by Sam O'Brien
The man went limp, blood leaked onto the floor. Pistol in one hand, Andrew pulled the knife out of Jess and cut her restraints. She ripped the tape from her mouth. They stared at each other. Breathless.
Andrew heard a movement behind him.
“Stand up and turn around, Dixon,” said Charles, slowly entering the room.
Andrew froze. He dropped the pistol in Jess’ lap. She tucked it under her jacket.
“You heard him, Dixon,” said Rupert, closing the door.
Andrew got to his feet and turned, the bloody knife in his hand. Rupert aimed his weapon at Andrew, a two-handed grip. “Charlie, if you’d told me this morning that your little dog would be the end of Goran, I’d have laughed.”
“So would I, old chap.” Charles edged over to the window and looked out. “Drop the knife and pull that chair over here, Dixon.”
The knife fell onto Goran’s body. Andrew sidled over with the chair, flicking his eyes between Charles and Rupert. His heart was pounding. Rupert trained his gun on Jess. Charles aimed at Andrew.
“Good. Put it by the window,” said Charles.
Andrew set the chair down.
“Now get on it and jump out. Or I’ll be forced to shoot you in the head.”
“Don’t you dare, Buckham,” roared Jess. “You’re not going to do us like you did Fellowes and the Turk.”
“Shut up, bitch,” spat Rupert.
“Catherine Fellowes?” said Charles in a calm voice, keeping his eyes on Andrew. “Huh! She wanted to take away my income. And this from a billionaire, whose family pay no tax anywhere. Ha! No wonder George was lost without her; the money was all hers! As for Yildiz? He was just a man who tried to back out of a fifteen million pound deal. Needs must, Dixon. Needs must. After the accident, his replacement was happy to go ahead; he even told me the deal would honour Okan’s memory!”
Andrew threw his hand around the room. “You don’t seriously think killing us will clear this mess up, do you?” he said. “Your man is dead.” He pointed at Goran’s body. “The police are going to figure it out. You’ll go to jail this time.” He shot a glance at Rupert. “You too, arsehole.”
Charles curled his lips into a crooked smile. “I used to enjoy your naivety, Dixon. It made you easier to brainwash. Now I just find it fucking boring.” He stood and thrust the gun into Andrew’s stomach. “Nobody’ll figure out anything except what we want figured out. Understand?”
Andrew shook his head mockingly. “You’re on another planet.”
“You know what Napoleon used to say, Dixon?” Charles leaned closer. Andrew could smell wine on his breath.
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“History is a set of lies agreed upon. And let’s face it, he should’ve known,” he chuckled. “Nobody wants to hear the truth if it’s ugly. They prefer simple, convenient lies. So, when we tell them that–”
“Oh, shut the fuck up, you vain prick,” Jess snapped. “I’m sick of your bullshit.”
Charles shot a look at Jess. “Pretty face, filthy mouth.”
Andrew seized his chance. In one fluid movement, he grabbed the pistol, forced it to the ground and smashed his forehead into Charles’ temple. Charles squawked. The gun went off. Andrew screamed. Glass shattered.
Rupert, surprised, took his eyes off Jess. Big mistake. She brought up her pistol and emptied the magazine into his chest. Below, people in the stand started screaming.
Andrew, seeing stars and regretting his headbutt, tried to wrench the gun from Charles, but the pain in his leg was intense. The two men fell to the floor, grappling, struggling.
Jess tried to stand, but her leg gave way, blood seeping into her trousers.
Charles rolled over, taking the upper hand. He pinned Andrew underneath him and started pummelling his head. Pain ripped through Andrew. He was losing clarity. He couldn’t even block the blows.
Suddenly, Charles stopped, a confused look contorted his features. He stood, twisting, grabbing at his back. His fingers found the knife, buried to the hilt between his ribs. Jess stood behind him, triumphant.
“You fucking bitch!” he said, yanking it out.
“Go to hell,” she roared, half-falling, half-pushing him.
He staggered, lost his footing, and disappeared over the edge.
