Operation Hurricane: The Evan Boyd Adventures #1

by Benjamin Shaw

  Then Boyd realised the guy was trying to get close so he could jump into the flatbed with him! He grabbed the old leather bag and tapped on the back window of the cab. ‘Harry, let him come alongside us, on your left. Let’s drive him up the hill towards the dunes. Maybe I can distract him, and you can knock him off.’ Harry raised a thumb, looked in the passenger-side wing mirror and drifted to the left.

  Boyd steadied himself. Reaching inside the bag, he pulled out one of the heavy tent pegs. It was made of thick metal that was folded into a ‘V’ shape. Boyd had seen this kind of peg before on the big white marquees people have at weddings.

  He waited until the man got close and then launched one of the pegs; it missed completely but their pursuer had to pump the brakes to avoid it. The bike rider wasn’t even sure what had been thrown, but it had certainly done the trick; the guy pointed at Boyd, clearly angry.

  He dipped his head down as he weaved over towards the truck. Boyd threw another peg, at the bike itself this time. It dinged off the forks of the front wheel, hit the truck and spun into the air. The man slowed down and dropped back, further this time.

  Then Boyd saw him pulling the strap around and reaching for his gun. He flattened himself against the bottom of the flatbed of the truck just before bullets started to ping all over the place. But the ground was uneven, and the bike was bouncing around on the sand, so the man couldn’t get a proper aim at his target. Still, he didn’t need to be accurate. All he needed was one lucky shot and this would all be over.

  Boyd felt around in the bag and pulled out the last tent peg; maybe one lucky shot was all he needed too. After a moment, the barrage of bullets stopped. He looked up; the assailant had dropped his gun to his side again and had begun to accelerate.

  Boyd put his feet on the flap at the back of the truck and waited. He had to hold on; the truck was speeding along the side of the sandy hill and if he wasn’t careful, he would slip to the other side of the flatbed and end up falling out onto the beach.

  Using his left hand, Boyd threw the bag at the man, knowing it would have no impact, but he wanted to do everything he could to distract him. The man revved the bike engine and powered up the hill alongside the truck. Harry must have seen him make the move as he edged over just a little.

  Boyd took his time before the threw the last peg; he held it in his hands, let the man see it and made out like he was trying to get his aim right. Then he let it go with everything he had, high over the man’s head. Boyd had missed by a mile and he didn’t care. He had done his job. He had distracted the man enough for Harry to pin the motorbike between the truck and the trees. ‘Now!’ Boyd shouted. ‘Go Harry!’

  Harry swerved left and the man wobbled and weaved. He took the motorbike all the way up to the top of the ridge to avoid the danger of the careening truck. He was so busy watching the truck, he didn’t see the fat branches of an old alder tree coming at him at 60 miles an hour. The branch hit his chest and Boyd watched as his pursuer seemed to pause in mid-air then fall hard, back-first onto the sand. The bike roared up and over the ridge before plummeting to the ground and exploding out of sight in a ball of fire.

  Two down.

  ‘How cool was that?!’ Boyd shouted from the back of the truck. Harry and Aurora looked behind through the rear window; their faces illuminated in the night by the orange glow of the explosion. In the distance, Boyd saw another bright light. ‘We’ve got company,’ he shouted.

  ‘Hang on,’ Harry called, ‘I’ve got a plan for our last friend there.’ He spun the wheel left and pulled the truck up and over the ridge towards the dunes. He reversed in and they bounced and bobbled across the surface towards the fire. Harry stopped the truck and jumped out.

  ‘Are you nuts? We’re sitting ducks; he’ll see us!’ Boyd shouted.

  Harry grabbed the shovel from the back of the truck. ‘Let’s hope so. I want you to stand in the back. Don’t move.’

  ‘He’ll shoot me!’ Boyd protested.

  ‘No, he won’t. Trust me.’ Harry started back towards the fire. He ran down into the bushes behind the truck and out of sight.

  ‘What the hell is he doing?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Let’s listen to him. Just wait.’ Aurora hadn’t been herself since all this started. Boyd wasn’t going to listen to her.

