‘Heads up! Colonel’s here,’ interrupted Charley.
The others quickly dispersed to their seats as Colonel Black strode into the room. Connor and Jason broke away from their arm-wrestling match and stood to attention.
The colonel, an ex-SAS soldier with a silver-grey crew cut and the solid square jawline of an action movie star, eyed them both. ‘Glad to see you two are bonding at last.’
He gestured for the team to sit, taking his place at the head of the room to begin the morning’s mission briefing. As Jason sat down beside Connor, he declared under his breath, ‘I won.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ hissed Connor.
Jason glared sideways at him. ‘I had your knuckles on the table.’
‘They never touched. Besides, the match was interrupted.’
Jason sneered, ‘No way were you going to win –’
‘Can’t you two just call it a draw?’ whispered Charley, as Colonel Black powered up the overhead HD screen and turned to face them.
‘Never!’ said Connor and Jason in unison. They locked eyes and found themselves grinning.
‘Rematch?’ challenged Jason.
‘Any time,’ Connor replied. But in truth he hoped it wouldn’t be any time soon. He’d never admit it to Jason, but his arm ached like hell.
‘Corruption! Crime! Murder! This is the Russia I have grown up in, but not the Russia I want to live in,’ declared the man on the podium, his narrow eyes burning with furious zeal. ‘The current government is a party of thieves and criminals. They’re sucking the lifeblood out of our homeland. Gorging themselves on what is rightfully yours.’
A chorus of jeers and boos rose from the crowd that surrounded the podium he stood upon. Tall, slim and dressed in a smart dark-blue suit and rimless glasses, the man looked more like a stockbroker than a revolutionary, but he was whipping the masses into a frenzy.
He thumped his chest, his voice booming. ‘I vow to destroy the mafia-backed state that’s been built in Mother Russia. I vow to destroy the system of government where eighty per cent of the national wealth is owned by half a per cent of the population. I vow to fight for the people!’
Cheers now erupted around him.
‘But I can’t win this fight on my own,’ he continued. ‘I need YOU, the good people of Russia. You need to make a stand. Take action. The bloated pigs won’t leave the trough by themselves. Vote for change. Vote for Our Russia.’
The man now raised his arms in a two-fisted salute and his supporters went wild with applause and shouts of ‘RUSSIA! RUSSIA! RUSSIA!’
‘Viktor Malkov, Russian billionaire and new-wave politician,’ explained Colonel Black, ending the video clip and raising the lights in the briefing room. ‘He’s the leader of the only credible opposition party to the current Russian government. The Our Russia movement was founded in response to a series of national scandals, in particular the brutal massacre of a farmer’s family and his friends by a mafia gang ten years ago. But the party has only really taken off in the last few years with Viktor as its leader. His anti-corruption stance has proved highly popular with the people. However, it’s bringing him into direct conflict with not only the government but the Bratva too.’
‘Bratva?’ queried Jason.
‘The Russian mafia,’ the colonel replied. ‘Bratva means brotherhood. It’s a collective term for the various organized criminal gangs spread throughout Russia. Each gang is headed by a mafia boss known as a Pakhan. Formed of ex-convicts, corrupt officials and business leaders, they virtually run the country. This means Viktor Malkov – with his promise to end corruption – has become their number-one enemy. Which is where we come in.’
The colonel brought up a picture of a young dark-haired lad on the screen. With a narrow nose, thin lips and sharp cheekbones, he was the spitting image of his father, but far more sullen-looking.
‘Operation Snowstorm,’ announced Colonel Black. ‘The Principal you’ll be protecting is fifteen-year-old Feliks Malkov. As Viktor’s only son, Feliks is the one chink in his father’s armour. It is our task to protect the boy from any potential kidnapping or assassination attempts.’
Marc raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Potential? From what you’ve described, the threat is real, if not guaranteed.’
Acknowledging this with the smallest of nods, Colonel Black folded his muscled arms across his broad chest. He may have been pushing fifty, but as founder and commander of the Buddyguard organization he maintained peak physical condition. ‘Our client is well aware of the high threat level against him and his son. That’s why he employs his own full-time security team. But Viktor wants to ensure he has the edge over his enemies. So we’re the final ring of defence. An invisible shield for his son.’
