by RJ Bailey
Have you read the first fast-paced, unputdownable thriller featuring Sam Wylde?
SAFE
FROM
HARM
YOU CAN RUN
Sam Wylde is a Close Protection Officer to the rich and powerful. In a world dominated by men, being a woman has been an advantage. And she is the best in the business at what she does.
YOU CAN HIDE
She takes a job protecting the daughter of the Sharifs – Pakistani textile tycoons – but she realises that there is more to their organisation than meets the eye and suddenly she finds herself in danger.
BUT ONLY ONE PERSON WILL KEEP YOU SAFE FROM HARM
Now she is trapped underground, with no light, no signal and no escape. Dangerous men are coming to hurt her and the young charge she is meant to be protecting. With time running out, can she channel everything she knows to keep them alive?
Like most people on The Circuit – the ad-hoc and often fractious fellowship of Personal Protection Officers worldwide – I am very good at packing. I take a modular approach, with the commonest essentials already encased in plastic sleeves in my wardrobe to be laid into the suitcase in the appropriate order. And there is always a Ready To Go pack, too, filled with the tools of my trade – spare batteries, travel plug, solar charger, camera, lightweight jacket, wash kit, broad-spectrum antibiotics, a supply of various currencies, tampons and a first-aid kit with haemostatic packs. This time, though, the packing seemed to be getting away from me.
When I had first tossed the Tumi suitcase on the bed and unzipped it, the inside had seemed cavernous. Now, after placing in the jeans, day and evening dresses and the one-piece Chloe jumpsuit (what Paul called my Mission Impossible To Get Into outfit), it seemed to be imploding like something out of Stephen Hawking’s imagination. The black hole of the interior was definitely shrinking.
‘I’m going to need a bigger suitcase,’ I shouted, looking at the pile of clothes still on the bed. I don’t usually bother with hold luggage when I’m flying and working, but at least two of the travelling party were putting suitcases in the belly of the beast and that removed any advantage of carry-on.
‘What have you got?’
I turned to look at Paul, my husband, who was pulling on a waxed cotton jacket over a shirt and jeans.
‘What’s this? Dress-down Tuesday?’ I asked.
He shrugged and smiled, his eyes crinkling. On me, those lines just looked like age. On him, they looked cute. He was more than ten years older than me – he could see the forces of fifty massing on the hills for an attack and his hair was now evenly balanced between dark and grey – but I couldn’t help feeling that, by some freak of nature, I was busy catching up with him.
‘How much have you got on?’ he repeated.
‘One reception, one lunch, two dinners,’ I recited. ‘Two cocktail parties and a fundraiser. Plus two TV shows and a radio. Dressy was the word that came down from on high.’
‘I hear they have shops in America,’ he said, snaking his arms around my waist.
‘I hear that too,’ I said, unwrapping his hands. ‘It’s time I won’t have.’ I gave a sigh, thinking about the next five days and the plans that had crumbled to dust before our very eyes when the work call came for me. ‘I can’t believe we managed to lose Jess for a whole week and Elena for five days of those and here I am packing for the States.’
Elena was our au pair, who was heading home to Estonia to see her family. Paul turned me, stepped in close and gave me a quick darting kiss on the cheek before leaning back. I caught a hint of the Tom Ford I had bought him for Christmas. ‘We could always . . .’
I knew that look. Paul was no different from every other man.
‘Let’s be clear, dear,’ I said quickly. ‘There’s no chance of one last fuck in case my plane goes down so you can always remember me that way. Have a wank on me.’ That didn’t come out quite like I intended, so I put a finger to his lips.
Those eyes crinkled again. ‘Shields up already?’
He was referring to my psychological barriers, which come down to block out all extraneous emotions when I’m working. Nothing, apart from the job in hand, gets through to me. I’m hardly alone in that. How can a nurse work with dying people all day long and still function? How do firemen face the next day after carrying an asphyxiated child from a house? What about the cops who have to trawl through some depraved bastard’s computer looking at . . .
We all have shields. And Paul was right. Mine were already clicking into place.
‘Yup.’
I disentangled myself with a slight reluctance and looked at the case again.
‘Do you really need three pairs of shoes?’ he offered.
