Bodyguard: Ambush (Book 3)

by Chris Bradford

  ‘C’est trop dangereux ici!’ she was saying, pulling at Amber’s arm to leave.

  Amber shook her head. ‘Non! D’abord nous devons trouver Henri.’

  Scanning the rebel camp, Connor began to search for her brother among the groups of bone-tired, mud-smeared workers. If Blaze was here, there was a strong chance Henri would be too.

  ‘There he is!’ he gasped, pointing past a sad collection of tarpaulin shelters to a waif-like boy staggering across the rocky riverbed. Henri’s red hair and pale skin made him easily identifiable among the other enslaved workers as he struggled to carry a heavy bucket of earth. After stumbling a few more metres, he dropped the bucket, hunching over, clearly fighting for breath.

  ‘He needs his inhaler,’ cried Amber, her fingers clutching at the medicine in her pocket.

  Then they watched in horror as the boy soldier with the red beret – No Mercy, as Blaze had called him – strode over and raised a bamboo cane high above Henri’s head. Henri cowered at the threat, picking up the bucket and tottering a few more paces before collapsing again.

  ‘He could die if they force him to go on,’ said Amber, her face paling in shock at the state of her brother.

  As No Mercy began to beat Henri with the cane, she let out a stifled cry and rose from behind their hiding-place.

  ‘No!’ hissed Connor, grabbing her arm and pulling her back down. He pointed to a rebel soldier standing guard on an outcrop of rock further down the slope. ‘We wait until dark.’

  Connor peered through the undergrowth at the rebels’ camp. In the pale light of a waning moon, he spotted several guards patrolling the perimeter, their weapons slung lazily over their shoulders. The rest of General Pascal’s soldiers were gathered round glaringly bright kerosene lamps, drinking, smoking and playing cards. A row of canvas tents formed the centre of the camp from which hardcore rap music blared out of a ghetto-blaster, the heavy beat pulsating through the valley. Further downstream, fires dotted the ravaged banks of the river where clusters of enslaved workers lay exhausted beneath ragged tarpaulin shelters.

  That was where Henri would most likely be. If he was still alive.

  The hours to dusk had been the longest Connor had ever experienced in his lifetime. The image of Henri being beaten and forced to work while fighting for breath had played over and over in his mind. But he knew that striding into the rebels’ camp in broad daylight would have been tantamount to signing their own death warrants. So they’d descended part-way back down the hillside to bide their time, Zuzu cooking the dik-dik straight on the embers of an open fire for an early dinner while Amber sat silent, her knees clasped to her chest.

  As soon as the sun had dropped below the horizon, the three of them returned to the hilltop, then worked their way down into the hidden valley. Zuzu had been careful to avoid any rebel lookouts, a task made easier as the light rapidly faded. But this also meant the jungle trails were now pitch-black, making the route treacherous under foot, and Connor doubted they’d have reached the bottom of the valley without Zuzu to guide them.

  ‘Can you see Henri?’ whispered Amber, who crouched next to Connor in the darkness, Zuzu on his other side.

  Connor shook his head. ‘Stay here. I’ll find him.’

  ‘Don’t forget this,’ said Amber, passing him the inhaler. As he took it from her, she gave his hand an anxious squeeze.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll get him back, I promise.’

  As he was rising, Zuzu tapped him on the shoulder and signed for him to wait. Scooping up some mud, she smeared his face and arms until his skin was all but blackened. ‘Camouflage,’ she whispered.

  ‘Good thinking,’ he replied.

  Connor waited for a guard to go by, then crept from the cover of the bushes and into the rebels’ camp. His heart raced as he clambered down the riverbank. With nothing to hide him but the moonlit darkness and his improvised camouflage, Connor felt very exposed and prayed he wouldn’t be spotted. The riverbed was a patchwork of puddles and pits, loose gravel and thick mud. His boots sank into the soft ground, slowing his progress, and he was still negotiating his way across when a boy soldier suddenly appeared on the opposite bank. Connor dropped into a shallow pit, flattening himself in the dirt as the boy approached. The rebel stopped only a couple of metres from where Connor was hiding.

  Had the boy seen him?

