Close Protection (Blood Brothers #2)

by Manda Mellett

  Watching from the doorway of the hospital room, I saw Nijad turn his eyes up to his brother’s face. “Tell me this isn’t true, Jas,” he pleaded. “I couldn’t have done this!”

  Jasim shook his head sadly, his despair plain to see. “It would appear that you could,” he told him. “And that you did.”

  Then Nijad’s eyes landed on me. “Jon, my friend. How the fuck could you think it was me?”

  I shrugged, my brow furrowed at his reference to our relationship knowing it would be impossible to continue our friendship. “There was no one else there. Chantelle had been afraid of her life. Before she was encouraged to change her story she told me and the police that you were the one who attacked her.” I shifted awkwardly and, at last, looked him in the eye. “Nijad, I’ve spent the last two days while you’ve been unconscious trying to find another explanation. I couldn’t shake Chantelle; she’s is adamant you attacked her, and the available evidence backs it up. Blood from your knuckles was on her face and her blood was on your clothes. There’s no doubt.”

  Then Jasim steps in, and summed it up. “You did this, Nijad. Just like you lost your temper with St John-Davies. You’re out of control.” Sadly he shook his head. “Fuck knows what’s going to be done with you.”

  I tossed my head with repugnance, and sadness. The man I had protected for three years, the man who I took a bullet for is not the person I thought he was. I had saved the life of a man who was violent and out of control. Attacking another man under provocation would have been, perhaps, easier to accept. But harming a woman? Never.

  Present day

  The alarm system is belting out a shrill warning as a quick glance at my watch shows it’s twelve-thirty am. I’ve been asleep, and I shouldn’t have been. I shouldn’t have relaxed my guard and given into the temptation to stay with Mia.

  I’m only halfway down the stairs when the acrid smell of smoke reaches me; something is on fire—we’ve got to get out. Investigating what’s actually burning or the cause can come later. Giving a desperate shout for Mia, I race back up to find her already getting dressed.

  “There’s fire. I want you out now.” I bark out the order.

  That’s my girl. She’s scared and shocked but doesn’t argue. Right now, I haven’t a clue as to how bad it is, but there is one heck of a fucking lot of smoke that seems to have followed me back up the stairs, so rushing to the bathroom I grab the small towel I used earlier. It’s too dry, so I wet it under the tap for a second. Without wasting any more time, I return to the bedroom and take her arm. Together we go down the narrow, steep stairs, having to feel our way by touch.

  The smoke’s getting thicker by the second. Along the downstairs hallway, the fire is taking hold; if I was to hazard a guess someone’s poured petrol through the letterbox. I pull her the other way to go into the kitchen, and here I find the cause of the crash we heard. It looks like a Molotov cocktail has been thrown through the kitchen window, and flames are already licking up around the cupboards. The house is old, and being made of a wooden frame, is like a tinderbox. We have to get out, and the only available exit is via the sitting room where the windows open wide enough to let us escape, or would do if they hadn’t just had new window locks installed. Mia is keeping calm and makes me proud when she doesn’t give into panic. Though she’s coughing from the smoke filling the room, she has the presence of mind to grab the keys from their place on the mantelpiece. I take them from her and exchanging them for the wet towel, telling her to hold it over her mouth and nose and breathe through it.

  It’s hard to even find the window now. Forcing myself to take only shallow breaths, it takes a couple of attempts to fit the keys into the locks and turn them. Once the window is open, I jump up onto the window sill and outside, reaching back in to help Mia through, catching her in my arms as she comes out, noticing she’s had the presence of mind to grab her handbag from the hall table as she came past and has slung the strap over her shoulder. Taking her hand, we run across the front garden to get out of the way of the heat and sparks. Even as I’m on the move, I extract my phone out of my pocket to call 999, reporting the fire, and receive the welcome news that the police are already on their way having been alerted by the alarm. Now, at my request, they’ll dispatch fire engines too.

  Having done everything I can, my attention turns back to the house. It’s going up fast; the fire has taken hold, and already it looks like there will be little left to salvage unless the fire brigade gets here fast and can work some magic. Realising we’ve had a lucky escape, I’m just grateful to be alive. Having acted purely on survival instincts up to now, my brain kicks into gear. This should never have happened!