‘What about his mother?’ asked Charley.
‘Deceased,’ replied the colonel. He glanced at his notes. ‘Drowned last year in a tragic accident in the mansion’s swimming pool. Suspected suicide, according to the coroner.’
‘No wonder the Principal looks so miserable,’ said Amir, nodding at Feliks’s photo on the screen.
Colonel Black tapped his notes with a finger. ‘Her death does appear to have hit the son especially hard. He was referred to a psychologist for six months of therapy.’
Connor reassessed the Principal. The boy’s sullen expression was understandable. Whoever was assigned to protect him would have to be sensitive to the issue. ‘So who’s the buddyguard for this operation?’ he asked.
The colonel turned his flint-grey eyes upon him. ‘You are … and Jason.’
Both Connor and Jason did a double-take. This wasn’t what either of them had expected. First, Connor had put in a request for a break from any more missions following his brutal assignment in Africa. Second, the colonel knew the two of them weren’t exactly best buddies.
‘Ah, a match made in heaven!’ joked Richie.
‘Fat chance,’ Jason muttered, his brow furrowing.
‘Well, you two have already been holding hands this morning. So after this assignment, who knows, maybe you’ll want to get married!’ said Ling, shooting them both a wink.
The rest of the team laughed. But Jason and Connor didn’t. This was the worst pairing Connor could have imagined. The two of them were always at loggerheads. They agreed on nothing and fought over everything. The first time they’d met, Jason had tried to knock his block off. Granted, it had been part of a recruitment test. But Connor had floored Jason, humiliating him in front of the others. And they had been rivals ever since, always needing to prove who was top dog – whether in fitness trials, combat training, practical jokes or mission deployments.
‘Who’s in charge on this op then?’ said Jason, as if to prove Connor’s point.
‘Charley will be team leader, as always,’ the colonel replied with a respectful nod towards her. ‘You two will be working undercover as Feliks’s cousins. But Connor will have overall authority on the ground. You’ll be 2 i/c.’
‘Second in command!’ Jason’s jaw dropped. ‘Hang on, I’ve been a bodyguard far longer than Connor. I should have command on the ground.’
The colonel eyed him sternly. ‘I’ve made my decision. Is this going to be a problem for you?’
Jason held his gaze for a moment, then responded with a curt, ‘No, sir!’
‘Good. You’ll need to have each other’s backs on this assignment,’ the colonel explained, his tone more serious than Connor had ever heard prior to a mission. ‘I won’t lie to you: Russia is the most dangerous place on earth to be a bodyguard.’
Nikolay Antonov, a banker with a ratty face and rounded spectacles, walked briskly down the road, shadowed by a tank of a man. Nikolay felt safer having hired the former Chechen soldier to protect him, especially through the almost deserted streets of the Moscow International Business Centre, the financial district having been hit hard by Russia’s economic troubles.
As he passed a building site for yet another half-completed skyscraper, two shaven-headed men in black winter jackets
stepped into his path. His bodyguard Maxim immediately bristled, thick brow furrowing and hammer fists clenching.
‘Nikolay Antonov,’ one of the men addressed him. Visible on the back of the man’s right hand was a tattoo of a skull, the Bratva symbol for a convicted murderer. And, judging by the long white scar on his brick-like jaw and the thick calluses on his knuckles, Nikolay guessed he was a krysha, one of the mafia’s violent enforcers.
The banker swallowed hard. ‘Yes?’ he said, as behind him his bodyguard reached for his gun.
‘The Pakhan wishes to speak with you.’
Nikolay held up a hand instructing his bodyguard to back down. ‘Me? But why would the Pakhan want to speak with me?’ he asked, his eyes darting around like a panicked mouse cornered by a hungry cat. ‘I’ve always dealt with his bookmaker.’
‘You can ask him yourself,’ replied the krysha, as a coal-black Mercedes with tinted windows rolled up to the kerb. The rear passenger door swung open to reveal a stern-faced man with deep-set eyes and thin lips reclining in the back seat. His hand lay on the central leather armrest; a gold ring, on which the head of a bear was embossed, gleamed in the interior’s low light.