  Connor pressed himself further into the earth, his heart in his mouth as he waited for the alarm to be raised or a gun to be put to his head. A still-glowing cigarette butt landed by Connor’s face, ashes spurting into his eyes. Connor tried not to cough as acrid smoke wafted up his nostrils. Blinking away the ash, he glanced up, half-expecting to see the boy’s face leering down at him, but all he could hear was the splash of water as the soldier relieved himself before heading back along the bank to rejoin his companions.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Connor crawled out of the pit. Crouching low, he darted up the bank and over to a pile of earth near the workers’ encampment. It was truly a hell on earth. The flickering fires illuminated the haggard faces of men and children, half-dead from exhaustion and hunger, their eyes sunken and their cheeks hollow. The smell of stale sweat from days of hard labour was thick in the air, along with the stench of urine and faeces from the nearby bushes.

  Connor ducked down as another guard strolled past. For no apparent reason, the soldier kicked one of the sleeping workers in the gut. As his victim groaned in shock and pain, the soldier walked off chuckling to himself. Connor realized more than ever that he had to get Henri out. The boy wouldn’t last another day under such treatment.

  He finally spotted Henri, slightly apart from the other men at the back of one of the shelters. He was curled up in the foetal position, his body trembling like a leaf, his strained wheezing for breath cutting through the ragged snores of the other workers.

  Silently Connor crept round, keeping to the shadows and away from the light of the fires. Kneeling beside Henri, he placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder and a finger to his lips. Henri flinched and his eyes widened in horror.

  ‘It’s me, Connor,’ he whispered, realizing his blackened face must look nightmarish to the poor traumatized boy.

  ‘They said … you were dead,’ he rasped.

  ‘Well, I’m not. And neither is your sister.’

  It took a moment for this to sink in, then Henri managed a weak smile. Connor produced the inhaler and helped Henri with it. After a minute or so, his breathing hadn’t eased, so he administered two more doses until gradually the wheezing subsided. Although Henri needed more time to recover, Connor couldn’t risk delaying much longer. A guard could pass by at any second.

  ‘Can you walk?’ he whispered.

  Henri nodded. As Connor pulled him into a sitting position, one of the workers opened his eyes and looked directly at them. Connor froze, waiting to see what the man’s reaction would be.

  ‘C’est mon ami,’ Henri explained.

  The man winked, as if to say their secret was safe with him, and closed his eyes again.

  Henri winced as Connor dragged him to his feet.

  ‘I’m OK,’ he whispered, putting on a brave face.

  Connor could feel the criss-cross of raised welts that the bamboo cane had inflicted upon his body and realized that Henri must be in excruciating pain. Admiring the boy’s courage, he gently placed Henri’s arm over his shoulder and helped him towards the river. As they stumbled through the dug-out pits and waterlogged ditches, Connor glanced back to check there were no guards in sight. Thankfully the rebels still appeared to be absorbed in their card games. Helping Henri up the opposite bank, Connor knew they were going to make it.

  They were almost within reach of the cover of the bushes when there was a shout. All of a sudden torchbeams cut through the darkness like swords. More shouts broke out and for a moment Connor believed they’d been spotted.

  But the alarm hadn’t been raised for them.

  Further upstream Amber
was being frogmarched into the rebel camp at gunpoint.

  Connor bundled Henri into the bushes. They charged along a trail, foliage slapping at their faces in the pitch-darkness. Gunfire roared and the jungle erupted around them, tracer bullets shredding leaves and pulverizing tree trunks. As they ducked the gunfire, Henri’s foot snagged on a root and they both tumbled to the ground. The shouts of the rebels closed in on them. Winded, Connor hauled Henri back to his feet and they stumbled on blindly.

  Connor cursed his luck. He was back to square one, his only achievement being to swap one Principal for the other. But how had Amber been caught? Zuzu must have betrayed them. He realized her superstition of the hill and fearful reaction to the Black Mamba had merely been an act. He should have trusted his gut instinct and overruled Amber, making sure they returned to the lodge.

  But it was too late for hindsight and regret. The jungle was swarming with rebels and survival was all that counted.