  The gunshot ringing out across the garden shocks me out of my thoughts, whizzing past so close to my head I felt the displaced air brushing past my ear. Swinging around, I try to push Mia behind me, but she fucking steps in front of me. A second shot fires before I’m able to pull her out of the fucking way. Mia falls at my feet, and instinctively I drop, covering her with my body. Christ! She’s been hit! She got hit instead of me! For a split second, I freeze in horror. Can’t afford that, I’ve got to keep my shit together. Automatically my hand goes for my holster, but of course, it’s not fucking there. I’ve no weapon to return fire. Touching her, with immense relief I feel her breathing and gratefully hear her moan of pain. She’s alive. “Mia, where did he get you?” I ask urgently. Thank God for small mercies, the flickering light from the fire allows me to see her; I immediately notice blood coming from her shoulder.

  “My shoulder, my arm.” Her voice stutters, she’s weak from shock and quite possibly loss of blood. The poor light doesn’t allow me to see how bad it is.

  Another shot blasts across us, again I feel the whistle of another bullet far too close. If I’m able to see Mia, so can our attacker. We have to move to a safer place. I feel sick to my stomach that she’s been hurt, but force the nausea down, now’s not the time for remonstrations.

  “Sorry, sweetheart. We’ve got to move. Can you walk?”

  She answers with a weak yes, so I help her to her feet. “Keep your head down.” Glancing around to find a place of safety, I find the only option is to go towards the garage where we'll hopefully be out of sight. Crouching down, I take her with me, moving crablike across the garden, unable to avoid the illumination of the flames. Another shot misses us; thank Christ his got terrible aim. We get to the garage and ease behind it where the light from the fire doesn’t reach, but I know he’ll have seen where we’re heading so we can’t stop. Feeling like a bastard, knowing the pain she’s in, I make her continue, doubling round to the back. There I discover the wheelie bins, so I wedge her in between them. “Stay put.” She’s still holding onto the damp towel, so I shove it against her wound. “Hold that there.”

  Without waiting for a response, I get to my feet in the shelter of the wall and cautiously peer around, greeted by another shot. I’m counting; if I can get him to waste all his ammunition I might have a chance. He won’t beat me in hand to hand combat, whoever he is. Trouble is I don’t know what model of gun he’s got, and how many rounds it holds. But my aim is to get him to waste as many as possible. By his random firing, I doubt he’s used to handling a weapon. I bend down and pick up a large stone, throwing it away from me. It’s hard to see anything at all as my night vision was killed by the fire, but he’ll be at the same disadvantage. The stone does the trick, and he shoots blindly in the direction of the noise. Picking up another stone I throw it again, trying anything to divert his attention away from us.

  In the distance, but fast getting closer I hear sirens coming. So does he. He’s got a gun; he doesn’t have to be quiet, so he doesn’t take any care as he turns and runs. I try to give chase, but he jumps into a car and fires up the engine, roaring off with gravel flying in his wake and I don’t have a chance of catching him. I can’t even see the fucking number plate in this light. The good news is that he’s gone, the bad is we’ve still got no fucking clue to his iden
tity. I stand for a second after the taillights fade in the distance.

  Fuck, Mia! Mia, who took a fucking bullet for me. Grabbing my phone out of my pocket again, I call for an ambulance even as I race back to her. My adrenalin levels are dropping fast as I run, fear rising, hoping and praying to every god there is that her injury isn’t serious. Bile churns in my stomach as I reach her to find she’s still and unmoving, but when I touch her, she looks up quickly, checking it’s me. Breathing a loud sigh of relief, I sink to my knees. Gently I place my hand on her uninjured shoulder to reassure her.

  “He’s gone. Now we’ve got to get you sorted out.” At last, I hear the fire engines arrive, and knowing they’ll have a first aider on board, I sprint over, calling out for help and return with a fireman carrying a medi-kit and a bright torch. Lifting the towel, with the aid of the bright light we can see the wound bleeding freely. I’ve seen injuries before, but nothing has prepared me like the sight of Mia’s blood, it feels like a knife’s twisting in my gut. Quickly the fireman gets out a pressure bandage and applies it. While one hand keeps the wound covered, with the other he used his radio and checks that an ambulance is close by. Then, after making sure I’m going to look after her until it gets here, leaves to assist his colleagues.