The banker’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Roman Gurov? You’re the Pakhan?’
‘You seem surprised,’ said the man.
‘Of course I am. But you’re –’
‘Who’s the bull?’ Roman cut in, pointing his gold-ringed finger at the hulk standing at Nikolay’s shoulder.
‘Um … Maxim, my bodyguard,’ replied the banker, standing a little straighter.
Without warning, the two kryshas seized the bodyguard, one wrapping his muscled arm round the Chechen’s throat, while the other drew a serrated knife and plunged it into his heart. The bodyguard slumped lifeless to the ground.
‘Not much of a bodyguard,’ Roman remarked. ‘Now get in.’
Nikolay stared in shock as his slain protector was dragged through the slush of snow, leaving a trail of blood before his body was tossed like garbage into a builders’ skip.
‘Don’t make me ask you twice,’ said the mafia boss. ‘Unless you want my men to help you in.’
Hurriedly getting into the rear of the car, Nikolay took the empty seat beside the infamous and much-feared Roman Gurov.
‘W-w-what can I do for you?’ asked the banker, struggling to keep his composure as the Mercedes pulled away.
‘You manage our investments. And I’m very satisfied with the profits they yield, especially in these difficult times,’ explained Roman, twisting the gold ring on his finger. ‘But it has come to my attention that some of the cream is being skimmed off the top of every transaction.’
‘Really?’ said Nikolay, his exclamation sounding forced even to his own ears.
Roman stared at him. ‘As our banker, I thought you of all my employees would have noticed this.’
Nikolay wetted his lips. Realizing the mafia boss wasn’t to be fooled in the slightest, he changed his tune. ‘I had actually … but I can assure you … it’s just an accounting error.’
‘Twenty million dollars is a rather large accounting error, don’t you think?’
Nikolay looked down at his hands and tried to stop them trembling. ‘Well … yes … of course … I will correct it immediately.’
‘Good,’ said Roman, smiling and extending a hand. ‘I’m glad this little misunderstanding can be resolved so easily.’
Nikolay stared for a moment at the proffered hand, the gold bear ring glinting at the promise of redemption for his mistake. With a hesitant smile, he reached out to shake it … then suddenly found his own hand seized in a vice-like grip. The mafia boss twisted it hard as if unscrewing the banker’s wrist from his arm. Nikolay let out a scream. Showing no mercy, Roman applied more pressure to the joint until there was a sickening crack like a branch snapping in two. Nikolay’s face drained of all blood and he uttered an agonized moan.
Leaning close to the banker’s ear, Roman hissed, ‘You ever try to steal from the Bratva again, it’ll be more than your wrist I’ll break. Understood?’
Nikolay gave a feeble nod.
Roman ordered his driver to stop and the rear door automatically opened.
‘Careful you don’t slip on any ice,’ he said, applying his shoe to Nikolay’s backside as the banker clambered out of the car. ‘You don’t want to break anything else, do you?’ Then, as the car door closed, he added, ‘And I’d advise you to hire a new bodyguard.’
Leaving the injured banker lying face down in the snow, the Mercedes drove away. Inside, the Pakhan turned to his assistant in the front passenger seat. ‘Now on to the real business at hand … Viktor Malkov.’
‘That’s a real knife!’ exclaimed Amir, his eyes on stalks as the blade passed in front of his face.
‘Of course it is,’ said Steve, their combat instructor, a man so solidly built that he looked to be chiselled from black granite. ‘It’s time you trained with real weapons. Otherwise you’re just swimming on dry land.’
‘B-b-but we could get hurt,’ Amir stuttered, turning to the rest of the team who stood equally stunned in the sports hall. Having completed the morning’s mission briefing and attended Bugsy’s vehicle security seminar, they were now on to their daily self-defence class.
Steve nodded. ‘That’s the point. The first rule about knife defence is there is no defence. You will get cut or injured, however skilful or careful you are. That’s why this lesson isn’t called knife defence. It’s called knife survival.’