  Soldiers crashed through the bushes to the right and left of them, bursts of gunfire lighting up the darkness like firecrackers. Connor, however, sensed some chaos in the rebels’ movements. Their search seemed too widespread and too random for them to be hunting him and Henri specifically. Connor guessed that they didn’t yet know Henri was missing and so the mobilization of soldiers was just a knee-jerk reaction to an unexpected intruder. This might play to their advantage if they could find a place to hide and wait out the haphazard search.

  As they scrambled up a slope, they passed an old tree with a hollowed-out trunk.

  ‘In there,’ Connor instructed, hoping no poisonous insects or snakes had made it their home.

  Henri knelt down and looked inside. ‘But it’s not big enough for us both.’

  ‘It doesn’t need to be. I’m going to rescue your sister.’

  Henri’s eyes widened. ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve yet to figure that out. But I need you hidden from the rebels to do so.’

  Henri reluctantly crawled inside the hollow. Connor covered the entrance with fallen branches and leaves. It wouldn’t fool a tracker, but at night it disguised the hole well enough to pass a cursory inspection.

  Henri peered out. ‘You won’t leave me here, will you?’

  Connor shook his head. ‘No – but, if for any reason I’m not back by dawn, head south to the lodge.’

  Connor could see this prospect terrified him. Removing his Rangeman watch, he reached in and attached it to Henri’s wrist. ‘Press here for the compass,’ he explained. ‘It was a special birthday present, so take good care of it until I return.’

  Henri nodded, the responsibility of the watch appearing to give him some comfort, or at least a sense of purpose.

  With a final check that the hole was completely hidden, Connor doubled back down the trail, being careful to avoid detection by the soldiers still scouring the jungle around him. His aim was to infiltrate their line and find a concealed spot on the riverbank from which to locate Amber. After that –

  The barrel of an AK47 materialized from the darkness and was thrust into Connor’s face.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ he cried, holding up his hands as the boy in the red beret began to squeeze the trigger.

  His eyes flickering open, Connor found himself staring into the face of death for a second time that night. He’d seen it first when the boy soldier had pressed the cold steel barrel of the AK47 against his forehead. Believing his life to be over, a nightmarish vision had flashed before him until, at the very last second, No Mercy had released the pressure on the rifle’s trigger. Instead Connor had received a brutal blow to the jaw with the gun’s stock. When he came to, Connor was confronted by death again. But this time the face was real. Black as coal, with pockmarked skin and fathomless eyes as inhuman as a snake’s, it glared at him with cruel hard intent.

  ‘Où est le garçon?’ it asked him.

  In his dazed state, Connor didn’t answer. His lack of response resulted in a savage slap across his cheek, the blow so hard his head rang like a bell. Blinking back tears of pain, he tried to focus on his tormentor’s face. He was almost blinded by the harsh light from a kerosene lamp, then the Black Mamba himself swam into his vision.

  ‘Où est le garçon?’ General Pascal repeated.

  ‘I … don’t understand,’ Connor murmured.

  ‘Anglais!’ he remarked, raising an eyebrow in surprise. He switched to a heavily accented English. ‘Where’s the boy?’

  ‘What boy?’ Connor replied.

  The general struck him again. Stars flared before his eyes and Connor tasted blood as his lip split. But he’d been knocked around enough in kickboxing class to be able to take a few blows.

  ‘The ambassador’s son. Or do you need another reminder?’ The general raised his hand again to strike.

  Bracing himself for the inevitable pain, Connor didn’t even flinch at the threat. But, rather than hit him, General Pascal broke into a broad grin. ‘I like this one. He’s got spirit,’ he announced to the soldiers encircling them. The general turned back to Connor, propped up against a rock in the heart of the rebel camp. ‘It’s no matter. We’ll find the boy in the morning. I hear from Blaze you’re quite some fighter. Defeating two of my soldiers.’

  Connor glanced over and spotted the rebel he’d kicked into the wait-a-while bush. The man’s face, arms and legs were lacerated with small weeping cuts. Beside him stood Dredd, his mauled arm hanging useless in a bloody bandage at his side, but at least he was alive.

  ‘Let’s have some sport, boys,’ declared General Pascal. ‘I want to see this White Warrior in action for myself. Hornet!’

