Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chris Bradford is a true believer in ‘practising what you preach’. For his award-winning Young Samurai series, he trained in samurai swordsmanship, karate, ninjutsu and earned his black belt in Zen Kyu Shin Taijutsu.
For his new BODYGUARD series, Chris embarked on an intensive close-protection course to become a qualified professional bodyguard. During his training, he acquired skills in unarmed combat, defensive driving, tactical firearms, threat assessments, surveillance, and even anti-ambush exercises.
His bestselling books are published in over twenty languages and have garnered more than twenty-nine children’s book award nominations.
Before becoming a full-time author, he was a professional musician (who once performed for HRH Queen Elizabeth II), songwriter and music teacher.
Chris lives in England with his wife and two sons.
Discover more about Chris at www.chrisbradford.co.uk
Books by Chris Bradford
The Bodyguard series (in reading order)
HOSTAGE
RANSOM
AMBUSH
The Young Samurai series (in reading order)
THE WAY OF THE WARRIOR
THE WAY OF THE SWORD
THE WAY OF THE DRAGON
THE RING OF EARTH
THE RING OF WATER
THE RING OF FIRE
THE RING OF WIND
THE RING OF SKY
Available as ebook
THE WAY OF FIRE
In honour of the HGC –
you know who you are!
PUFFIN BOOKS
Praise for the Bodyguard series
Brilliant Book Award 2014 – Winner
Hampshire Book Award 2014 – Winner
‘Bone-crunching action adventure’
Financial Times
‘Breathtaking action … as real as it gets’
Eoin Colfer, author of the bestselling Artemis Fowl series
‘Bradford has combined Jack Bauer, James Bond, and Alex Rider to bring us the action packed thriller’
Goodreads.com
‘Wholly authentic … the action and pace are spot on. Anyone working in the protection industry at a top level will recognize that the author knows what he’s writing about’
Simon, ex-SO14 Royalty Close Protection
‘A gripping page-turner that children won’t be able to put down’
Red House
‘Will wrestle you to the ground and leave you breathless. 5 Stars’
Flipside magazine
‘A gripping, heart-pounding novel’
Bookaholic
‘The best bodyguard is the one nobody notices.’
With the rise of teen stars, the intense media focus on celebrity families and a new wave of millionaires and billionaires, adults are no longer the only target for hostage-taking, blackmail and assassination – kids are too.
That’s why they need specialized protection …
BUDDYGUARD is a secret close-protection organization that differs from all other security outfits by training and supplying only young bodyguards.
Known as ‘buddyguards’, these highly skilled teenagers are more effective than the typical adult bodyguard, who can easily draw unwanted attention. Operating invisibly as a child’s constant companion, a buddyguard provides the greatest possible protection for any high-profile or vulnerable young person.
In a life-threatening situation, a buddyguard is the final ring of defence.
No Mercy shifted the AK47 assault rifle in his grip. His hands were slick with sweat, the weapon heavy and cumbersome. The jungle around him pulsed with danger, each and every murky shadow hiding a potential enemy. The sun beat down from the African sky above, but its scorching rays struggled to penetrate the dense canopy running wild along Burundi’s northern border. Instead the day’s heat was slowly yet steadily absorbed, like a pressure cooker, turning the jungle into a living hell.
Clouds of mosquitoes buzzed in the humid air and monkeys chattered fearfully in the treetops as No Mercy advanced through the bush alongside his brothers-in-arms. No Mercy was dying for a drink. But he wouldn’t stop – couldn’t stop – not until the general gave the order. So he was forced to lick the sweat from his upper lip in a vain attempt to ease his thirst.
As he trekked towards the rendezvous point, ever watchful for booby traps and old civil-war mines, No Mercy became aware that the monkeys in the trees had gone quiet. In fact the whole jungle had fallen silent. Only the faint inescapable drone of insects remained.
The general held up a closed fist and the troop halted. Scanning the dense vegetation for the threat, No Mercy saw nothing besides towering tree trunks, green vines and thick palm fronds. Then out from behind a tree stepped a white man.
No Mercy thrust his AK47 at him, his finger primed on the trigger.
The white man, his skin more ivory grey than flesh white, didn’t move a muscle. With unblinking eyes, he surveyed the band of rebel soldiers in mismatching uniforms and aid-distributed T-shirts, along with their ageing and rusted weapons. Finally his unflinching glare fell upon No Mercy pointing the AK47 at his chest.