  ‘Aurora, you’re not thinking straight. We need to get the hell out of here. Now!’

  ‘Boyd!’ his aunt shouted, and her face had suddenly changed. ‘Stop being a brat and just do as you’re bloody told!’

  Boyd stopped cold, in total shock. ‘Okay,’ he replied and swallowed hard.

  They didn’t have long to wait. The lights from the other bike appeared, shining up into the night sky like the Bat Signal as the third man accelerated over the ridge and into the dunes. He was drawn towards the fire, looking for his friend. The chaser stopped the bike to take in the scene. The flames danced over his black leathers and jet-black motorcycle helmet. Standing there in the back of the truck, Boyd felt a knot in his stomach. Whatever Harry was going to do, he needed to do it now – and by god, it better be good!

  The man looked at the truck, saw Boyd standing up in the flatbed and revved the motorbike engine. Sand flew up behind him as he tore away, heading down into the dunes, sitting high in the saddle as the big bike rocked and bounced under him.

  ‘Aurora,’ Boyd said insistently.

  ‘Wait,’ she replied.

  The bike got closer.

  ‘Aurora, where the hell is he?’

  ‘Just wait.’

  ‘Harry!’ Boyd shouted into the night.

  As the man brought the motorbike up towards the bushes in front of the truck, Harry stepped out and swung the shovel. His legs were bent, he swivelled from the hips and brought the sturdy old shovel all the way around from behind his head, just like a hitter in a baseball game. The shovel connected with the man’s motorcycle helmet with a sickening ‘CRACK!’ and Boyd watched as he flipped over backwards and landed flat on his chest, out cold.

  The bike continued to roar onward and smashed into the back of the truck with a crunch, just as Boyd jumped clear. The last thought that went through his mind before he hit his head on a rock and lost consciousness was that he had never been more relieved to see Harry.

  Trust No One

  Boyd heard the woman’s voice again; it called his name.

  ‘Where are you?’ he called back.

  ‘Boyd,’ she said again.

  He was trying to move towards her, but it felt like someone was holding him back, like he was running through treacle. He felt a nudge and his body shook. His head felt numb, like his brain was made of marshmallow. Snatches of memory flashed in front of his eyes: a bright light, followed by an explosion, then he was face down in long grass. Was it all a dream? Surely it had to be, none of it could have been real. He couldn’t hear the woman’s voice anymore.

  ‘I won’t be long.’ Harry’s voice.

  ‘Okay,’ Aurora replied.

  A car door opened and closed. Then the sound of a phone ringing through a speaker.

  ‘Yes,’ a man’s voice answered the phone. Who was it? Boyd was sure he recognised him.

  ‘It’s me, any activity?’ Aurora replied. Her voice was cold and impatient.

  ‘None, and no trace of her. Something’s up. What is it?’

  Suddenly the pieces clicked into place. His eyes were closed, but he was awake and that was his dad’s voice – Aurora had called his dad! Boyd opened his eyes to find he was on the tiny back seat of Harry’s truck and everything flooded back to him. It wasn’t a dream at all. He was just about to speak when something inside of him made him stop.

  ‘We got hit last night, no idea who it was but they were clearly professional and very well informed,’ Aurora said.

  ‘Did the gardener lead them to you?’

  ‘Unclear. He certainly knows how to handle himself, that much is clear. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m trying to track down Miranda Capshaw, find out
who she is and how she disappeared but…’ The line suddenly exploded in static and noise. Martin cried out.

  Aurora took the phone off ‘speaker’ but Boyd could still hear the commotion on the other end of the line. His dad was in trouble!

  ‘Are you there?’ Aurora said into the phone. ‘Caretaker, are you there? Come in, Caretaker, please respond.’

  Suddenly the driver door opened again, and Harry climbed in, holding a plastic bag. Aurora swiftly killed the phone call and smiled.

  ‘They didn’t have a cheese and onion, so I got you a ham and cheese,’ Harry said, passing her the bag.

  ‘Yeah, that’s fine,’ Aurora replied. She turned her head to look at Boyd.