Jess collapsed beside Andrew. He was barely conscious.
Out on the stand, she could hear frantic screams. She fumbled for her disposable.
Epilogue
Friday, June 22nd
Jess hauled herself out of bed and clicked out to the kitchen on her crutches. Her father was making breakfast. “You look much better. Eggs?” he said.
“Yes please, Dad.” She eased herself into a chair and checked the time. “I was out for fourteen hours.”
“Mmm. You should, er, read the paper,” he said.
She picked up the broadsheet and read the headline: ROYAL TERROR AT ASCOT. She rolled her eyes and read on.
On the Royal Meeting’s opening day, a lone gunman gained access to Ascot racecourse with plans to assassinate a member of the Royal family. The man, identified as Serbian immigrant Goran Vlasic, posed as a journalist. Vlasic, who had radical tendencies, was fired from his position at Slipstream International several months ago when he refused psychiatric counselling and was deemed unfit to carry out his duties. Police are not ruling out links to Al-Qaeda.
Vlasic died from injuries sustained during the desperate skirmish to subdue him. Tragically, two other men were also killed. The casualties were Slipstream International CEO Rupert Calcott and the Hon. Charles Buckham, a stud farm owner and former soldier who served in Iraq in 1991. Both were enjoying a day at the races when they found themselves dragged into the tragic events. Detective Sergeant Jessica Flint, who apprehended Vlasic, was also injured.
Paying tribute to Mr. Calcott, the Prime Minister said that his tragic death “was proof of Rupert’s heroism and devotion to his country”. Both Calcott and Buckham are to receive posthumous honours for bravery in defence of the Monarch. Detective Flint will also be honoured.
In an official statement, Slipstream International expressed shock at the awful turn of events and said that although Mr. Vlasic was unstable, their assessors and observers had no reason to believe he would carry out such an attack.
Following the death of its founder and CEO, Slipstream International will merge with Minotaur Securities.
In a separate statement, Minotaur indicated that a thorough assessment of all personnel would be carried out, in an effort to ensure such a tragedy could never happen again.
Tuesday’s racing was cancelled, but the rest of the week is proceeding as planned. The Queen did not alter her schedule and is in attendance, as normal, for the remainder of the meeting.
The Ascot Authority has promised an immediate and full review of their security measures.
Her mouth hung open. She chucked the paper on the floor in disgust. “What a load of crap. A fucking award for Buckham?”
Her father shrugged despondently. “Whatcha gonna do? You got your man. Relax, go with it.”
She tucked into her breakfast, lost in thought. “Take me to the station after this?” she asked, between bites.
As she clicked through the office, she was met with cheers and whoops. She barged past them without stopping or cracking a smile, and made for DCI Barlow’s office.
He stood and extended a hand. “Well done, Flint.”
She produced the newspaper and threw it on his desk. “Have you read this fucking bullshit?”
Barlow’s face darkened. “Ditch the attitude, Flint. You’ve got two months’ paid medical leave and you’ll probably get an OBE.”
God, she wanted to punch the spineless little shit.
“And strangely enough,” he continued, “we got a match to the prints on that bag of pills found in your boyfriend’s car.”
“Let me guess: Goran Vlasic.”
“Got it in one, Flint. So, don’t worry. Your boyfriend’
ll no doubt avoid jail. If he has a decent lawyer. Oh, and if you keep your gob shut and your head down, it wouldn’t surprise me if you made Inspector when you return.” He arched his brow expectantly.
“If I return,” she said, heading for the open door. As she left, the only sound was her crutches on the tiles.
She went straight to the hospital to see Andrew. He was sitting up in bed with a bandaged leg, looking thin and bruised, but he lit up when she hobbled into view.
“We’re some pair,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek.
“Scan was clear this morning, but they’re chaining me to the bed for a few days’ observation.”
“D’you see all that rubbish in the papers?”
“Yeah.”
“Guys like them always get away with it.”
Andrew half-smiled. “Not scot free, though. They are dead.”
They both burst out laughing.