To No Mercy, the white man was something almost alien, totally out of place in the heart of the jungle. Dressed in a spotless olive-green shirt, cargo trousers and black combat boots, he didn’t seem affe
cted by the stifling heat at all. He wasn’t out of breath, let alone sweating. Even the mosquitoes appeared to be giving him a wide berth. The stranger was like a lizard, cold-blooded and inhuman.
No Mercy kept the barrel of his assault rifle targeted on the man’s chest. His finger itched to pull the trigger. Just one word, even the slightest nod, from the general and he would blast the man away in a hailstorm of bullets. That’s how he’d earned his warrior name, ‘No Mercy’, for killing without remorse or pity.
General Pascal stepped forward from among his band of soldiers. As intimidating and large as a silverback gorilla, the Burundian general was a head taller than the white man. He wore army fatigues and a beret as red as fresh blood. His dark pockmarked face sent shudders of fear through the local villagers who knew him, and his fists bore the calloused scars of countless beatings that he’d personally inflicted upon those same villagers.
‘Dr Livingstone, I presume?’ said the general, his pencil-thin moustache curling up into an unexpected and disarming smile.
‘You have a sense of humour, General,’ the white man replied without any trace of having one himself. ‘Now tell your boy soldier to lower his gun before he gets himself killed.’
No Mercy bristled at the insult. He may have been fifteen, but age meant nothing when you had the authority of a firearm.
The general waved at him to stand down. Reluctantly No Mercy did as he was ordered, pouting his lower lip in a sulk. The AK47 hung limp from its strap, looking like an oversized yet deadly toy against the young boy’s side.
‘Do you have the stone?’ the stranger asked.
General Pascal snorted. ‘You white men! Always straight down to business.’ He looked the man up and down. ‘On that point, where are my guns?’
‘Stone first.’
‘Don’t you trust me, Mr Grey?’
The white man didn’t respond. This unsettled No Mercy even more. The fact that the stranger showed no fear in the presence of the general made him either unbelievably brave or unbelievably stupid. General Pascal had hacked the hands off people for lesser crimes than failing to answer a direct question. Then No Mercy was struck by a terrible and chilling thought. This Mr Grey was somehow more dangerous than the general himself.
General Pascal nodded to No Mercy. ‘Show him the stone.’
No Mercy pulled out a grimy cloth bag from the pocket of his oversized camo-jacket. He passed it to Mr Grey, careful not to touch the man’s ashen skin. Mr Grey emptied the contents of the bag into his hand. A large rock with a pale pink hue fell into his open palm. Taking out an eyeglass, he inspected the rather unassuming stone. After some consideration, he declared, ‘This is of poor quality.’
The general let out a booming laugh that shattered the silence of the jungle. ‘Don’t take me for a fool, Mr Grey. You and I both know this is a very valuable pink diamond.’
Mr Grey made the pretence of re-evaluating the stone, the power play between the two men all part of the negotiation process. He sighed with some reluctance. ‘It’ll cover your first shipment of weapons,’ he agreed, then casually added, ‘Are there more where this came from?’
The general graced him with another of his disarming smiles. ‘More than you could dream of.’
‘Have you secured the area the diamonds are in?’
‘Not as yet,’ admitted the general. ‘But with your guns we will.’
Mr Grey pocketed the stone. ‘Equilibrium will supply the weapons you need on condition that once you’ve seized power they’re granted sole mining rights. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ said General Pascal, offering his meaty slab of a hand.
Seemingly loath to take it, Mr Grey nonetheless extended his own hand.
No Mercy watched the two men shake on the deal. Then his heart leapt in surprise as the jungle erupted with the roar of engines. Two immense military trucks bulldozed their way along an overgrown dirt track. Their rear trailers contained an armoury of brand-new AK47s, Browning heavy machine guns, rocket-propelled grenades, mortars and box upon box of ammunition.
‘Double-cross us,’ warned Mr Grey over the thunder of engine noise, ‘and your civil war will be nothing compared to what we’ll do to you and your men.’
Still smiling, the general replied, ‘Same goes for you, my friend, same for you and yours.’
‘Then we are in business,’ replied Mr Grey, melting back into the jungle.
Connor was violently woken by a bag being thrust over his head. As he gasped for breath, the thick black fabric smothering all light, strong hands pinned his arms and legs behind his back. He fought to free himself. But plastic zip-ties were quickly fastened round his wrists and ankles, binding him tight.
‘Let me go!’ he cried, thrashing wildly in a desperate bid to escape. Wrenched from a deep sleep, his mind was a whirl of confusion and blind panic. Lashing out, his heel struck one of his captors and he heard a grunt of pain.
More hands seized Connor, yanking him upright. As he was hauled from the room, his trainers dragging across the carpet, he screamed, ‘HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!’
