by Zoe Sharp
FIRST DROP
Charlie Fox book four
by
Zoë Sharp
For Andy, who’s absolutely convinced . . .
This book was softly persuaded into the digital domain by the book-loving geeks at
www.ZACE-eBookConversion.com
Cover design by www.NuDesign.co
www.ZoeSharp.com
FIRST DROP is the fourth in Zoë Sharp’s highly acclaimed Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Fox crime thriller series, now available in e-format for the first time, complete with author’s notes, excerpt from the next Charlie Fox – ROAD KILL – and a bonus excerpt from Blake Crouch’s novel, RUN.
‘The guy in the passenger seat was closest. He got out first, so I shot him first. Two rounds high in the chest.’
It should have been an easy introduction to Charlie Fox’s new career as a bodyguard. In fact, it should have been almost a working holiday. She just has to look after the gawky fifteen-year-old son of a rich computer programmer in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Trey Pelzner is theme park mad and in theory all Charlie has to do is baby-sit him on the rollercoasters.
The last thing anyone expected was a determined attempt to snatch the boy, or that Trey’s father and their entire close protection team – including Charlie’s boss, Sean Meyer – would disappear off the face of the earth at the same time.
Now somebody out there wants the boy badly and they’re prepared to kill anyone who gets in their way. Evading them, in a strange country, takes all the skill and courage Charlie possesses.
As she soon discovers, once you’ve hit the first drop there’s no going back, and you’d better hang on tight because you’re in for a wild ride.
Nominated for the Barry Award for Best British Crime Novel.
‘Sharp’s aim is dead on in her stunning US debut, the fourth book to star ultra-cool biker chick Charlie Fox. The no-nonsense, 26-year-old Charlie, a former British Army soldier (and survivor of a gruesome gang rape) has joined the protection agency of her ex-lover, Sean Meyer. On her first assignment, Charlie finds herself on a too thrilling roller-coaster ride in Florida, guarding geeky 15-year-old Trey Pelzner, son of Keith, a computer whiz working for a small software company specializing in accounting and data manipulation. After an attempt is made on Trey’s life, Charlie calls for backup that turns out to be anything but and soon discovers that Keith – the developer of a faulty stock indicator program – has vanished, as has Sean. Action-packed, tightly plotted and with an irresistible first-person narration, this crisp, original thriller should win Sharp (Hard Knocks, etc.) plenty of American fans.’ Publishers Weekly starred review
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Epilogue
From the Author’s notebook
Acknowledgements
Bonus Material
Don’t miss the bonus material at the end of FIRST DROP:
The other Charlie Fox novels and short stories
Excerpt from ROAD KILL: Charlie Fox book five
Meet Zoë Sharp
Meet Charlie Fox
Excerpt from Blake Crouch’s novel – RUN
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FIRST DROP
One
For the third time that morning I shut my eyes tight in the absolute and certain knowledge that I was just about to die. Around me, people were screaming. Lots of people, but the prospect of dying in company did nothing to alleviate the terror.
My stomach lurched as we started to fall. Actually, fall doesn’t begin to describe our horrifying descent. Plummet was more like it. An endless roaring plunge. My hair whipped at my forehead, the sheer punch of the wind pulling my cheeks back to bare my teeth in a final death-mask travesty of a smile.
I just prayed that the expression didn’t stay with me post mortem. Otherwise, although I was unquestionably about to die young, it seemed I was destined not to leave a beautiful corpse.
Then we bottomed out, the rollercoaster squatting into the compression. Before I’d time to be thankful I’d survived another first drop we crested a small rise and bowled into a left-hander so severe the wheels of the open car I was riding in seemed to bounce right out of their tracks and shimmy sideways towards the outside of the bend. Beyond the token piece of safety railing, it had to be at least fifty feet to the ground.
The coaster was constructed out of what had looked to my dubious eyes like a hastily nailed-together clutch of old railway sleepers. I tried to tell myself they were checked, religiously, every day, that the theme park owners would be fools to let anything happen to their paying customers. But in the back of my mind I could already hear the sober voice-over of the dramatic reconstruction after the accident.
And surely even wooden coasters weren’t supposed to rattle and shudder this much? We were vibrating so hard my eyesight was blurred. The graunching of timbers as we thundered over them was like the crepitus of broken bones grinding against each other. I knew without a doubt that the damned thing was shaking itself to pieces right underneath us. I could picture each popping nail.
