Bodyguard: Ransom (Book 2) (5 page)

‘You mean, like Captain Jack Sparrow?’ said Jason, trying hard to suppress a grin.

‘No, he means
real
pirates,’ replied Colonel Black. ‘Somali pirates, to be exact. And they’re no joke. Forget your image of Johnny Depp with an eye patch and a parrot on his shoulder. Today’s modern pirates use high-powered motorboats and are armed to the teeth with AK47s and RPGs – rocket-propelled grenade launchers.’

To prove the colonel’s point, Amir played a jerky video clip of a narrow white-and-blue skiff cutting through the waves at high speed. Crouched on board were seven young African men wielding automatic rifles. The
crack
of gunfire could be heard above the furious roar of the skiff’s outboard motor. A pirate in the bow held a rocket launcher trained on an unseen target. Connor and the others watched in stunned silence as the RPG scorched through the sky towards the cameraman. The picture juddered as the cameraman ducked in panic, but somehow he still managed to track the RPG’s trajectory as it rocketed past the bridge of the ship.

The clip abruptly ended.

No one said a word, their image of the roguish yet lovable pirate from Hollywood movies shattered by this violent reality.

‘Fortunately, a warship was within range and came to the cargo ship’s rescue,’ the colonel revealed to everyone’s relief. ‘But all too often these pirates do succeed in hijacking a vessel and holding it – and its crew – for ransom.’

A graphics chart appeared on the screen with columns of coloured blocks rapidly increasing in height like an ever-steepening staircase before plummeting in the last period.

‘As you can see,’ said Amir, pointing to the screen, ‘the annual number of pirate attacks has soared in the last six years, from fifty-five to almost three hundred at its peak. Ransom demands have also risen. Five years ago the asking price was three hundred thousand dollars. Now it’s as much as twenty
million
dollars and beyond.’

Richie whistled through his teeth. ‘We’re obviously in the wrong job.’

‘The problem is,’ said Amir, ‘success breeds success. Pirate gangs have become more organized and turned piracy into a full-blown business. Already this year there have been forty-two attempted hijackings and six ships taken hostage. A decrease on last year, but still worrying.’

‘If that’s the case,’ questioned Ling, ‘why are we sailing in this area
at all
?’

‘A fair point,’ agreed the colonel. ‘But, while the dangers are apparent, the risks are relatively low, as Amir will now explain.’

Amir brought up Charley’s map of the Indian Ocean again. ‘Although attacks have occurred up to a thousand nautical miles from the Somalian coast, the majority are concentrated along the International Recommended Transit Corridor in the Gulf of Aden.’ He pointed to a wide passage of water separating Somalia in the south from Yemen to the north. Then, indicating a stretch of ocean far to the south-east, he continued, ‘The planned route for Mr Sterling’s yacht won’t go anywhere near the danger zone.’

‘But wasn’t an elderly British couple taken hostage near the Seychelles some years back?’ asked Connor, vaguely recalling the media coverage of their ordeal.

‘You mean the Chandlers,’ answered Colonel Black. ‘They were
very
unlucky … wrong place, wrong time. Since then there have been marked improvements in security. For example, NATO’s counter-piracy mission, Operation Ocean Shield, and the setting up of a Regional Anti-Piracy Coordination Centre in the Seychelles itself. These measures have curbed pirate activities significantly. Furthermore, it’s relatively rare for the pirates to target a private yacht. The Somalis see the big money in the commercial vessels as they have ransom insurance.’

Amir nodded in agreement with the colonel. ‘It’s true. Out of twenty thousand ships that pass through the Transit Corridor each year, only three hundred are ever attacked – and less than a quarter of those are captured. Of this number, just a handful have ever been private yachts. I worked out the actual odds.’ Amir scanned through his
notes. ‘You’ve less than a one in ten thousand chance of being hijacked.’

‘Care to bet on it?’ challenged Ling.

Amir gave a shrug. ‘Why not?’

‘How can we trust you?’