‘Trainers and two flats.’ I’m lucky to be tall enough to get away with flats, even at the formal dinners. I have colleagues on The Circuit who swear by heels with scored soles for grip. Not me. If I have to run, I want something on my feet that won’t snap and that sticks to the floor like octopus suckers. It’s why I tend to favour floor-length clothes for formal events, just in case someone wonders why I’m not in needle-heeled Louboutins like everyone else. ‘And if that’s the best you’ve got, I’ll figure this out myself. Get going.’ I looked him up and down. ‘Where you off to anyway?’
He wouldn’t be wearing such a casual outfit if he were heading for the Civil Nuclear Constabulary HQ near Oxford. He’d be in either a dark suit and tie or full CNC uniform, depending on the occasion.
‘A few house calls to make. And I’ve got to pop in at St John’s Wood on the way.’
He said it matter-of-factly, but I knew what St John’s Wood meant. A weapon was to be drawn. It was my turn to step in close. ‘Is there trouble?’
Paul shook his head. ‘Just routine, ma’am. Then I’m off for the rest of the week, remember? All on my lonesome.’ He gave me a kiss on the forehead – I might be tall but he was taller still. It was one of the things I liked about him straight away – no more hunched shoulders and cricked necks stooping down to be at the same level as men of average height.
‘Look, I’ll call you, let you know I got there safely, eh?’
‘WhatsApp me. It’s free.’ Paul was always bang on the pulse of technology, whereas I definitely dragged behind the beat.
‘Of course. You’ll be all right?’ I asked, feeling a wave of affection for him crash over the shields and take me by surprise.
‘It will be a feast of China Garden and the Tiffin Hut.’ Paul was a good cook, but he drew the line at preparing meals for one when both Jess and I were away. When I returned there would be a forest’s-worth of takeaway leaflets on the fridge, neat circles around the numbers of his favourites. ‘And I’ll be here when Jess gets back from her sleep-over, for sure,’ he added. ‘So don’t worry.’
‘I won’t. Love you,’ I said, hoping he knew I meant it, despite my next comment. ‘Now fuck off and leave me alone.’
I pretended to fuss over my packing until I heard the sound of Paul’s car starting and then let out a long, slow breath. In truth, part of me didn’t like travelling, didn’t enjoy leaving home, hated those bloody barriers I had to put between us. But I knew it was the wrench of closing the door behind me that was the hardest part. Once I was in that car on the way to Heathrow, I began looking only forward, to doing my job and doing it well, the shields locked solid.
But there was a craving to hear Jess’s voice before I put her aside for a few days. I punched in her number but it came up busy. Of course it would be. Chatting shit, as Paul put it. I’d already had to have words about the size of her bill. Her response? Well, apparently all her friends have unlimited-minutes contracts. What cruel, cruel parents we are, I thought. But I smiled inwardly at those big imploring eyes of hers and the round, as-yet-unformed face, due to change as womanhood began to exert its influence. It had started already. The rocky shores of adolescence were ahead, the treacherous shoals of Hormonal Bay. I hoped we wouldn’t get wrecked on them. I tried her one more time, sent a text
, and let the shields click fully into place.
I pulled out the trouser suit and put it to one side. I could always double up on one of the outfits. After all, it was unlikely I’d end up in Mail Online with a split picture: ‘Unknown Woman Wears Same Outfit Twice’. And besides, Paul was right. They did have shops over there.
Then my mobile rang. It was Jess, panic and shame laced through her voice.
It had begun.
The second action-packed thriller featuring Sam Wylde . . .
NOBODY
GETS
HURT
Bodyguard Sam Wylde has had her British licence revoked. She is now operating in Europe, running security on a swanky motor yacht during the Historic Grand Prix race. And at the same time she trawls for news of her ex-husband and daughter.
In fact, the owner of the boat is bankrupt and the bank wants the multi-million-dollar vessel back. Sam is in the middle of a very dangerous situation that is rapidly escalating out of control.
Alongside her partner Konrad, Sam has to fight enemies on all fronts. But will they too find themselves on opposite sides when it comes to the final showdown?
Nobody Gets Hurt. If only that were true.
Also by RJ Bailey
Safe From Harm
Nobody Gets Hurt
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2019
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © RJ Bailey, 2019
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Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-7398-1
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-7399-8
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