Hostage (4 page)

‘LET THAT GIRL GO!’

Connor glanced back down the alley. Two
police officers – a tall black man and a slender white woman – were hurrying towards
them. Connor reluctantly released the girl, who promptly kicked him in the shin before
running off in the opposite direction. The rest of the gang followed close on her
heels.

Connor went to go after them, but the
policeman seized him by the scruff of the neck. ‘Not so fast, sonny. You’re
coming with us.’

‘But I was trying to save this
boy,’ Connor protested.

‘What boy?’ questioned the
policewoman.

Connor looked up and down the alley … but it
was deserted. The boy had gone.

The officers escorted Connor across
Freemasons Road and down a side street to an imposing red-brick building. As they neared
the entrance, the traditional blue lamp of the Metropolitan Police came into view. Below
this was a sign in bold white lettering declaring:
CANNING TOWN POLICE
STATION
. They climbed the steps, passing a poster warning
Terrorism – if
you suspect it, report it
, and entered through a set of heavy wooden doors, the
blue paint chipped and worn.

The station’s foyer was poorly lit and
depressingly drab, the walls bare, apart from a cork noticeboard promoting a local
Neighbourhood Watch meeting. The sole pieces of furniture were a bench and a glass
reception booth, manned by a single bored custody officer. As the three of them
approached, he looked up and tutted upon seeing Connor’s split lip and the
splashes of blood dotted across his sweatshirt.

‘Name?’ the custody officer
asked him.

‘Connor Reeves.’

‘Age?’

‘Fourteen.’

He noted this down on a ledger. ‘Address
and contact number?’

Connor gave his home in Leytonstone.

‘Family?’

‘Just my mum and gran,’ he
replied.

As this was added to the ledger, the
policewoman explained the reason for detaining Connor and the custody officer nodded,
seemingly satisfied.

‘In there,’ he said, pointing
with his pen to a door labelled
INTERVIEW ROOM
.

Connor was marched across the foyer. The
policeman stayed behind to log the contents of his kitbag with the custody officer.

‘After you,’ said the
policewoman, ushering him through.

Connor stepped inside. In the centre of the
room was a large desk with a single lamp and a couple of hard wooden chairs. A single
fluorescent strip buzzed like a mosquito, casting a bleached light over the depressing
scene. There was a musty smell in the air and the blinds were drawn across the window,
giving an unsettling sense of isolation from the rest of the world.

In spite of his innocence, Connor’s
throat went dry with apprehension and his heart began to beat faster.

This just isn’t right!
he
thought. He’d tried to stop a mugging and
he
was the one being arrested.
And what thanks had he got for stepping in? None. The Indian boy had disappeared without
a trace.

‘Sit down,’ ordered the
policewoman, pointing to the chair in front of the desk.

Connor reluctantly did as he was told.

The policeman rejoined them, closing the
door behind him. He handed his colleague a thick folder. The female officer stepped
behind the desk, flicked on the lamp and sat opposite Connor. In its glare, Connor
watched the policewoman lay the folder on the table and, next to this, place a notepad
and pen. To Connor’s growing unease, the folder was stamped
STRICTLY
CONFIDENTIAL.

He started to sweat. He’d never been
in trouble with the police before.
What could they possibly have on him?

The officer carefully undid the
folder’s string fastening and began to inspect the file. The towering policeman
took up position next to his colleague and stared unflinchingly at Connor. The tension
became almost unbearable.

After what seemed an age, the policewoman
declared, ‘If that girl files a charge against you – for assault – it would be a
matter for the courts.’

Connor felt the ground beneath him give way.
This was turning out to be far more serious than he could have ever imagined.

‘So we need to take a full statement
from you,’ she explained.

‘Shouldn’t I call a lawyer or
something?’ Connor asked, knowing that’s what was always said in the
movies.

‘No, that won’t be
necessary,’ replied the officer. ‘Just tell us why you did it?’

Connor shifted uneasily in his seat.
‘Because … there was a boy being mugged.’

The police officer made a note. ‘Did
you know this boy?’

‘No,’ replied Connor. ‘And I
never will. The ungrateful kid ran away.’

‘So why decide to get involved in the
first place?’

‘They were calling him names and about
to beat him up!’

‘But other people walked on by. Why
didn’t you?’

Connor shrugged. ‘It was the right
thing to do. He couldn’t stand up for himself. It was four against one.’

‘Four?’ repeated the police
officer, jotting down more notes. ‘Yet you took them on alone.’

Connor nodded, conceding, ‘I know a
bit of martial arts.’

The officer flicked through the files.
‘It says here you’re a black belt in kickboxing and jujitsu. I don’t
call that just “a bit”.’

Connor’s breath caught in his throat.
How come the officer has this information to hand? What else do they
know?

‘That’s … right,’ he
admitted, wondering if this would count against him. His instructors had always warned
him to be careful using his skills outside of the dojo.

‘So let’s get the story
straight,’ said the policewoman, putting down her pen and looking Connor squarely
in the eye. ‘You’re saying you put your life at risk for a complete
stranger.’

Connor hesitated.
Am I about to plead
guilty to an offence?

‘Well … yes,’ he confessed.

