Hostage (2 page)

As they passed beneath the graffiti-scrawled
bridge, he kept his eyes peeled for ‘dickers’ – lookouts who phoned ahead to
rebel fighters lying in wait. The call might trigger a vehicle packed with explosives, a
roadside IED, a suicide bomber, a drive-by shooting or even a barrage of mortars and
rocket-propelled grenades. The bodyguard had witnessed all these assaults at one time or
another, and they always ended in tragedy.

Emerging on the other side of the underpass,
he heard the driver breathe a sigh of relief as he gunned the Humvee faster towards the
Green Zone. The bodyguard resumed his surveillance sweep – scouring for threats among
the surrounding traffic, the tree stumps on the central reservation, the housing estates
to the south, and the approaching overpass and ramps of the next concrete-jungle
intersection.

‘This isn’t good,’
muttered the driver as their convoy began to slow to a snail’s pace. In the
distance the traffic had ground to a halt.

The HF radio burst into life.
‘
Tango One to Tango Three. Collision up ahead
.’

From the rear vehicle, the team leader
responded. ‘
Tango One, this is Tango Three. Push on through. Use the central
reservation
.’

The lead vehicle approached the hold-up. As
it mounted
the kerb, the bodyguard’s attention was drawn to a
dead dog lying at the side of the road. The carcass, left to rot in the sun, appeared
unnaturally bloated.

Then, as their own vehicle drew closer, the
bodyguard spotted a man on the overpass, talking into his mobile phone. His instincts
kicked into overdrive and he reached across to yank the steering wheel hard right.
Startled, the driver gave him a furious look as their Humvee veered off the highway.

A split second later the booby-trapped dog
exploded, engulfing the lead vehicle in a ball of flame.

The blast rocked their own Humvee with its
intensity. The aide screamed in terror as a wave of hellfire rolled towards them.
Keeping his composure, the bodyguard scanned the horizon and, out of the corner of his
eye, spotted the telltale flare of a rocket-propelled grenade being fired from a nearby
block of flats.

‘GO, GO, GO!’ he bawled at the
driver.

The soldier floored the accelerator and the
engine screamed in protest. They shot forwards, but it was too late. The RPG struck
their rear end and detonated. Despite the Humvee weighing over two and a half tons, the
vehicle flipped into the air like a child’s toy. Inside, the occupants were thrown
around like rag dolls. The Humvee landed with a tremendous crash upon the driver’s
side. Instantly the cabin filled with smoke and the acrid stench of burning paint and
diesel.

The bodyguard’s ears rang as he fought
to orientate himself. Wedging himself in his seat, he looked round to
check on his Principal. The Humvee had been up-armoured to withstand such attacks, but
a direct hit meant the damage was still devastating. The bodyguard also knew a second
strike would be the end for them.

‘Sir? SIR!’ he shouted, waving
away the smoke to find the ambassador. ‘Are you OK?’

Dazed but conscious, the ambassador nodded
his head.

‘We have to get out
now
!’ the bodyguard explained, reaching back and undoing the man’s
seat belt. He tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘You take the second
Principal.’

But the driver didn’t respond. He was
dead, having smashed his head against the windscreen on impact.

Cursing, the bodyguard tried to push open
the front passenger door. But, even with his full body weight against it, he
couldn’t budge it. The force of the explosion had twisted the Humvee’s
heavily armoured construction and the door was jammed shut. They were trapped like
sardines in a can.

Grabbing his gun from the footwell, he now
prayed the bulletproof glass was one-way, as he’d requested.

‘Cover your face!’ the bodyguard
ordered the ambassador.

Aiming the MP5 at the far corner of the
windscreen, the bodyguard fired off several rounds and the glass exploded outwards. He
kicked the screen free, the smoke cleared and he crawled through the opening.

Outside a full-on firefight was occurring.
Ear-splitting blasts of grenades and the thunder of heavy machine guns mixed with the
concussive explosion of mortars. The air
was thick with black smoke
and the
whizz
of speeding bullets.

