Hostage (Bodyguard #1)(3)
‘Now you die, infidel!’ snarled the rebel.
‘You can murder me, but you won’t murder hope,’ said the ambassador, staring defiantly back at the insurgent.
By all rights, the bodyguard should have been killed instantly, but his bulletproof vest had protected him from the worst of the assault. Barely conscious, only his deeply ingrained training allowed him to react. He’d lost hold of his MP5, but pulling a SIG Sauer P228 from his hip, he shot the rebel at point-blank range.
Before the man had even hit the ground, the bodyguard was struggling to his feet. His limbs felt as heavy as lead and there was a worrying coppery taste in his mouth.
‘You’re alive!’ exclaimed the ambassador, rushing to his aid.
Staggering over to the Mercedes, the bodyguard yanked the door open. The driver had already fled for his life, leaving the keys in the ignition.
‘Get in and stay low,’ he instructed the ambassador, gasping for breath.
Fumbling with the keys, he begged the car to start first time as the back window imploded from a strafing of bullets. The engine kicked into life, the bodyguard slammed his foot on the accelerator and they shot out on to Route Irish. A hail of gunfire rained down on them from the bridge above. Weaving to avoid it, the bodyguard powered down the road, swerving round potholes, until the thunder of battle receded into the distance.
‘You’re seriously hurt!’ said the ambassador, noticing the driver’s seat was dripping with blood.
The bodyguard barely acknowledged him as he focused the last of his strength on carrying out his duty. Approaching the blast-walled safety of the Green Zone’s first checkpoint, he slowed the Mercedes. The sentries would have no idea he was carrying the ambassador and would more than likely shoot first. Stopping short of the barrier, he got out of the car with the ambassador and walked the final stretch.
Still scanning for threats, the bodyguard stumbled, blood now soaking through his combats.
‘We must get you to a hospital,’ the ambassador insisted, taking his arm.
The bodyguard looked absently down at himself. Only now with the adrenalin fading did the pain register. ‘Too late for that,’ he grimaced.
United Nations soldiers rushed out, surrounding them in a protective cordon.
‘You’re safe now, sir,’ said the bodyguard as he collapsed at the ambassador’s feet, a small bloodstained key fob clutched in his hand.
Six years later …
The fist caught Connor by surprise. A rocketing right hook that jarred his jaw. Stars burst before his eyes and he stumbled backwards. Only instinct saved him from getting floored by the left cross that followed. Blocking the punch with his forearm, Connor countered with a kick to the ribs. But he was too dazed to deliver any real power.
His attacker, a fifteen-year-old boy with knotted black hair and a body that seemed to have been chiselled from stone, deflected the strike and charged at him in a thunderous rage. Connor shielded his head as a barrage of blows rained down on him.
‘GO, JET! KNOCK ’IM OUT!’
The shouts of the crowd were a monstrous roar in Connor’s ears as Jet pummelled him. Connor ducked and weaved to escape the brutal onslaught. But he was boxed in.
Then the ding of the bell cut through the clamour and the referee stepped between them. Jet glared at Connor, his advantage lost.
Connor returned to his corner. Fourteen years old, he sported spiky brown hair, green-blue eyes and an athletic physique – the benefit of eight years’ martial arts training. Spitting out his gumshield, he gratefully accepted the water bottle Dan held out for him. His kickboxing instructor, bald-headed with narrow eyes and a flattened nose that had been broken one too many times, didn’t look happy.
‘You have to keep your guard up,’ Dan warned.
‘Jet’s so quick with his hands,’ gasped Connor between gulps of water.
‘But you’re quicker,’ Dan replied, his tone firm and unquestionable. ‘The championship title is yours for the taking. Unless you persist in offering up your chin like that.’
Connor nodded. Summoning up his last reserves of energy, he shook his arms and breathed deeply, trying to shift the stiffness from his burning muscles. After competing in six qualifying bouts, he was tired. But he’d trained hard for the Battle of Britain tournament and wasn’t going to fall at the last hurdle.
Dan wiped the sweat off Connor’s face with a towel. ‘See the guy in the second row?’
Connor glanced towards a man in his late forties with silver-grey hair trimmed into a severe crew cut. He sat among the cheering spectators, a tournament programme in one hand, his eyes discreetly studying Connor.
‘He’s a manager scouting for talent.’
All of a sudden Connor felt an additional pressure to succeed. This could be his chance at the international circuit, to compete for world titles and even earn sponsorship deals. Besides his own ambition, he was keenly aware that his family could do with the money.
The bell rang for the third and final round.
‘Now go win this fight!’ Dan urged, giving Connor an encouraging slap on the back.
Popping the gumshield into his mouth, Connor stood to face Jet – determined to win more than ever.
His opponent bobbed lightly on his toes, seemingly as fresh as in the first round. The crowd whooped and hollered as the two fighters squared up beneath the white-hot glare of the ring’s spotlights. They stared at one another, neither willing to show the slightest sign of weakness. As soon as their gloves touched, Jet launched straight into his attack – a blistering combination of jab, cross, jab, hook.