Bodyguard: Ambush (Book 3)

by Chris Bradford

  At least his sacrifice meant something. He’d protected his Principal with his life. No bodyguard could be asked to do more. He could only hope that Amber would reach the safety of the lodge on her own before any rebels caught up with her.

  Connor continued to struggle, but his actions were becoming weaker and weaker. After all the ordeals he’d faced since the ambush, he had nothing left to give. His limbs were growing heavier, darkness was starting to encroach on his vision and he began to feel light-headed …

  Out of the gloomy waters floated a ghostly apparition of his gran’s face, stern but loving. I want you to quit. Before something terrible happens to you.

  Sorry, Gran, he thought wistfully, too late.

  Her face faded, even as it mouthed the words in reply: At what cost?

  Then a brighter vision appeared. Charley’s angelic features, her long blonde hair shimmering like a mermaid’s. He heard himself say, Yeah, but I’ll survive.

  We’re counting on it, Charley’s vision replied. Listen, I have to go. Stay safe.

  Connor didn’t want her to go; he felt at peace with her. But he had no strength to call her back. All around him was now dark and cold. His mother’s face swam into view. Not the lined, pained face he’d said farewell to after his birthday visit but the younger, happier one of his youth. The one he remembered before his mother was diagnosed with MS. She smiled at him. A sad smile of goodbye. Connor’s heart ached as she too faded and another took its place.

  His father.

  Clearer than ever before, the rugged handsome features were like a well-worn map, his green-blue eyes shining with warmth in the darkness.

  Connor grinned, his heart overwhelmed with joy at seeing him again.

  But his father’s expression remained firm as he whispered a familiar piece of fatherly advice: Never give in. Never give up.

  But I want to be with you, thought Connor.

  Don’t you dare give up, son. It’s not in our nature.

  As his body’s reflexes forced his mouth open and water entered, Connor’s hand brushed against his father’s knife on his hip. Like an electric spark, it revived him – a sliver of hope that spurred one final bid for survival.

  Drawing the knife from its sheath with a hand tingling from numbness, Connor twisted his arm round and jabbed the blade’s tip deep into the open eye of the crocodile. A dark red cloud of blood burst forth and the animal immediately released its vice-like grip on his back. Half-blind and in agonizing pain, the crocodile jerked away and vanished into the murky depths of the river.

  Fighting against his body’s lead-like heaviness, Connor kicked for the surface. His head emerged and he gulped at the air, coughing and spluttering up the mouthful of water he’d swallowed. The hit of fresh oxygen to his lungs brought him round and with wild desperate strokes he swam for the bank.

  Bedraggled and half-dead, he crawled through the muddy shallows. Amber rushed over and helped him to stagger up the steep bank, away from the reach of any crocodiles. But they managed little more than twenty steps before they collapsed together beneath the protective shade of an acacia tree.

  Yellow-breasted weaver birds chirped merrily above the two prone bodies as they flitted in and out of their intricately woven nests, which adorned the tree’s branches like dried fruit. A herd of tawny-coloured impala, the males proudly displaying their long lyre-shaped horns, leisurely strolled past, heading towards the grassy plain to graze. And hippos wallowed in the cool calm waters of the river, occasionally snorting or calling out in a series of deep lazy laughs. With the bright sunshine gilding the savannah, the scene couldn’t appear more idyllic. Yet for the two broken individuals at the base of the tree, the paradise surrounding them was as dangerous and lethal as it was beautiful.

  Connor had no idea how long had passed since Amber had dragged him from the river’s edge, but he had neither the strength nor will to move again. He felt as if he’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer and been knocked out at every ring of the bell. His clothes were caked in mud and torn in several places. He was covered in abrasions and there wasn’t a single part of his body that didn’t either ache or cry out in pain.

  ‘I thought … I’d lost you for good,’ said Amber weakly.

  Connor managed a weary shake of the head. ‘You can’t get rid of me that easily.’

  Amber pushed herself up from the ground and winced, clenching her teeth against the pain.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Connor croaked.