Turning back, he helped the ambassador
clamber from the Humvee and pulled him into the cover of its chassis.

‘Hayley!’ the ambassador
implored, indicating his aide hanging limp in the back seat.

But the bodyguard had already clocked her
condition. The young woman had taken the full force of the RPG. He shook his head
regretfully. ‘She’s dead.’

Sheltering the ambassador from gunfire, he
signalled for the back-up team. The rear Humvee driver spotted them and steered in their
direction as a white sedan came tearing down the road from behind. Before any evasive
action was possible, the rogue car was alongside. A second later it exploded. The Humvee
was annihilated in the blast, taking with it the entire crew and any hope of rescue.

The bodyguard needed no further proof this
was a carefully coordinated attack. A simultaneous assault of IEDs, RPGs and suicide
bombers meant the rebels had known the ambassador’s itinerary and were going
all-out to assassinate him.

With the operation so jeopardized, the
bodyguard decided he had to break protocol if he was to save his Principal’s life.
Besides, it was only a matter of time before another rocket hit their disabled
Humvee.

‘We’re sitting ducks out
here,’ said the bodyguard. ‘Are you able to run?’

‘Won the four-hundred metre dash at
UCLA,’ replied the ambassador.

‘Then stay close and do exactly as I
say. We’re heading for the underpass.’

He let loose a spray of covering fire. Then,
using his body as a shield, he grabbed the ambassador and led him across open ground. As
they dashed for safety, the supersonic crack of rebel bullets flew past their heads.

Behind them, an RPG hit their Humvee. The
two of them were thrown to the ground by the explosion. Adrenalin pumped to the max, the
bodyguard dragged the ambassador back to his feet.

Diving for cover behind a battered BMW, he
stopped to assess their situation. The last surviving Humvee was battling to suppress
enemy fire. The few Iraqi civilians who hadn’t reached the underpass cowered
behind their cars. The bodyguard knew most would be innocent civilians, but he kept his
gun primed: it would take only one rebel to kill the ambassador.

Peering round the bonnet, he sighted a black
SUV with tinted windows roll down a nearby on-ramp. Its passenger window was open, a gun
barrel poking out in their direction.

Suddenly the BMW erupted with the pepper of
bullets and its windscreen shattered. The bodyguard dropped on top of the ambassador,
shielding him from the deadly shots. The car took the worst of the assault as round
after round rattled its bodywork. Then the barrage ceased as the surviving
Humvee’s machine-gunner turned his sights on the rebels’ SUV, forcing them
to change target.

‘We can’t get pinned down
here,’ the bodyguard grunted, rolling off the ambassador.

Staying low, they weaved between the cars
towards the underpass, a hail of bullets following close on their tail. As soon as they
were beneath its shelter, the bodyguard hunted for a car that wasn’t blocked in by
the obviously prearranged accident. He spotted a silver Mercedes-Benz near the front of
the pile-up.

The blast of a machine gun and terrified
screams echoed through the underpass.

‘They’re following us!’
exclaimed the ambassador, glancing over his shoulder in alarm.

Pushing his Principal ahead, the bodyguard
returned fire, ensuring he was between the ambassador and the gunmen at all times.

Zigzagging through the cars, they were
almost at the Mercedes when the ambassador came to a dead stop.

‘Keep going!’ urged the
bodyguard.

Then he too saw the man standing before
them.

Dressed in jeans and T-shirt, his face
hidden behind a red-and-white headscarf, the rebel held an AK47 assault rifle aimed
directly at the ambassador.

He fired.

Instinctively the bodyguard leapt in front
of the ambassador, knocking him aside. The ambassador could only watch as his saviour
was thrown back by the blaze of bullets, then crashed to the floor – lifeless.

The bodyguard had made the ultimate
sacrifice to save him.

But it would all be in vain. The rebel
strode over and
planted the smoking barrel of the AK47 in the
ambassador’s face.

‘Now
you
die, infidel!’
snarled the rebel.