  He beckoned over a boy soldier wearing a blue New Orleans Hornets T-shirt. Thickset with a heavy brow and a permanent scowl, the boy matched Connor for height but easily out-gunned him in the muscle department. He looked like he’d been raised on a diet of buffalo and pure brutality.

  ‘Let’s see how you fare against my champion.’

  ‘I’ve no desire to fight him,’ said Connor tiredly, aware he probably didn’t have much choice in the matter.

  The general jutted his chin in the direction of Blaze, who stepped into the circle of light, dragging Amber with him. She appeared shaken but unhurt.

  ‘Connor!’ she gasped, rushing forward.

  But Blaze yanked her back, unsheathed his machete and held the blade to her throat.

  General Pascal grinned at Connor. ‘Is that enough incentive for you?’

  A ring of kerosene lamps marked the boundary of the dug-out pit, casting a bright stadium-like glow over the waterlogged ground. Rebel soldiers jostled for position on the edge, eager for a good view of the impending death match between Hornet and the White Warrior.

  Connor glanced up at the hostile crowd. He’d experienced some tough bouts in his rise to becoming UK Junior Kickboxing Champion, but this made each and every one of them seem like a playground fight by comparison.

  On the opposite side of the pit, Hornet pulled off his T-shirt to reveal a rippling six-pack and a multitude of scars, clear evidence that he was a hardened fighter. In his injured and exhausted state, Connor realized his chances of defeating the boy were close to zero. But he refused to let himself think like that. His kickboxing trainer, Dan, had instilled in him an indomitable fighting spirit: The will to win is the way to win.

  Connor went through his pre-match rituals, shaking his limbs loose, stretching and bringing his mind into sharp focus. He knew he couldn’t conquer his opponent through strength, so he’d have to be quicker, more agile and more cunning in his fight strategy. He needed to end it fast and hard.

  ‘This isn’t a dance!’ shouted one of the boy soldiers as Connor limbered up his legs. The crowd burst into mocking laughter.

  Connor ignored the heckle and called up to General Pascal, reclined in a deckchair at the edge of the ring as if he was some Roman emperor. ‘What if I beat your champion?’

  Glugging from a bottle of beer, General Pascal snorted in amusement. ‘If you win, I’ll let the
girl go. If you don’t, then –’ the general shrugged – ‘you won’t be in any state to care what happens to her.’

  Amber stared down at Connor in mute terror as Blaze ran the back edge of his machete across her cheek, goading Connor to react. But this threat to Amber’s life only strengthened Connor’s resolve to fight to his dying breath to save her.

  ‘Let battle begin!’ General Pascal announced, raising his beer bottle in a salute.

  Like a pack of ravenous hyenas, the crowd whooped and whistled their approval.

  Hornet roared straight in, charging across the pit like a bull elephant. Connor stood his ground, poised on the balls of his feet, waiting for the exact moment to make his move. Hornet lowered his head, turning it into a battering ram that would flatten a tank. At the last second Connor sidestepped the boy and simultaneously directed a hammer-fist strike to the base of his skull, targeting a knock-out pressure point just below the right ear.

  Hornet went down as hard and heavy as the buffalo that the Wolf had shot. He slumped face first in the mud. The whooping crowd fell silent, shocked at the impossibly swift defeat of their champion. Then they began to jeer.

  ‘I win,’ declared Connor.

  General Pascal smiled knowingly. ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied, tilting his beer bottle in the direction of his fallen soldier. ‘All you’ve done is make him angry.’

  Connor turned to see Hornet up on his feet, shaking his head clear, and back on the attack. Yelling a battle cry, he swung a sledgehammer of a fist at Connor’s head. With barely time to duck, Connor stepped forward and drove a vertical punch into the boy’s solar plexus. Grunting from the force of the blow, Hornet grew more furious and elbowed Connor in the jaw. Already weakened from No Mercy’s assault with his AK47, Connor was momentarily stunned and reeled away as Hornet pressed his advantage and launched a blistering attack. He hook-punched Connor in the gut, then pummelled him in the lower ribs. Connor gasped as a fist struck home and opened up his stitched wound. Hornet saw the increased flare of pain in Connor’s eyes and struck again.