  ‘I think I lost most of my skin escaping that waterfall,’ she replied, lifting her T-shirt to examine the extent of her injuries. ‘More to the point, how are you?’

  ‘I’m alive. Does that count?’

  Amber managed the thinnest of laughs. ‘You’re crazy, do you know that? Fighting crocodiles and leaping off waterfalls. Next time we climb down!’

  ‘Fine by me,’ he replied, closing his eyes as a soft warm breeze blew over them from the open savannah. At least they’d managed to cross the river. He listened to the gentle swishing of the long grasses, content not to move ever again.

  Amber finished inspecting her wounds – the whole of her left side had been scraped red raw on the rocks but nothing appeared to be broken – then she gasped as she caught sight of blood seeping into the earth.

  ‘Connor, you’re bleeding,’ she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.

  Connor opened his eyes, the pain suddenly intensifying as he became conscious of his own injuries. Helping him to sit up, Amber removed the tattered Go-bag from his back and gingerly raised his shirt. Her sea-green eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in shock.

  ‘How bad is it?’ asked Connor, terrified of what damage the crocodile had inflicted.

  ‘There’s barely a scratch on your back!’ she remarked in astonishment. ‘A few nasty bruises. The bandage round your waist has come loose and the bullet wound’s opened up again. But that’s about it.’

  Connor breathed a painful sigh of relief. It was a miracle his spine hadn’t been ripped out.

  ‘I can’t believe that crocodile didn’t do more damage,’ Amber continued, tenderly touching his bare skin with her fingers. ‘I saw it bite into your back!’

  A grin spread across Connor’s face when he realized what had saved him from the animal’s fearsome jaws. ‘The Go-bag has a bulletproof body-armour panel built in,’ he explained. Then, with a laugh, he added, ‘I can’t wait to see the look on Amir’s face when I tell him the bag’s croc-proof too!’

  ‘Amir?’ asked Amber.

  ‘Yeah, one of my best friends at Buddyguard.’ Connor looked thoughtfully off towards the horizon. ‘I just hope he’s faring better on his mission than I am.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be hard,’ said Amber.

  Connor’s gaze dropped to the ground as a sharp stab of guilt and grief pierced his heart. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, unable to meet her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. I promised to protect you and your brother and I’ve failed.’

  Amber stared at him. ‘What are you talking about? You’ve done everything in your power to protect us. Who could have foreseen any of this happening? I only meant your friend couldn’t be suffering as badly as you. It’s not your fault that gunman killed my little brother … and my parents … It’s his!’

  Trembling with fury and deep loss, Amber lapsed into mournful silence. Connor reached over and took her hand, trying to offer her some comfort, conscious that words would have little impact. He knew from bitter experience the emotional devastation of losing a parent. But to have one’s whole family torn from you was something beyond grief. No words could ever describe the desolation experienced after such a loss.

  Amber held his hand tight, almost squeezing the life from it. Then, eventually, her grip eased and she glanced down at his weeping wound.

  ‘We need to take care of that,’ she said in a voice drained of all emotion.

  Amber picked up the ravaged Go-bag, but they didn’t need to open it to see that most of the contents were missing.
A huge hole had been ripped in the side. The binoculars were gone. So too was the water bottle, Lifestraw, sun lotion and Maglite. Yet, by some small grace of good fortune, the first-aid kit was still in its pouch. The case had been mauled to pieces but Amber managed to cobble together enough to re-dress the wound and clean up his multitude of cuts. Then Connor tended to her injuries, Amber wincing as he gently pressed the last of the antiseptic wipes against her grazed skin. The cut on her lip was already healing, but the one on her cheek needed a fresh plaster. As he applied it, their eyes met and he saw that hers were brimming over with tears.

  ‘I loved my brother … you know,’ she confessed, choking back a sob. ‘He could be annoying at times … but what brother isn’t? I just never told him … and now … I’ll never get the chance.’

