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.
Six years later …
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.