“What’re you going to do for work, now your boss is gone?”
“Funny you should say that. Jamie Royston came to see me this morning. He was in great form. He brought Charles with him – in an urn! You know, you did him some favour chucking his brother off the ledge.”
Jess shrugged and cut him a lopsided smile.
“He’s selling the house and gardens, wants me to stay on and run the stud for him.” He sighed. “I told him I couldn’t stomach it.”
“Attaboy,” she grinned. “You’ll find something else.”
“I suppose. Except my lawyer came to see me yesterday. Looks like I’ll still have to face charges.”
She smiled. “Well, maybe not. My DCI just told me the prints on the bag of pills matched to Goran.”
“You mean they printed a dead man?”
“Of course. Standard practice these days.”
Andrew smiled. “I’ll call my lawyer.”
Jess winked. “I’ll handle that, Andrew. I’ll call Thetford station, too. It’ll be very satisfying!”
Andrew smiled. His heart started thumping. “Um,” he began, looking nervous. “Hey Jess, when I’m out of here, do you fancy going out for dinner?”
“Come to my place and we’ll share a pizza,” she said coyly.
“No, Jess, I mean a restaurant. Somewhere nice.” He looked deep in her eyes. “A date.”
She beamed. He kissed her.
“Where d’you have in mind?” she said.
“Anywhere but The Scimitar!”
Downing Street. A week later
The Prime Minister closed the file, drummed his fingers on the desk, and picked up the phone. “Send him in please, Miranda.”
The door opened and Piers entered. “Morning, Eddie, old chap,” he said, with a nervous smile.
“Sit down. And knock off the ‘old chap’ shit. Those days are over.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“I called you here because I’m counting on you to honour the conditions laid out in the sale of the Tote,” he said arching his brow.
“Oh, er, um, well–”
Eddie cut him off. “You’ll assume chairmanship and announce an injection of forty million into prize money for the next three seasons and you will not make anyone redundant.”
Piers nearly choked. “There simply isn’t the cash for that.”
Eddie shot him a hard stare. “Find it. Call it a personal donation. You could sell your shares in Slipstream after it merges with Minotaur. Or you could just write a cheque,” he shrugged. “I don’t really care where the money comes from, but you’ll do it if you want to keep your nose clean. Anyway, Minotaur have said they’ll keep renting your land as a base, so you’ll make the money back sooner or later.”
Piers opened his mouth as if to complain, then exhaled, nodded and said, “Yes, Prime Minister.”
“What? Not a thank you? You should be grateful I’ve thrown you a bone.”
“Oh, I am, Eddie. I am.”
Eddie stood and went to the sofa. He sat and patted the cushion beside him. Piers reluctantly moved.
Eddie leaned close and whispered. “How bloody dare you abuse our friendship and jeopardise Sino-British relations with your little stunt. And if you ever think of taking revenge on Jacko Dixon’s son or that copper, I’ll ruin you. You’ll go to jail and your family’ll never live it down.” He slapped Piers on the knee. “What about that, old chap?”
Piers nodded, coughing.
“Oh, and one more thing. When they examined Vlasic’s body, they took his prints. You’ll never guess where they threw up a match.” He cocked his brow at Piers.
Piers’ jaw hung open. There was panic in his eyes.
“On the bag of ecstasy pills found in Andrew Dixon’s car. How on earth could that have happened, old chap?”
Piers spluttered.
“His lawyer is delighted, but if Dixon has to appear in court, this whole fucking mess could come out.”
Piers’ throat was dry.
“I’ll have to make sure the charges are dropped. That’s another one you’ll owe me.”
Piers nodded slowly, his features pale.
“That’ll be all for now,” said Eddie.
Piers staggered to the door.
Beijing - A month later
Guo and Ling stood at the window of the tall building watching the sun set over the capital.
“I heard that your friends died that day at Ascot races,” said Guo. “Apparently, they stopped a terrorist from assassinating the Queen.” He shot a quick glance at Ling. “I am very glad I was not sharing her carriage that day. I might have become what they call ‘collateral damage’.”