  Connor and Amber trudged through the brush in silence, heading south once more. Flies buzzed incessantly around them and the sun beat down, its punishing heat unrelenting. They heard gunshots somewhere in the distance, impelling them onward. As they dragged their feet through the long grass, hunger sapping at their strength with every step, their thirst intensified. But without the Lifestraw they didn’t dare drink untreated water from the river, afraid not just of crocodiles but of making themselves ill.

  The only items Connor now possessed were his Rangeman watch – still unblemished; his night-vision sunglasses – a little bent and scratched but serviceable; and his father’s knife. He’d cut away the excess fabric of the Go-bag, leaving the body-armour panel with its straps as a wearable shield in case they encountered the gunmen again.

  Everything else had been lost – even hope.

  But, spurred on by his father’s words, Connor had eventually willed his battered body to rise and begin the long trek across the burning-hot savannah. As he put one weary foot in front of the other, his father’s advice became a mantra in his head – never give in, never give up, never give in, never give up …

  If they could only reach the lodge, their ordeal would be over. For me at least, thought Connor as he glanced back at Amber.

  Her head bowed and her hair hanging like a veil across her tear-stained face, Amber’s spirit was all but broken. Only Connor’s dogged insistence that they keep going, that they didn’t let the gunmen catch them or become carrion for the vultures, impelled her to move. But she was like a zombie, her eyes unfocused, back stooped and arms hanging loose, just shuffling along near the point of collapse.

  Connor knew he looked in an equally bad way. Their fraught escape through jungle, bush and river had taken its toll. With his tattered muddy clothes, innumerable cuts and scrapes, and his half-loping gait due to the painful gash in his side, he would be barely recognizable to his friends in Alpha team. However, the promise of water, food and medical assistance at the lodge kept his spirits up.

  Emerging from the brush into a clearing, Connor checked the bearing on his compass watch to ensure they were still on track. As he looked up to gauge their next landmark, he found himself face-to-face with a buffalo.

  The solitary bull glared at them from the other side of the clearing. The size of a small car and built like a tank, the buffalo was terrifying in its sheer barrel-shaped bulk, the massive curved horns almost a metre across. Flies scattered in a buzzing black cloud as the bull snorted angrily and shook its colossal head.

  Drawing Amber closer to him, Connor took a cautious step back. Confronted by one of the most unpredictable and dangerous animals in Africa, they couldn’t afford to provoke it in any way.

  The old bull stamped a hoof, kicking up dust. Then before they could retreat any further, it released another explosive snort, lowered its head and charged.

  Connor stood his ground, shielding Amber behind him. He simply didn’t have the energy to run. And there were no trees close enough for them to climb out of danger anyway. His only defence was to show no fear in the face of the oncoming bull and pray it was a mock charge.

  But the buffalo continued to thunder towards them like a runaway truck, its nostrils flaring, its battering ram of hardened bone targeted on Connor. They’d done nothing to antagonize the animal. But the beast seemed incensed.

  Amber clung to him, too afraid to flee and too traumatized to cry out.

  Connor squeezed his eyes shut as the bull bore down on them. He could hear the pounding hooves churning up the dirt and tensed in expectation of the bone-crushing impact. He tried not to imagine the crippling pain of being tossed high in the air, a bag of broken bones, or being gored by one of its horns and trampled to death.

  His last act as bodyguard was to shove Amber aside.

  Then a gunshot rang out, followed by two more in quick succession.

  The buffalo was stopped in its tracks and Connor heard a heavy whomp as its mighty body hit the earth. On opening his eyes he was enveloped in a cloud of red dust. As the dust settled, the bull’s head appeared no more than a metre from Connor’s feet, blood streaming from several bullet holes on its neck, shoulder and flank. Its tongue lolled out and its eyes glazed over as the beast let out one final snort and succumbed to death.

  Connor barely had time to register this when a voice with a slight Germanic accent barked, ‘What the hell are you two kids doing out here alone?’

  From a dense thicket strode a white man in an olive-green shirt and knee-length shorts. Stocky, with a severe crewcut and grey-tinged beard, he was reloading a high-calibre bolt-action rifle fitted with a telescopic sight. In his wake trailed a thin black man wearing an earth-brown T-shirt and army surplus trousers, shouldering a canvas pack.