A hint of a smile passed across the
policewoman’s lips. ‘That takes guts,’ she said approvingly.

Connor stared in astonishment at the
policewoman’s unexpected praise. The officer closed her file, then looked up at
the policeman and nodded.

He turned to Connor. ‘Well done,
you’ve passed.’

Connor’s brow furrowed in
bewilderment. ‘Passed
what
?’

‘The Test.’

‘You mean … like a school exam or
something?’

‘No,’ he replied.
‘Real-life combat.’

Connor was now even more confused.
‘Are you saying that gang were a
test
for me?’

The policeman nodded. ‘You displayed
instinctive protection skills.’

‘Of course I did!’ he exclaimed,
feeling his frustration rise. ‘The gang attacked me –’

‘That’s not what we mean,’
interrupted the policewoman. ‘You showed a natural willingness to defend
another
person.’

Connor got up from his seat.
‘What’s going on here? I want to call home.’

‘There’s no need,’ she
said, offering a friendly smile. ‘We’ve already informed your mother you may
be running a little late.’

Connor’s mouth fell open in disbelief.
What on earth are the police up to?

‘We’ve had our eye on you for
some time,’ revealed the policewoman, rising from her chair and perching on the
side of the desk, her manner becoming more relaxed and informal. ‘The attack was
set up to test your moral code and combat skills. It had to be authentic, which meant we
couldn’t warn you. That’s why we used trained
operatives for the assignment.’

Trained operatives?
thought Connor,
nursing his split lip.
No wonder they were so skilled at fighting
.

‘But why?’ he demanded.

‘We needed to assess your potential to
be a CPO in the real world.’

Connor blinked in surprise, wondering if
he’d heard right. ‘A what?’

‘A Close Protection Officer,’
explained the policeman. ‘By placing yourself in harm’s way to protect
another, you proved you have the natural instinct of a bodyguard. You can’t teach
that. It has to be part of who you are.’

Connor laughed at the idea. ‘You
can’t be serious! I’m too young to be a bodyguard.’

‘That’s
exactly
the
point,’ replied a voice from behind in a clipped military tone.

Connor spun round and was shocked to find
the silver-haired man from the tournament standing right behind him.

‘With training, you’ll make the
perfect
bodyguard.’

‘My name is Colonel Black,’ the
man said, introducing himself with a curt nod of the head. Dressed in pristine chinos,
polished black boots and a khaki shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his
appearance conveyed a life spent in the forces. Up close, Connor could see the man had
craggy features and a strong chiselled jaw. His demeanour was at once disciplined and
authoritative, his flint-grey eyes never wavering from Connor’s face. And although
he looked to be in his late forties he possessed the physique of a man ten years younger
– broad-chested with tanned, muscular forearms. Only a ragged white scar cutting a line
across his throat detracted from this flawless image, no doubt the result of active
service.

‘I was most impressed with your
performance today, both in and out of the ring,’ he stated. ‘You displayed
true grit. Even when the odds were stacked against you, you didn’t give up. I like
that in a recruit.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Connor, too
bewildered to say anything else. Then the colonel’s words hit home. ‘What do
you mean,
recruit
?’

‘Take a seat and I’ll
explain.’

His invitation wasn’t quite an order,
but Connor felt compelled to sit down anyway. The colonel walked round to the other side
of the desk and took over the proceedings from the two police officers.

‘I head up a close protection
organization known as Buddyguard.’

‘
Buddy-
guard?’ Connor
shrugged. ‘Never heard of it.’

‘Few people have. It’s a highly
secretive operation,’ the colonel admitted. ‘So, before I continue, I must
stress this information is classified in the interests of national security and not to
be repeated – to
anyone
.’

The stern expression on the colonel’s
face left Connor no room for doubt that there’d be grave repercussions if he ever
did. ‘I understand,’ he replied.

The colonel took him at his word and
continued. ‘In today’s world, there’s a demand for a new breed of
bodyguard. The constant threat of terrorism, the growth of criminal gangs and the surge
in pirate attacks, all mean an increased risk of hostage-taking, blackmail and
assassination. And, with the overt media coverage of politicians’ families, the
rise of teen pop stars and the new wave of billionaires, adults are not the only target
– children are too.’

‘You mean like that French movie
star’s son?’ interrupted Connor. The story of the boy’s kidnapping
while on a sailing holiday had been splashed all over the news.

‘Yes, they ended up paying a million
dollars for his safe return. But it needn’t have happened in the first place – if
the
family had employed a close-protection team. And my organization
provides just such a service. Yet it differs from all other security outfits by training
and supplying only
young
bodyguards.’ Colonel Black looked directly at
Connor as he said this. ‘These highly skilled individuals are often more effective
than the typical adult bodyguard, who can easily draw unwanted attention. Operating
invisibly as the child’s constant companion, a buddyguard provides the greatest
possible protection for any vulnerable or high-profile target.’

The colonel paused to allow everything
he’d said to sink in.

‘And you want
me
to become a
buddyguard?’ said Connor, dubious at the idea.

‘You’ve got it in
one.’

Connor laughed uneasily and held up his
hands in objection. ‘You’ve made a mistake. You must have the wrong
person.’