‘You can murder me, but you
won’t murder hope,’ said the ambassador, staring defiantly back at the
insurgent.

By all rights, the bodyguard should have
been killed instantly, but his bulletproof vest had protected him from the worst of the
assault. Barely conscious, only his deeply ingrained training allowed him to react.
He’d lost hold of his MP5, but pulling a SIG Sauer P228 from his hip, he shot the
rebel at point-blank range.

Before the man had even hit the ground, the
bodyguard was struggling to his feet. His limbs felt as heavy as lead and there was a
worrying coppery taste in his mouth.

‘You’re alive!’ exclaimed
the ambassador, rushing to his aid.

Staggering over to the Mercedes, the
bodyguard yanked the door open. The driver had already fled for his life, leaving the
keys in the ignition.

‘Get in and stay low,’ he
instructed the ambassador, gasping for breath.

Fumbling with the keys, he begged the car to
start first time as the back window imploded from a strafing of bullets. The engine
kicked into life, the bodyguard slammed his foot on the accelerator and they shot out on
to Route Irish. A hail of gunfire rained down on them from the bridge above. Weaving to
avoid it, the bodyguard powered down the road, swerving round potholes, until the
thunder of battle receded into the distance.

‘You’re seriously hurt!’
said the ambassador, noticing the driver’s seat was dripping with blood.

The bodyguard barely acknowledged him as he
focused the last of his strength on carrying out his duty. Approaching the blast-walled
safety of the Green Zone’s first checkpoint, he slowed the Mercedes. The sentries
would have no idea he was carrying the ambassador and would more than likely shoot
first. Stopping short of the barrier, he got out of the car with the ambassador and
walked the final stretch.

Still scanning for threats, the bodyguard
stumbled, blood now soaking through his combats.

‘We must get you to a hospital,’
the ambassador insisted, taking his arm.

The bodyguard looked absently down at
himself. Only now with the adrenalin fading did the pain register. ‘Too late for
that,’ he grimaced.

United Nations soldiers rushed out,
surrounding them in a protective cordon.

‘You’re safe now, sir,’
said the bodyguard as he collapsed at the ambassador’s feet, a small bloodstained
key fob clutched in his hand.

The fist caught Connor by surprise. A
rocketing right hook that jarred his jaw. Stars burst before his eyes and he stumbled
backwards. Only instinct saved him from getting floored by the left cross that followed.
Blocking the punch with his forearm, Connor countered with a kick to the ribs. But he
was too dazed to deliver any real power.

His attacker, a fifteen-year-old boy with
knotted black hair and a body that seemed to have been chiselled from stone, deflected
the strike and charged at him in a thunderous rage. Connor shielded his head as a
barrage of blows rained down on him.

‘GO, JET! KNOCK ’IM
OUT!’

The shouts of the crowd were a monstrous
roar in Connor’s ears as Jet pummelled him. Connor ducked and weaved to escape the
brutal onslaught. But he was boxed in.

Then the ding of the bell cut through the
clamour and the referee stepped between them. Jet glared at Connor, his advantage
lost.

Connor returned to his corner. Fourteen years
old, he sported spiky brown hair, green-blue eyes and an athletic physique – the benefit
of eight years’ martial arts training. Spitting out his gumshield, he gratefully
accepted the water bottle Dan held out for him. His kickboxing instructor, bald-headed
with narrow eyes and a flattened nose that had been broken one too many times,
didn’t look happy.

‘You have to keep your guard
up,’ Dan warned.

‘Jet’s so quick with his
hands,’ gasped Connor between gulps of water.

‘But you’re quicker,’ Dan
replied, his tone firm and unquestionable. ‘The championship title is yours for
the taking.
Unless
you persist in offering up your chin like that.’

Connor nodded. Summoning up his last
reserves of energy, he shook his arms and breathed deeply, trying to shift the stiffness
from his burning muscles. After competing in six qualifying bouts, he was tired. But
he’d trained hard for the Battle of Britain tournament and wasn’t going to
fall at the last hurdle.