Hostage (Bodyguard #1)(91)
‘GUN!’ he barked into his mic.
A fraction of a second later, another agent spotted the threat. But the groundsman was already bringing his weapon round on Alicia. She was oblivious, her gaze directed towards her father. And so were the people in the crowd, who were entirely focused on the First Family. Only the Secret Service agents were paying the man any attention. As two agents rushed to tackle the assassin, Connor launched himself towards Alicia. Each step felt like he was running through thick mud, the distance between them stretching rather than closing.
Agents from the President’s Protective Detail were also moving in to secure President Mendez and his family.
Connor levelled with Alicia just as he heard two gunshots. He drove his hip into her and ‘the Shove’ knocked her sideways. He was about to follow and provide body cover, when the bullets hit him with the force of a battering ram.
Malik’s eyes flickered open and a grey windowless room swam into view. The harsh neon strip light on the ceiling hurt his one uncovered eye; the other was blessedly shaded by a bandage. Next to his bed was an ECG monitor, softly beeping at a regular pulse. An IV drip hung beside it, the tube attached to a cannula in his left arm. Malik felt maddeningly thirsty and his lungs whistled with every shallow breath he took. He tried to sit up, but it was as if a lead weight had been dropped on his chest. Glancing down, he saw that his torso was swathed in bandages, a patch of blood seeping through. Turning his head slowly, he became aware of a man in a white coat sitting at the end of his bed.
‘Who … are … you?’ wheezed Malik.
‘I have some questions,’ said the man.
‘Talk … to my lawyer.’
The man ignored his suggestion and took out a mobile computer from his pocket.
‘You were paid ten million dollars in advance for kidnapping the President’s daughter.’
Malik went still. ‘How do you know that?’
‘The people I represent paid you that amount. And they want it back for failure to fulfil the terms of the deal.’
Malik felt a chill run down his spine. ‘B-but I succeeded. That English boy, Connor Reeves, is to blame!’
The man appeared unmoved by his argument. Clutching at the possibility of a deal, Malik said, ‘Well, what would I get in return?’
‘We can talk about your release after. First, I need your account details and transfer code,’ said the man, tapping at the screen of his computer.
Malik considered the offer for a brief moment only. If the central cell was powerful enough to reach inside the US Government, then it was powerful enough to free him. Malik recited the digits from memory. The man typed the account number and code into his mobile. Once the transaction was complete, he returned his attention to Malik.
‘Now everything is in balance. Equilibrium, you might say. We can proceed. What does the Brotherhood know about the funding of your operation?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Malik. ‘I never told anyone about the central cell.’
The faintest trace of a smile passed across the man’s face. ‘Excellent.’ He put his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a large fountain pen. ‘So you’re the only link.’
The man removed the nib to reveal a long syringe.
‘What are you doing?’ spluttered Malik, his uncovered eye widening in horror at the sight of the needle. ‘You’re not a doctor!’
‘No,’ the man replied, calmly inserting the syringe into the Y-connector of Malik’s IV drip. ‘I’m your executioner.’
‘But I won’t talk,’ promised Malik, a sweat suddenly breaking out on his brow. ‘I don’t even know who you are!’
The man depressed the plunger on his pen and a clear liquid fed into the drip. A second later, Malik felt a fire ignite in his arm, as if molten iron was coursing through his veins. He tried to scream, but the sheer agony of the poison spreading through his body took all his breath away. Arching his back and writhing, he clawed at the man in a desperate attempt to stop him. The man watched, impassive to his suffering. Then the poison reached Malik’s heart and he slumped lifeless on to his bed, the ECG beep turning to a continuous drone.
‘And you never will talk,’ said the man, putting the nib back on his pen and leaving the room.
‘How’s the leg?’ enquired Colonel Black, standing beside Connor’s bed in the secure wing of the George Washington Hospital.
Connor shifted uncomfortably. He felt as if he’d been run over by a bus and his thigh still throbbed like wildfire.
‘Better,’ he replied, wincing, his badly bruised ribs making it difficult to breathe.
His life had only been saved by his decision earlier that morning to wear his bulletproof shirt. The first round had hit him dead centre in the chest, resulting in blunt trauma – excruciatingly painful but survivable. The second bullet had struck his unprotected thigh and he’d dropped to the ground, blood pouring from the wound over the white marble steps. Connor had initially felt nothing, the burst of adrenalin masking the pain. And in those few moments of shocked numbness, he’d watched the groundsman being tackled by the two agents and finally disarmed. Alicia had screamed his name as she was evacuated at speed by Secret Service. But only when she was out of the danger zone did Connor relax, then a whiteout of pain exploded in his leg. Everything after that was a blur of agents, rapid-response medics, ambulances and nurses.