  Mia tries to talk, but I shush her. She needs to conserve her energy.

  It seems like hours but in reality, it’s only minutes before the ambulance arrives. The paramedics assess Mia, then put on a stretcher and carry her inside. She’s been so brave, my girl, but now help is here she’s almost passed out with shock and blood loss. She’s hanging onto consciousness by a thread, as I stand by the doors of the ambulance watching the paramedics make ready to leave, and check which hospital they’re taking her to. They ask if I want to travel with her, and it’s at that point it suddenly hits me.

  This is all my fault and I’ve let her down. I let my emotions get in the way of doing my job. I was asleep when her house was set on fire, and not quick enough to move when she put herself in front of me. I’m a failure. One more time in my life, I’ve fucked up. Completely. And for the exact same reason.

  “You coming, mate?” The paramedic is anxious to go, but he gives me one last chance.

  I shake my head, staring at Mia as if I’m taking my last look at her. It should have been me! “I’ve got to wait for the police.”

  It breaks my heart as Mia stretches out her hand, reaching for me, but I can’t bring myself step inside. As the doors slam closed, and the ambulance pulls away, I’m unable to stop watching until the flashing blue lights disappear around a bend. Fuck, Mia, you’re taking my heart with you, and I don’t think you’ll be giving it back.

  I’m covered in blood. Her blood. The police arrive and, in the backdrop of her dream cottage burning down to the ground, take my statement. I give the facts coldly and calmly. I’m at least professional enough for that, even though I’m crap as a CPO. I leave out the fact that her bodyguard was standing behind her when she got shot, and was fast asleep by her side when the cottage started to burn. Looking around the site is distressing; already hardly anything remains except the fire-scarred bricks of the inglenook and chimney. Mia is going to be devastated, and I’m bloody gutted on her behalf. I couldn’t protect her; I couldn’t protect her home. But I should have. I made the wrong choices, just like before, let emotions get in the way and cloud my judgement. Lost in thoughts of my guilt I relate everything I can remember to the police, which isn’t much more than the basics, so it’s not too long until I’m free to go.

  But to go where? Luckily the wind blew the fire away from the cars, and while the Fiesta, being nearer, has some bubbling paintwork, my McClaren is relatively unscathed. It would be. Just like me. Reaching my hand into my pocket, I find my car keys. Boy, am I in luck tonight! I haven’t fucking lost anything, except for my work laptop that had been in the lounge and can easily be replaced. Unlike Mia, who’s fucking lost everything.

  Getting into the car, I start it, then, to navigate past the fire engines which are still dealing with the glowing embers, I have to drive the sports car over the flower beds and grass. There’s no house left, so cutting up the garden won’t make a difference. Once I hit the tarmac of the road I put my foot down and gun it up the road, wishing I was on my bike and able to burn off more energy. But as I shift roughly through the gears, over-revving the engine, I take out my anger on the innocent machine.

  Glancing at the clock, I see it's only three o’clock. Only two and a half hours since the drama started. Not giving a damn I’ll be waking him up, I pull over and call Ben, unable to trust myself to use the hands-free when discussing the news I’m about to tell him. At first sleepy, Ben quickly becomes alert as I recount what’s happened. When he hears my request to arrange protection for Mia, I have to brush off his questions about why it’s not me that’s with her. Why I’m not the one beside her hospital bed.

  I know he doesn’t understand, who could? I don’t have a clue what I’m doing myself. If I’m going to be able to protect Mia, I’ve got to get these blasted emotions out of my head. I’ve got to become nothing more than a robot, doing my job.

  Now I’m going to get drunk, and that’s none of Ben’s business. When he protests and starts to argue, I end the call, turning off my phone so he can’t ring back.

