Bodyguard: Ambush (Book 3)
Read Bodyguard: Ambush (Book 3) Online
Authors: Chris Bradford
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
The Young Samurai series (in reading order)
Available as ebook
In honour of the HGC –
you know who you are!
PUFFIN BOOKS
Praise for the Bodyguard seriesBrilliant 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’
‘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
affected 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.
