Authors: Chris Bradford
Hostage
PUFFIN
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 eighteen children’s book award
nominations, including shortlist for the Red House Book Awards 2009 and winner of the
Northern Ireland Book Awards 2011.
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, two
sons and two cats.
www.chrisbradford.co.uk
For Zach and Leo
May you protect one another through life …
PUFFIN BOOKS
Bodyguard: Hostage
‘Breathtaking action … as real as it
gets’
Eoin Colfer, author of the bestselling Artemis
Fowl series
‘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
‘Fierce fiction … captivating for young
readers’
Daily Telegraph
‘The most exciting fight sequences imaginable
on paper!’
Booklist
‘More and more absorbing … vivid and
enjoyable’
The Times
‘An adventure novel to rank among the
genre’s best. This book earns the literary equivalent of a black belt’
Publishers Weekly
The driver’s knuckles turned white as
he gripped the steering wheel of the Humvee and planted his foot hard on the pedal. The
immense engine roared and the armoured vehicle shot on to the bomb-blasted road.
As the Humvee tore across the potholed
concrete that stretched into the distance like the cracked skin of a dead snake, the two
passengers in the back could only stare at the hellish images of a war-torn Iraq
whipping past their windows. Barren patches of garbage-strewn desert, burnt-out
carcasses of abandoned vehicles, crumbling buildings pockmarked with bullet holes, and
the haunted faces of Iraqi children scavenging among the rubble.
The younger of the two passengers, a
fresh-faced female diplomatic aide with styled blonde hair, wiped away a tear with an
unsteady hand. The other, a tall handsome Hispanic man with strong cheekbones and deep
brown eyes as sharp as an eagle’s, was more composed. Yet his tense grip on the
seat’s armrest betrayed his deeper unease.
The bodyguard alone remained impassive,
strapped into the front passenger seat, his MP5 sub-machine gun
across
his lap. He’d survived this run many times. Not that it made the drive any easier.
Less than 12 kilometres long, this sweeping bend of road was the sole artery that
connected Baghdad International Airport to the Green Zone – the fortress-like military
and governmental safe haven in the heart of Baghdad. This made Route Irish the most
dangerous stretch of highway in the world – a ready-made shooting gallery for terrorists
and insurgents. Any attempt to travel the route was little more than a suicidal
dash.
And today the stakes are even
higher
, thought the bodyguard, glancing over his shoulder at the newly
appointed US Ambassador to Iraq. Usually the Americans arranged for a helicopter to
transport senior officials between the airport and the zone, but high winds and the
threat of a sandstorm had grounded all aircraft.
The bodyguard’s eyes scanned the
terrain beyond the bulletproof glass. In front and behind were three more Humvees
thundering down the highway, forming a formidable military escort. These vehicles were
armed to the teeth with mounted M2 heavy machine guns and MK19 grenade launchers. As the
convoy raced along, the lead Humvee cleared the road ahead, barging civilian vehicles to
one side if they didn’t move out of the way quickly enough.
An underpass came into view and the
bodyguard tensed. This was a prime spot for an attack. The bridge would have been swept
for improvised explosive devices the night before. But that didn’t mean
all
the IEDs had been discovered. His hand instinctively felt for the key
fob in his pocket. He
carried it with him everywhere. It contained a
photo of his smiling eight-year-old son. Squeezing the talisman, the bodyguard vowed –
as he always did – that he
would
survive the journey, if only for the sake of
his son.