Another bruising turn, another sudden downward swoop that left me tightening my grip on the handle on the seat back in front of me. The chicken bar. As we’d climbed the first lift hill I’d mentally sworn that, no matter what, I would not give in and grab hold of it. Right now I didn’t care.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelped.
In the seat alongside, Trey Pelzner stopped waving his arms in the air and whooping just long enough to throw me the kind of utterly contemptuous glance that only fifteen-year-old boys can truly master.
Oh man, it said. You are so old.
I’d spent the last few days trying to be cool in front of the kid. Trying to be on his level. Trying to be his friend. Someone he really didn’t mind hanging out with instead of grudging, enforced company.
Wipeout.
***
Having started to go downhill, things took on a momentum all of their own. Much like a rollercoaster, I suppose. But without the ups.
In this case, the line of cars was grabbed by its final set of brakes and we slowly clattered back into the station. Had we not paid fifty dollars a head for the privilege of getting into the park, torture sessions like this would have been banned by the Geneva Convention.
As soon as the thrills ceased, Trey’s animation went with it. He dropped back into morose silence like someone had just unplugged him. If sullen equated to cool, then he was the coolest kid there by miles.
I’d already sussed out enough ride etiquette to know that you were supposed to look bored to tears on the way in and out. It was only during the minute or so of terror that masqueraded as fun were you allowed to squeal and wave your arms. In fact, it was almost obligatory. Holding on for grim death was the ultimate faux pas. In teenage terms, I’d just ordered Pot Noodle at a three-star Michelin restaurant.
The cars stopped, the lap bars unlocked, and we followed the distorted tannoy directions
to please exit to the right, being sure to take all our personal belongings with us. I did my best not to snarl at the manically cheery additional instruction that we were to enjoy the rest of our day here at Adventure World, Florida!
We were carefully funnelled through the ride-related gift store on the way out. The park’s designers had been masters of merchandising as much as the harnessing of kinetic energy. Mostly it seemed that these places were stocked with the same array of hats and shirts as at the other attractions in the park, allowing the wearer to proclaim to the world that they’d ridden and survived.
It wasn’t just a kiddy trap, either. I’d noticed people who should have been old enough to know better riding the rides and buying the T-shirts. If age isn’t supposed to bring sense it should at least have brought a little dignity.
As for Trey, he seemed determined to flick through every single rack of clothing. Perhaps he’d seen me rubbing the goose bumps on my arms and just wanted to make me stay out of the sun that bit longer. I’d come to Florida told to expect temperatures in the eighties, even in March, but nobody had warned me about the air conditioning. Every store and restaurant had the dial set so low that if let your drink stand for long enough ice formed on the top.
“Hey, I want one of these.”
I sighed, moving away from the door with its promise of baking heat just a few feet outside. Trey was near the back of the store by a rack of leather jackets, holding one up by the collar. It was glossy black, with the Adventure World logo beautifully embroidered across the back panel. A lovely piece of work, and no doubt worth every cent of the three hundred and fifty dollar price tag I could see dangling from the cuff. Except for the fact that it was at least four sizes too big.
Before we’d set out from the house that morning, Trey’s father, Keith Pelzner had handed me a folded wedge of cash with the casual instruction that I should buy the boy whatever he wanted.
“Anything?” I’d asked, riffling my thumb across the edges of the bills and realising just how many of them were hundreds.
He’d shrugged. “Yeah, sure,” he’d said, with the air of someone whose current financial status means that large amounts of money can be frittered on an adolescent whim. But even he had paused at the open doubt in my voice, and grinned at me as he’d added, “Within reason.”
Now, I eyed Trey for a second to see if he was joking, but there was nothing funny in the mulish scowl. Mind you, the braces he wore to coach his teeth into perfect alignment would probably have been enough to wipe the smile off anyone’s face.
“OK,” I said, neutral. “Let’s see it on.”
Trey’s glower deepened, but he slipped the jacket off its hanger and climbed into it. Climbed being the operative word. He was a skinny runt of a kid and both of us would have fitted inside the body and still got the zip done up without having to hold our breath first. His fingers never hit the end of the sleeves until he shoved the cuffs right back. Then the leather bunched up round his thin biceps like a Victorian leg-of-mutton costume.
I was careful not to smile, tilting my head on one side as though giving the jacket serious consideration. “Looks a touch on the big side,” I offered at last.
Trey sighed, rolling his eyes and shifting his feet like that was the most pathetic excuse he’d ever heard for denying him something so vital. “It’s the smallest they’ve got,” he threw back at me, like that settled it.