  Connor helped Amber to her feet. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Amber nodded.

  ‘You could have been killed!’ snapped the white man, inspecting the floored buffalo. Satisfied it was dead, he looked them up and down in wonder and horror. ‘My God, what’s happened to you?’

  Judging by the man’s attitude and appearance, he wasn’t one of the rebels and Connor felt safe enough to lower his guard and explain: ‘Our safari convoy –’ he coughed, his throat dry and hoarse with dust – ‘was ambushed by gunmen yesterday.’

  ‘What gunmen are these?’ asked the white man, offering Connor a hip flask of water.

  Connor gulped down several mouthfuls before passing the flask to Amber to have the lion’s share. The water revived him and he felt some of his strength return. ‘Rebel soldiers. Boys too. Possibly they’re the ANL, led by a man known as the Black Mamba.’

  Both men’s faces darkened at the mention of the rebel leader’s name.

  ‘We’ve been on the run ever since,’ Connor continued. ‘My friend here is the daughter of the French ambassador on an official goodwill visit to the park. We believe her parents, along with President Bagaza, have been murdered. So too has her little brother. We need to contact the authorities immediately.’

  With a pitying look at Amber, the white man nodded gravely. ‘This is serious.’

  He said some words to his companion in a language Connor didn’t understand but presumed was the local dialect Kurundi. The black man nodded and hurried off into the bush.

  ‘You’re lucky you ran into us,’ said the white man, turning back to them. ‘Listen, our camp isn’t far from here. Come with me. We’ll get you fed, watered and patched up. Then we’ll sort this out.’

  Both Connor and Amber almost collapsed with relief.

  Against all the odds, they’d been saved.

  ‘My name is Jonas Wolff,’ said the white man as he escorted them through the bush. ‘But my friends call me the Wolf.’

  ‘Thank you for rescuing us, Wolf,’ said Amber.

  ‘It was either that or watching you get trampled to death by a buffalo,’ he replied, his tone matter-of-fact and devoid of humour. ‘Those animals show no pity. They kill more people in Africa than any other large game.’

  ‘I was told hippos were the most dangerous.’

  The Wolf snorted dismissively. ‘The locals don’t call a bull buffalo the Black Death for nothing. And such
beasts don’t go down easily. You’re extremely fortunate that I’m a skilled marksman.’

  As they walked, the Wolf’s eyes constantly scanned the savannah and he kept his rifle primed at all times. Connor was impressed by the man’s vigilance. He was taking the threat of the rebels seriously.

  At the foot of a hill they entered a large copse of trees, pushing through the dense undergrowth until at its heart they came across a small rudimentary camp. Three green tarpaulins were strung between the tree trunks, the makeshift shelters pitched round a fire in the centre of a patch of cleared ground. To one side was a large pile of supplies, partly covered by a tarpaulin, plus several jerrycans of water. Four men, including the one the Wolf had sent on ahead, eyed their arrival with curiosity as they squatted beside the fire where a pot sat amid the glowing embers, its contents steaming.

  ‘First, food and water,’ said the Wolf, gesturing for Amber and Connor to take a seat on a felled log next to the fire. ‘Abel, serve our guests.’

  As Connor and Amber settled down, grateful to rest their weary feet at last, the man in the army surplus trousers lifted the pot’s lid and gave the contents a stir, sending up a mouthwatering waft of braised meat. Abel passed them two tin plates piled high with a thick brown stew. Too hungry to mutter anything more than a quick thanks, Connor and Amber greedily tucked in.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Connor after polishing off his plate and receiving another helping. ‘It’s delicious.’

  ‘Oryx,’ replied the Wolf, offering them both a brimming mug of water each.

  Connor hadn’t heard of the animal but, after eating snake, anything was a treat. He downed the water, ignoring its chlorinated taste, and the Wolf refilled his cup. As Connor drained that too, the Wolf noticed the bloodstain on his left side.

  ‘Let me have a look at that,’ he said.

  Connor took off his shirt, grimacing as pain flared through him.