  Resuming my journey, turning off the A roads, I head down south to an all-night bar, one with a dubious reputation, often frequented by bikers—the kind you don’t want to meet in a dark alley on a dark night. Just right for the mood I’m in tonight. That bullet would have been a kill shot if it had been a couple of inches over. And it had my name on it. I only wish it had been me he’d hit.

  I screwed up. And Mia could have died as a result. I fucked up, just like in Paris when betrayal cut me to the quick, and I failed to do my job. This time the emotion might have a different name—a name I’m reluctant to even voice in my head—but the effect is just the same. I failed.

  Entering the bar I find, as expected, that it’s still half full even considering the time of night or to be accurate, early morning. At the fringes of my mind, I’m conscious of the jukebox is playing an archetypal biker song, ‘Born to be Wild,’ but I’m not here to listen to music. I stand, swaying in the doorway, and notice I’m attracting even more attention than normal.

  “You alright, mate?” One leather-clad biker comes up to me, concerned and wary.

  Glancing down at myself, I only just remember everything I’m wearing must reek of smoke and that Mia’s undried blood is still glistening on my leather jacket, and is soaking my jeans, and. I raise my hands nonchalantly and explain dismissively, “It’s not mine.”

  He takes a step back re-joining his mates. They don’t look at all amused to see me, all offer of help is gone. Ignoring them, I walk towards the bar, “Whisky. A double.” I down it in one, and hold my glass out for another, unable to speak for a second as wracking coughs assail me. I breathed in too much smoke, but I don’t give a damn. The second whisky doesn’t even take the edge off. I’ve cocked up, just like last time.

  It had all gone so fucking wrong! I knew from the first instance I saw her I should have kept well away and assigned someone else. Someone else, who’d have had her safety in mind rather than how fast they could get into her fucking bed. At the very least I should have had another team member working on the case. Unable to keep it zipped, I could have still enjoyed Mia, but with another person assigned to watch her back, she would have been safe. I should have done my job, should have been out checking the grounds, staying awake downstairs not in her fucking bed asleep. But I’d been too selfish, wanting to keep her to myself. So letting myself believe the threats were just words on paper. I saw what I wanted to see, didn’t analyse it enough, just like last time. I’m a fucking waste of space!

  I take a third whisky; I won’t be driving anymore tonight but sod the expensive car I’ve left parked in this rough part of town. I’ve just left the woman I love—Jesus, did I really just admit that
to myself? Yeah, I did. And reeling as if a bolt of lightning hits me, I realise it’s true. I’ve just left the woman I love abandoned and hurting, because I’m unable to cope with the guilt inside me. What if she dies?

  I freeze, realising I don’t even know how badly injured she is. What the fuck am I doing here?

  But that’s all the introspection I’m allowed. I knew it would happen, was waiting for it. I’m in a bar surrounded by bikers; I’m wearing a leather jacket, but unlike them, no patches, looking surly and tense, covered with blood and clearly itching for a fight. There would be no other reason for me to come here. But they give me a chance, starting off slow. I get shoved, accidentally on purpose. An intelligent man would just move aside. But I’m not in the mood to be smart tonight. “What’s your problem, motherfucker?” I growl.

  “What did you call me?” A heavy-set biker, bearded and covered in tattoos looks at me incredulously.

  “You heard. I asked ‘What’s your problem, motherfucker?’” I stir it up some more.

  “Take it outside!” the barman shouts over. Knowing what’s going to go down before it even begins.

  Beardy looks at me, and I nod. I go to the door, not surprised that his two mates follow us. Three against one, that’s the sort of odds I was looking for. Only a few minutes later I’m left lying on the ground having taken a good kicking. One of my eyes is swollen; my nose is bleeding, but I didn’t hear the crunch that would tell me it’s broken. I’m probably going to be pissing blood for a week, and any thought of sex is out of the question. And to top it all off, my lungs feel like they’re burning from the smoke inhalation. But I relish the pain. I deserve it.

  As I stagger to my feet, the pain helps to clear the fog in my mind and I limp back to my car. Technically I’m over the limit, but the fight has sobered me up, even if I wouldn’t pass a breathalyser test. Taking out my phone, I turn it back on. There are a dozen or so messages and voicemails from Ben. I ignore them all, taking the quicker option of simply ringing him.