“Trey, it doesn’t fit you,” I said, all reasonable. “If you really want a leather jacket, let’s look in one of the other—”
The bottom lip came out. The sigh had become a noisy gush. If it wasn’t for the rampant teenage acne that peppered his face like woodchip wallpaper, he would have looked about twelve.
“I – want – this – one,” he said, speaking very slowly and with great scorn. I’d heard him address the Hispanic maids at the house the same way, obviously taking it for granted that their grasp of English wasn’t up to any more than basic cleaning instructions. To my immense disappointment, none of them had ever slapped his legs for it.
I glanced round. Even the assistant was taking notice, I saw, edging out from behind the counter to fuss over straightening a display of polo shirts that was strategically between us and the door. One of the other customers, a youngish good-looking guy in designer Oakley sunglasses and a New York Yankees baseball cap, was two racks down doing a poor job of trying to pretend he wasn’t listening in. I moved in close to Trey, stuck my face into his.
“It – doesn’t – fit – you,” I said between my teeth, matching my delivery to his. “You’re not having it.”
“Dad said you had to buy me anything I wanted.”
“He said within reason,” I shot back, aware that for years I’d heard adults in supermarkets talking to their offspring in just the same tone of tightly controlled but thin patience. I’d never really understood it until now. I tried again. “It drowns you and it makes you look like a prat. Put it back.”
The word “prat” doesn’t have any particular meaning to your average American schoolkid, but he caught the gist and knew I hadn’t meant it as a compliment. For a moment I thought we were going to have a major showdown right there. Either that or he was going to lie full length on the ground and beat his fists into the carpet. Instead he glared at me for a second longer, his face starting to flush pink round his collar. I knew I’d beaten him at that point, but at what cost?
He scrabbled out of the jacket as though he suddenly hated the thing, flicked me one last, insolent, knowing look, and deliberately dumped it at my feet. Then he stepped over it and sauntered out of the store.
I waited just long enough to get a grip on my temper, picked the jacket up again and put it back on its hanger on the rail. The assistant came hurrying over to check she wouldn’t have to make me pay up under the ‘you break it, you bought it’ rule, but fortunately there was no harm done. On my way out even the guy in the designer shades flashed me a commiserative smile.
I found Trey waiting for me outside, sulking, hands jammed deep into the pockets of his baggy knee-length shorts. He could barely bring himself to look at me. I wanted to shake him.
The track of the coaster dipped to within twenty feet directly above our heads and just then a line of cars swooped through another sequence. Their passing was heralded by a howling like wind through canyons. The note rose and fell as they rode the tracks, accompanied by the mock screams and squeals of unreal fear from people who do not know what it is to be truly afraid.
When I looked back at Trey I was relieved to note that most of the pout had left his face. I never thought that having the memory span of a goldfish would turn out to be a virtue in a kid.
“So,” I said, “do you want to look for another jacket?” Hell, why not? After all, it wasn’t my money we were spending.
“Nah,” the little brat shrugged. “I kinda, like, changed my mind about that.” He smiled at me, all glinting metalwork and coloured plastic.
I fell for it long enough to smile back. “OK,” I said, trying to get things back onto at least the semi-friendly footing we’d had before. “What now? You fancy something to eat?”
“Nah, not yet,” he said, and the smile developed harder overtones. He nodded to the track above us. “I think I’d like to ride this one a few more times first.”
Without waiting for a reaction, he turned and made for the entrance to the ride again, leaving me standing there with my own smile fading rapidly.
Oh yeah, smart thinking, Fox. Next time, just keep your mouth shut and buy him the damned jacket.
***
It took another four runs on the wooden coaster before even a fanatic like Trey had had enough. At least by the time I’d endured that, I wasn’t scared of us crashing any more. In fact, I was praying for a serious malfunction of some kind. Anything to make it stop, and I would even have accepted major injury as the trade-off.
Particularly if it happened to my charge.
Maybe I was just getting better at h
iding my panic but, when we climbed out after that fourth turn, Trey didn’t immediately head for the repeat rider queue. I knew better than to provoke him by asking if he was done, so I followed him in silence as we wandered away from the timber colossus.
“I’m hungry,” he announced, reproachful, like I was the one who’d been keeping him away from nourishment in order to satisfy my own hedonistic urges.
I resisted an urge of a different kind, one that would have involved swift contact between the back of my hand and the side of his head, and shepherded him into the nearest group of restaurants. According to the menu boards they served a whole range of stuff that sounded surprisingly good for that kind of venue, including taco, Caesar, or garden salads, chili beef, and baked potatoes.