instructor was simply play-acting the role of a casualty.
‘Steve!’ called Connor, stepping out of hiding.
No response.
‘Steve! It’s me, Connor. Is this a training exercise?’
Still no response. Connor began to feel uneasy again. If his instructor was play-acting, then he was doing a convincing job. With a final check round, Connor hurried over to him. As soon as he laid a hand on
his instructor’s muscled forearm, he knew something was deeply wrong. Steve’s skin was cold to the touch. Two fingers to his neck confirmed he had no pulse. With great effort, Connor managed to roll him on to his back. Connor gasped at the sight. Blood stained the gravel a dark inky red and there were several small yet distinct holes in his instructor’s broad chest.
Shock numbing his grief, Connor stared a full minute at his dead mentor before snapping back to high alert. His eyes darted around for the shooter. He noticed the gravel in the forecourt was churned up all around him, indicating a number of large vehicles had arrived and left at high speed.
But that didn’t mean the place was clear of hostiles.
Unable to do anything for Steve, Connor rushed over to the school entrance and took cover. No wonder he hadn’t received any response to his calls and no one had come to pick him up. Buddyguard had been under attack.
Aware that the surviving instructors and recruits might still be fending off the intruders, Connor took out his XT tactical torch from his Go-bag and, with a flick of the wrist, extended the hidden baton. More effective than a piñata-buster, this self-defence weapon could knock an assailant out with one strike. Switching his Go-bag to the front and tightening the shoulder straps, Connor prayed he wouldn’t need the protection of its bulletproof inner panel … or, for that matter, the trauma kit stored in its side pocket.
Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Connor stole up the steps and into the school’s entrance hall. On first glance everything appeared normal. Still, a deathly quiet hung in the air. Then Connor noticed the oil painting above the fireplace was skewed at an odd angle. Bullet holes peppered the wood-panelled walls and blood was smeared across the polished parquet flooring. There’d been splatters on the steps too. Steve had evidently put up a fierce fight.
Bodyguard_Fugitive Page 2