But no one answered his call, his cries muffled by the bag.
All of a sudden Connor was hit by a blast of ice-cold air as his captors bundled him outside. Heart pounding and body trembling from the shock of the attack, Connor knew that if he was to survive this ordeal he had to get a grip on himself. During his bodyguard training in hostage survival, he’d learnt that the first thirty minutes of any abduction were the most dangerous. The kidnappers were on edge and highly volatile.
Although it goes against every human instinct, his instructor Jody had explained, this is the time to stay calm and stay sharp. Be aware of anything that could provide a clue to your whereabouts or your kidnappers’ identity.
Feet crunched on gravel. Three sets, Connor noted, trying in some small way to take control of the situation. He heard the boot of a car being opened. A moment later he was dumped in the back and it was slammed shut with an ominous thunk.
No, it isn’t a car, Connor corrected himself. He’d been lifted not dropped into the luggage compartment. The deep throaty rumble of a powerful diesel engine confirmed his suspicions. It’s a 4x4.
Wheels spun on gravel as the vehicle roared away. His body flung around, Connor’s head struck the rear panel with a crunch. Stars burst before his eyes and pain flared in his skull. Any last vestiges of grogginess were wiped out in an instant.
Someone must have seen me being taken, thought Connor, his mind now sharp. Someone will raise the alert.
The wheels hit tarmac. The vehicle banked left, before accelerating away fast. With the bag still over his head, Connor attempted to visualize the route his abductors were taking. He carefully counted off the seconds before the next turn.
Sixty-seven … sixty-eight … sixty-nine … The 4x4 took a hard right. Connor began counting again, building up a crude map in his head. He felt the vehicle rise and fall as they passed over a small bridge. He continued his count … twenty-four … twenty-five … twenty-six …
Connor was totally baffled by his abduction. Usually it was the Principal, the person he was assigned to protect, who was the target for a kidnapping. Surely his captors had made a mistake? Got the wrong person? Besides, he wasn’t even on an official mission. Then an uncomfortable truth struck Connor: perhaps his kidnappers had indeed snatched the right person.
Crumpled in a heap against the rear panel, Connor shifted position to create a space for his hands. The ties round his wrists and ankles were digging painfully into his flesh, cutting off the circulation. He tried to pull a hand free, but the zip-ties were heavy-duty and the plastic just cut deeper into his skin. However hard he strained, they simply wouldn’t break.
At a count of forty-seven, the vehicle swung right. Then barely ten seconds later bore left. And soon after that left again. By the sixth turn, Connor’s mental map had become a confused mess. It seemed like the 4x4 was going in circles, as if his captors were purposefully trying to disori
entate him. Connor now tried to listen above the noise of the road for any conversation in the vehicle. He hoped to gain some insight into his abductors’ identity: accent, language, gender, even a name. But they all stayed disturbingly silent. From this Connor deduced they were professionals. They had to be in order to break into Buddyguard HQ undetected.
Maybe my kidnapping’s connected with a previous mission?
The best he could hope for was that his captors intended to ransom him. That way he’d be worth more to them alive than dead. But if they wanted to interrogate him, or use him as a pawn in some political or religious protest, then he’d likely be killed. In that case he would risk an escape attempt.
Whatever his abductors’ intentions, he needed to find out as soon as possible – his life could depend upon it.
The 4x4 ground to a halt and the engine was switched off. The back door opened and he was manhandled out. A gusting wind sent a chill through his body, his T-shirt offering little protection against the winter freeze. Gripped tightly on either side by his captors, Connor detected the faintest trace of perfume through the bag. Was one of the abductors a woman?
‘Where are you taking me?’ asked Connor, his voice now steady and calm, hoping that the woman would respond.
But his kidnappers remained tight-lipped as they escorted him away from the 4x4. They moved briskly, not allowing Connor to find his feet. He heard the soft swish of a door sliding open, a welcoming warmth embraced him, and the ground changed from tarmac to cushioned carpet. As he was borne deeper into the building, Connor caught the aroma of frying onions and the distant clatter of pots and pans. Heading away from what he presumed was a kitchen, he was dragged several more paces before being shoved into a chair. Its hard wooden slats dug painfully against his bound hands, but at least he could plant his feet on the floor. Connor tried to sit up straight to maintain some dignity before his anonymous enemies, at the same time readying himself to spring into action at the first opportunity.
The place he’d been brought to was oddly quiet, indicating that other people were there with him.
When nobody spoke, Connor demanded, ‘Who are you? What do you want with me?’
Bodyguard: Ambush (Book 3) Page 1