Harry Gibb sat alone in the booth of the darkened restaurant. The disembodied voice was ominously threatening and he daren’t look in the adjacent booth for fear of the consequences.

‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend,’ he stated with conviction. ‘I want this as much as you.’

‘And you’re willing to do whatever it takes?’

‘Yes, yes. I want Sterling’s life ruined. Just like he’s destroying mine!’ Harry ground his teeth and clenched a fist in fury at the thought of his collapsing career.

‘Then we must hit him where it hurts: his family.’

Harry felt a chill run through him. He stared at his fist and slowly unclenched it. ‘R-really?’ he questioned, his voice quavering slightly. This was something he hadn’t considered. ‘You’re not expecting
me
to do anything, are you? I’m not that sort of person.’

‘Oh, Harry. It isn’t as if you’re an angel. I’m sure you’ve trampled over many innocent people on your way up the political ladder.’

‘Yes … but this is different.’

The voice gave a hollow laugh. ‘No, Harry, this is no different. Politics is just as ruthless as revenge. It’s just with politics you inflict harm
before
someone has done you an injury. With revenge, at least it’s after the act – a lot more honourable.’

‘I’m not sure I’m a hundred per cent comfortable with this,’ Harry admitted, feeling the situation slipping out of his control. He only wanted to wreck Sterling’s credibility and distract him from the campaign against him.

‘Too late, Harry, you’re up to your neck now. And I can assure you, Mr Sterling has no qualms about crushing you. But don’t you worry – my men will do the dirty work. The question is: do you have the means to make it happen?’

‘Y … yes,’ Harry replied, reaching into his jacket pocket and taking out a thick brown envelope, stuffed with five hundred crisp $100 notes.

A waiter eerily emerged from the shadows – or at least the man carried a waiter’s tray. With a prominent tattoo and gorilla-like hands more suited to brutal work than simply serving food, the shadowy figure wasn’t an obvious choice for a high-class establishment. Harry laid the envelope on the tray and the ‘waiter’ departed without a word.

‘When will the “campaign” begin?’ he asked.

The adjacent booth was silent.

‘I said, when will you make a start?’

Still Harry got no answer. Warily, he rose from his seat and peeked over the divide. The booth was empty, except
for a wireless loudspeaker on the table. His contact had never even been in the room with him.

Making his way past the cloakroom, Harry headed for the rear exit where a bald-headed bouncer in wrap-around shades opened the fire door for him. Sunlight burst into the darkened corridor, dazzling Harry as if a police spotlight had caught him in the act. His heart racing, he scuttled out of the building and into the alleyway. The door clanged shut behind him with a booming finality that signalled there was no going back.

Connor snatched for every breath as he sprinted headlong down the indoor track. His heart pounded in his chest and his muscles burned. Jason was neck-and-neck with him. Elsa from Bravo team was close on their tail, as was Sean from Delta. The other recruits followed up behind, some already struggling with the intense circuit.

‘Come on, AMIR! Don’t be the first to quit; a bodyguard needs to be fit!’ bellowed Steve as he ran alongside them with apparent ease.

A towering slab of honed muscle, his limbs seemingly hewn from black marble, the ex-British Special Forces soldier was their unarmed combat instructor and fitness coach. He’d summoned the three Buddyguard teams – Alpha, Bravo and Delta – to the sports hall for one of his infamous circuit training sessions. To ensure their full commitment, he’d pitted them against one another and, with group pride at stake, no team wanted to be last.

‘No pain, no gain,’ called out Steve, offering questionable incentive to the stragglers.

Connor reached the end of the shuttle sprint and
dropped to the floor for fifty knuckle press-ups. Beside him, Jason pumped away like a jackhammer, clicking off reps every second. More students joined them, racing to catch up. Connor felt the burn in his triceps. But compared with the mental overload of an operational briefing the physical exercise was a relief.

Amir dropped down next to him, the last of Alpha team. ‘I think … I might … die,’ he gasped in between press-ups.