  He quickly closed his eyes. His heart was beating out of his chest, but he did his best to fake sleep.

  ‘Is he still out for the count?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Yep, poor lad. Let’s get him safe and tuck him up in a real bed.’

  ‘Any word from Martin? Did you try him again?’

  ‘Not a thing. It’s not like him to not answer his phone.’

  ‘What the heck has he got himself into, eh?’

  Aurora turned away and started to cry. Or did she? Boyd wasn’t sure if she was faking it.

  ‘I have no idea, I really don’t.’

  Boyd didn’t move a muscle; he didn’t want to give himself away. What had Aurora just called his dad, ‘Caretaker’? What on earth was that about? Now she was lying to Harry about speaking to him. Boyd spent the next few minutes thinking. His dad was obviously in serious trouble and the two people he was with were lying to each other. And based on everything that had happened in the last few hours: Aurora’s drastic change of personality, the call to his dad and the fact that Harry the Gardener had all of a sudden turned into James Bond, they’d both been lying to him too.

  That’s when Boyd made a decision; he had to get as far away from Aurora and Harry as he could and, if he wanted to help his dad, then he had to find this Miranda Capshaw and get some answers.

  Harry stopped the truck outside a little pub in the middle of the countryside. Boyd sat up and pretended to yawn and wipe the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘Here’s my Boyd!’ Aurora said, in an unconvincing attempt to switch back to being her usual self.

  The blood rushed to his head and he felt a throb of pain as the fresh lump on his forehead started to pulsate. He gingerly lifted a hand to it.

  ‘Ow,’ he said.

  ‘That’s going to be a corker!’ Aurora said.

  ‘I’ll see if they’ve got any rooms. Stretch your legs,’ Harry said.

  ‘I’ll come in, I need the loo,’ Aurora replied, taking her phone out. She looked back at Boyd. ‘You’ll be okay here?’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ he said, yawning.

  They got out and headed for the entrance to the pub. Boyd climbed over the passenger seat and out through the passenger door, keeping the truck between him and pub. He watched Harry and Aurora disappear inside, then scanned the area for any possible means of escape, but he really was in the middle of nowhere. The pub was on a long, winding road surrounded by hills and fields. All he had for company was a scarecrow and a man on the other side of the car park, loading bags into the back of a people carrier.

  A young woman appeared from the door of the pub. Boyd did a double-take: it was Pixie Thorn from his class!

  ‘Just once, it would be really nice to have a simple family break for a couple of days,’ the man said, piling the bags in behind the seats. ‘But that’s impossible with you two, isn’t it?’

  Pixie just stood there, one leg bent, chewing gum, flicking through her phone.

  ‘Oh, and I’ll have that, thank you!’ The man, presumably Pixie’s dad, snatched the phone out of her hand and shoved it in his pocket.

  ‘Hey!’ Pixie whined.

  ‘If you can’t be nice to people, you can’t have your phone. Tell your mother we’re ready to go, please. I’ll take your brother to the toilet.’ He shut the boot and they both marched back inside.

  Something caught Boyd’s eye in the window at the front of the pub. It was Aurora, holding her phone to her ear and looking out towards him. He didn’t acknowledge her; she wouldn’t be able to see his face through the truck windows, but he could see hers. She was checking up on him. There was that feeling again, the alarm bell inside of him telling him he was better off on his own. He couldn’t even trust his aunt anymore. Boyd didn’t wait; he knew what he needed to do.

  Aurora turned to head back to the front window and check on Boyd. She nearly bumped into a young girl and her mum. The girl stopped dead and just tutted.

  ‘Pixie!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘I am so sorry for that,’ she said to Aurora.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Aurora replied through gritted teeth, trying to get back to the window.

  ‘You are very kind but no, someone is in a mood. What do you say, Pixie?’

  ‘There’s no need, really.’

  ‘There most certainly is. Pixie?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Pixie flushed red as she managed a mumble from the corner of her mouth.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Aurora replied, flashing a strained smile, and standing back to allow them through.