Ling kept his eyes on the orange orb as it sank behind the horizon. “I heard about that also. It is very sad. But, personally, I am just glad you returned safely.”
Guo pursed his lips. A long pause ensued. Eventually, he checked his watch. “I won’t be able to stay for dinner. I have something else to attend to,” he said.
Ling nodded slowly.
“Oh, and I think it would be prudent for you make sure all your affairs are in order. I am authorising an oversight committee to investigate corruption in the whole party. They will look into every nook and cranny. I would hate for them to find anything to hold against you, Comrade Ling.”
Ling nodded, flashing his toothy grin. He hesitated a beat too long. “They are welcome to audit my affairs at any time.”
“Good,” said Guo, already making for the elevator.
Ling remained at the window. He sighed. Another decade of waiting.
He wondered what happened to the video of him and Jamie, he could rest easier if he had the original. Maybe he should send someone to find it. Discreetly, of course.
* * *
When she saw the front page, Jess bought the Racing Post for the first time.
DIXON TO TRAIN FOR MARWAN AL WAHAL, read the headline. In a surprise move which stunned the racing world, former point-to-point trainer Andrew Dixon – son of disgraced banker Jacko – has been signed to become a private trainer to the Qatari Sheik next season. “Andrew is an exceptional horseman,” said Thierry Lefleur, racing manager to Sheik Marwan. “We are delighted to have him on the team. His dedication to his charges is reflected by his insistence that he will train no more than fifty horses at a time.”
She grinned. This time, they were reporting the truth.
ABOUT SAM O'BRIEN
Sam O'Brien was born in England in 1973 to a racehorse trainer father and a mother who studied speech and drama at the Royal Academy in London. He moved to his mother’s native Limerick in Ireland at the age of nine and grew up riding, pony clubbing, fox-hunting, and working for local racehorse trainers and stud farms.
After school and a brief stint in the British army, he returned to England to start full-time work with racehorses. He spent the ‘90s travelling the world working with horses and in the bloodstock industry. From England, he moved back to Ireland then down to the Hunter Valley in Australia where he worked on a large stud farm and travelled and spent tim
e on a cattle farm, breaking-in wild horses.
From Australia it was on to Kentucky the home of American horse racing and breeding, where he began working for the US arm of Ireland’s renowned Coolmore Stud. He spent the next ten years working at Coolmore and was put in charge of their China/Mongolia project, spending six months creating a stud on the plains of Inner Mongolia and a year training racehorses on the outskirts of Beijing.
He was seconded to the Turkish Jockey Club for a year to upgrade and run the Turkish National Stud, before returning full-time to Ireland in 2001, as an area manager at Coolmore’s Tipperary headquarters.
In 2006 he went back to Turkey to build and manage a racing/breeding operation on the Aegean coast working with a local businessman who wanted an international standard manager/advisor.
He is married to a Frenchwoman, and they have one son aged five. He currently divides his time between the stud farm near Izmir and southern France. He writes analytical articles and horseracing and sale reviews for The Irish Field newspaper and James Underwood’s Racing and Breeding Digest in the UK.
OTHER BOOKS BY SAM O'BRIEN
A SURE THING
Irish stud farm manager and bloodstock expert, Oliver McMahon, is tired of his life, and a boss who neither rewards, satisfies, or recognises his abilities. He turns to his very wealthy brother, Richard, for help in setting up his own venture, only to be rejected and, in the process, discovers a family secret.
On the brink of despair, Oliver remembers and calls in a favour owed to him by a man who has risen to become one of America’s most powerful mafioso. Oliver gets back on track with a rich client, a large budget, top class horses, and an old flame rekindled.
As the Thoroughbreds start winning, Oliver reconnects with his college sweetheart and all his dreams are being realized. Soon, he’s pulled into a tangled web of narcotics, murder, deceit, and sinister threats.
When Richard is murdered, Oliver has to face the awful truth that a decade-old act started the chain of events which led to his brother’s killing.