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Steve, grinning a bright white smile at his student’s torment. ‘It means you’re putting in one hundred per cent effort.’

He stood sentry over the teams, ensuring no one skipped a rep.

‘An unfit bodyguard is a liability,’ he told them. ‘Not only to himself but also to other members of the team, and most of all to the Principal.’

Jason was first to finish his press-ups and went straight into the next exercise – fifty stomach crunches.

‘In an emergency, you’ll need such strength to get you and your Principal out of the danger zone,’ continued their instructor as his students sweated and groaned on the floor. ‘Fatigue, on the other hand, will hamper your ability to make quick decisions and choose the right course of action.’

‘But we did a … ten-mile run … only yesterday!’ panted Luciana, a dark-haired Brazilian girl from Delta team.

‘Your fitness isn’t about yesterday; it’s about
today
,’ Steve lectured. ‘You must treat your fitness like a tyre with a slow puncture – you have to keep topping it up.’

He strode over to a boy in Bravo team who’d given up halfway through his press-ups.

‘Would you trust your security to an overweight slob?’

Too out of breath to reply, the boy shook his head.

‘Nor would I. Now let’s see what you’re made of. Keep going!’

His arms trembling with the effort, the boy resumed his exercise. Meanwhile, his teammate Elsa had completed her stomach crunches and was running to beat Jason to the chin-up bars. Connor was only a few paces behind. Charley, who’d used a vertical chest press and played catch with a medicine ball in place of press-ups and stomach crunches, powered her adapted sportschair over to a lowered chin-up bar. She fired off twenty reps before anyone else had even managed ten. Then, dropping back into her chair, she sped off along the track for another shuttle run – now the leader in the race.

As soon as she reached the end of the track, Steve announced, ‘Piggyback sprint.’

This was met with groans of disbelief from the weary teams. But everyone dug in for what they prayed would be the final exercise. In Alpha team, Connor partnered Amir, Jason ran with Richie, while Charley pulled herself up on to Ling’s shoulders.

The teams raced in relay down the hall. Ling managed to hold Alpha’s lead, then Jason extended it. But Richie staggered under the weight of his brawny teammate.

‘This is murder!’ Richie moaned, gritting his teeth as Delta team swiftly passed him by.

‘Winners train, losers complain,’ Steve growled. ‘When things go wrong and you need to run for cover while carrying your Principal, you’ll be thankful for this exercise.’

‘I’ll be thankful when it stops!’ he gasped.

By the time it was Connor and Amir’s turn, Alpha team had fallen into last place. Amir did his best to catch up, but had nothing left to give. It was a miracle he even managed to carry Connor over the line. Now they were almost ten seconds behind the leaders.

‘It’s all down to you,’ said Marc as a burnt-out Amir clambered on to Connor’s back.

Naturally fit from six years of martial arts training, Connor summoned up hidden reserves of energy and raced after the two rival teams. They quickly passed Bravo team as Elsa stumbled and went sprawling with her partner. But Delta still had the lead. And with only thirty metres left in the race, Connor had to dig deep.

‘
Go! Go! Go!
’ cried Amir, geeing him on as if he was a racehorse.

Connor could see that Luciana, with Sean on her back, was fading fast. He pumped his legs and charged after them.

‘
Come on!
’ Amir urged.

They began to draw level. With victory almost in sight, Connor raced for the finish line.

Suddenly aware she was about to be passed, Luciana leant forward like a jockey in the final few paces … and beat Alpha team by a nose.

Delta team cheered and high-fived Luciana in celebration
of their slimmest of victories. Gutted at their loss, Connor collapsed to his hands and knees in an exhausted heap, Amir rolling off him on to the floor.

‘Good job, everyone,’ said Steve. ‘Take a break. I’ll be back in ten minutes for combat practice.’

As Steve passed Connor, he clapped a meaty hand on his shoulder. ‘You may have lost out this time, but that’s what I call fighting fit.’

Connor managed a weak smile. ‘Well, I’m fit for nothing now!’