  She made her way back to the window and saw Boyd was still stood, leaning against the other side of the truck. She tried Martin’s phone again and it went straight to voicemail. When she turned, Harry had finished booking them in and was at the bar eyeing her suspiciously. She lowered the phone.

  ‘All done,’ he said. ‘Martin still not picking up?’

  ‘No. Let’s get the bags, get settled and get some proper food.’

  ‘That’s a grand plan. And you can always try him again later, can’t you?’ Harry stepped away and headed for the door.

  They came out of the pub just as a people carrier pulled away; its windows were down and Aurora could hear the woman from the pub, still talking to her daughter.

  ‘I’m embarrassing? Really? I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life, honestly, Pixie.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to go through life being called Pixie,’ Aurora thought, feeling sorry for the poor girl.

  Harry went to the driver’s door of the truck, opened it up and grabbed a small bag from under the seat. Aurora walked around to the passenger side.

  ‘Right Sonny-Jim, let’s get some food and…’

  She stopped dead.

  ‘Bugger,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What is it?’ Harry asked.

  Aurora didn’t reply. She looked around the car park, her head on a swivel, then looked out towards the road as the family in their people carrier disappeared over the top of the hill.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Harry asked again as he moved towards her.

  Aurora pointed back at the truck, back to where Boyd was standing. Only it wasn’t Boyd.

  Leaning against the passenger door was the scarecrow.

  Lord of the Manor

  The man drove the black Aston Martin around the twists and turns of the country roads of Bloomfield at speed, the huge tyres occasionally squeaking in protest as the supercar hugged the tarmac. He took a sharp left, down an almost hidden path, thundered over a hill and down into a valley; there in front of him was the beautiful stately home of Lockmead House. Made of yellow brick, the huge residence comprised a central building with four floors, and then attached on either side were two turreted wings housing five floors each.

  The driver brought the Aston Martin up alongside Lockmead House, and from here you could see that the old home also had a two-storey wing in the shape of a horseshoe at the back, which created a courtyard at the rear of the house. There were many other buildings on the Lockmead estate spread out all over Bloomfield Downs, but this was where the driver did most of his work. He took the car around the back of the rear wing, through an archway, into the courtyard, and stopped sharply in front of a small door.

  The driver was Antoli Bull, a man who looked like he had been constructed out of playdoug
h. He was short and squat, like a sumo wrestler trapped in an expensive suit. His face was permanently pink and he had no visible neck, just a ring of fat around the base of his head. His muscles were not something he could hide, no matter what he wore.

  His Italian black loafers kicked up dust from the courtyard as he marched towards the service door at the back of the house. As he walked, Bull pulled his pocket square handkerchief from his suit pocket and mopped a thin layer of sweat from his bald head. Just as he replaced the pocket square, the door in front of him opened. The man blocking his path looked at him without any emotion. He was Knowles, Private Secretary to Lord Ravensbrook.

  ‘We were not expecting you, Mr Bull?’

  Bull squeezed his frame through the door and headed directly for the stairs. Knowles moved after him. He didn’t run, he never did, but he was very good at being extremely fast without looking hurried.

  ‘No, this is unscheduled visit. I need to see His Lordship.’ Bull’s clipped English in his Russian accent echoed like a dog’s bark in the large hallway.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but he gave specific instructions not to be disturbed. He was home in the early hours and has only been in bed for a short time.’

  Bull stopped as he reached the bottom of a huge, winding staircase. ‘This is urgent, it cannot wait,’ he said in a serious, low tone. ‘You don’t wake him? Fine, I tell His Lordship later that you refused.’

  ‘His Lordship’ was the formal way of addressing the man they both worked for: Henry Ravensbrook, lord of the manor. He owned Lockmead House and a huge amount of the Bloomfield Downs, inherited from his father and passed down through ten generations of his ancestors. He was a rich man who used his power for good and the people of Bloomfield loved him for it. He made contributions to scientific research, held an annual charity car event, threw huge garden parties for the public and was an infectious extrovert . Bull was one of his security consultants and one of the few who knew that there was much more to His Lordship than the generous adventurer the public knew him as.