Connor was all too aware of the reality. On his first assignment, protecting the US President’s daughter, a mugger had stabbed him with a switchblade. The only thing that had saved him was his T-shirt – a Buddyguard-issued top made from a high-tech stab-proof fabric. Connor realized that next time he faced a knife he might not be so lucky. Yet, studying the six-inch blade before him, he wondered if their instructor wasn’t going a bit too far in his attempt for authenticity. It was perilous enough on missions without being hospitalized during training.
‘Trying to catch a knife in motion is like sticking your hand into a blender,’ their instructor went on, twirling the weapon in his hand. ‘That’s why the second rule of knife defence is: run – if you can. Distance is your friend when faced with a weapon like this. Bear in mind that an attacker, pumped on adrenalin, can sprint several paces in under one and a half seconds.’
Without warning, Steve lunged forward and held the razor-sharp blade to Marc’s throat.
‘Merde!’ cried Marc, his eyes wide in shock.
‘No need to swear, but my point has been made,’ said Steve, withdrawing the knife. ‘One and a half seconds doesn’t give you much time to react.’
‘Oh, I think he reacted all right,’ said Ling, glancing down at Marc’s shorts and smirking. ‘Might need a change of pants there.’
Connor and the others laughed as Marc automatically checked himself.
‘Ha, ha,’ said Marc, his face reddening once he realized he’d fallen for her tease.
‘This is no joking matter,’ growled Steve, pointing the knife at them. ‘Your lives may depend on the technique I’m about to teach you. On the internet you’ll see martial arts instructors demonstrating various knife self-defence skills. Some simple, some fancy, some plain stupid. Most don’t work in a real attack situation. The only effective way to deal with a knife-wielding assailant is to Seize, Strike and Subdue.’
He beckoned Jason forward and handed him the knife. ‘Come at me.’
‘With a stab or a slash?’ asked Jason, weighing the knife in his palm. Due to his size and boxing experience, Jason was often chosen to partner up with their mountain of an instructor – and he knew Steve would want him to attack hard and fast.
‘It’s your choice,’ Steve replied, raising his hands into a defensive guard. ‘I wouldn’t know what was coming in reality.’
Jason nodded, then rushed at their instructor with an overhand strike, aiming for the chest. Steve side-stepped to the right, for
earm-blocked the attack, palm-struck Jason in the face, grabbed his wrist, kneed him in the stomach, then drove him to the ground before putting him into an armlock. Barely knowing what had hit him, Jason was forced to relinquish his grip on the knife as Steve applied pressure to the lock. The whole series of moves was over in less than four seconds.
Seeing Jason’s face contorted in pain, Connor was glad he hadn’t been the one asked to demonstrate.
Jason gasped in relief as Steve released him. ‘Right, let me show you the move again, this time at half-speed.’
Loosening up his arm, Jason repeated the overhand strike. Slow and smooth, Steve stepped into the attack with his forearm raised.
‘The key thing is to gain full control of the attacker’s knife-bearing arm – Seize,’ he explained. ‘This may require a block first, but if you don’t grab hold of the attacker’s arm, then they can pull back and go for a second attack.’
Steve gripped Jason’s wrist, then in slow-motion hit Jason’s neck with the edge of his hand.
‘At the same time, you need to Strike. The head or neck is your best option. Then with the attacker stunned and the weapon controlled, you can Subdue. This can be multiple knee-strikes to the head, stomach or lower vital areas, followed by dropping them to the ground.’
He simulated kneeing Jason in the groin. Jason made a high-pitched squeal, crossing his eyes comically and collapsing to his knees. The whole class sniggered. Applying the armlock with enough force to make Jason cry out for real, Steve growled, ‘Take this seriously!’
‘Only attempt to defang the snake once you have full control,’ he instructed. ‘Otherwise you might lose your fingers.’ Showing them how easily the blade could cut his digits off if he wasn’t careful, he continued, ‘Then break the arm or do whatever is necessary to eliminate the threat. Don’t worry, Jason, I’ll let you off this time.’
Jason gratefully stood back in line with the others as Steve released him from the crippling grip.
‘Your priority is to ensure your own and your Principal’s safety,’ Steve explained, handing out more knives. ‘The Seize, Strike and Subdue technique isn’t pretty, but it’s effective. Now pair up and practise.’
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