Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
READ MORE
Chris Bradford is a true believer in ‘practising what you preach’. For his award-winning Young Samurai series, he trained in samurai swordmanship, karate, ninjutsu and earned his black belt in Zen Kyu Shin Taijutsu. For his latest Bodyguard series, Chris embarked on an intensive close-protection course to become a qualified professional bodyguard.
His bestselling books are published in over twenty languages and have garnered more than thirty children’s book awards and nominations.
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 and two sons.
Discover more about Chris at www.chrisbradford.co.uk
Books by Chris Bradford
The Bodyguard series (in reading order)
HOSTAGE
RANSOM
AMBUSH
TARGET
ASSASSIN
The Young Samurai series (in reading order)
THE WAY OF THE WARRIOR
THE WAY OF THE SWORD
THE WAY OF THE DRAGON
THE RING OF EARTH
THE RING OF WATER
THE RING OF FIRE
THE RING OF WIND
THE RING OF SKY
Available as ebook
THE WAY OF FIRE
PUFFIN BOOKS
Praise for the Bodyguard series:
Brilliant Book Award 2014 – Winner
Hampshire Book Award 2014 – Winner
‘Bone-crunching action adventure’
Financial Times
‘Breathtaking action … as real as it gets’
Eoin Colfer, author of the bestselling Artemis Fowl series
‘Bradford has combined Jack Bauer, James Bond and Alex Rider to bring us the action-packed thriller’
Goodreads
‘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
‘A gripping page-turner that children won’t be able to put down’
Red House
‘Will wrestle you to the ground and leave you breathless. 5 Stars’
Flipside magazine
‘A gripping, heart-pounding novel’
Bookaholic
For the Roys,
Good friends to the end!
Warning: Do not attempt any of the techniques described within the book without the supervision of a qualified martial arts instructor. These can be highly dangerous moves and result in fatal injuries. The author and publisher take no responsibility for any injuries resulting from attempting these techniques.
‘The best bodyguard is the one nobody notices.’
With the rise of teen stars, the intense media focus on celebrity families and a new wave of millionaires and billionaires, adults are no longer the only target for hostage-taking, blackmail and assassination – kids are too.
That’s why they need specialized protection …
BUDDYGUARD
BUDDYGUARD is a secret close-protection organization that differs from all other security outfits by training and supplying only young bodyguards.
Known as ‘buddyguards’, these highly skilled teenagers are more effective than the typical adult bodyguard, who can easily draw unwanted attention. Operating invisibly as a child’s constant companion, a buddyguard provides the greatest possible protection for any high-profile or vulnerable young person.
In a life-threatening situation, a buddyguard
is the final ring of defence.
The deep snow deadened the men’s footsteps as they crept up to the farmhouse. Only the faintest light came from the sickle moon in the winter sky and the five men stole like wraiths through the bone-chilling darkness.
Inside the farmhouse all was warmth and light. A fire burned not only in the grate but in the bellies of the four farmers who sat round the old wooden dining table, knocking back homemade vodka.
‘It’s an outrage!’ snarled a bearded man, who had the bulk and temper of a grizzly bear. ‘The Bratva have gone too far with their demands this time.’
‘But what can we do, Anton?’ asked a rheumy-eyed farmer, his callused hands clasped round his glass as if scared someone might take it. ‘If we don’t pay their protection tax, they’ll destroy our homes, harm our families … even kill us.’
‘We fight back, Egor.’ Anton downed his drink and poured himself another shot before refilling his friends’ glasses too.
Slumped like a sack of grain, a ruddy-cheeked man took a drag on his cigarette and stared morosely at his drink. ‘How do we fight back when the mayor of Salsk, the man supposed to protect us, is in the Bratva’s pocket?’
‘Grigori is right,’ said Egor. ‘We need a new mayor before we attempt to take on the Bratva.’
Anton stabbed at the table with his forefinger. ‘What we need is a new leader for this country. One that isn’t corrupt and backed by the Bratva. But what chance is there of that? None! So we must take matters into our own hands.’ He turned to Grigori. ‘Strength in numbers, comrade. If all the farmers and local businessmen band together, we can resist. Overthrow this corrupt regime.’
‘But surely a bad peace is better than a good war?’ Egor argued. ‘We’ve everything to lose.’
‘We’ve everything to gain! Our freedom! Our families’ safety! Our lives!’
Anton shot back. He slammed his fist so hard on the table that the vodka bottle and glasses rattled. ‘This isn’t the Middle Ages. This is modern Russia. But it’s like we’re living in a feudal state, slaves to the Bratva. They steal from our tables, beat our sons, take our daughters. Enough is enough!’
‘I’m with Anton,’ said Luka, the youngest farmer, who had a thrusting jaw of corn-coloured stubble. ‘It’s time we made a stand.’
Grigori let out a sigh and straightened himself in his chair. With a grimace, he knocked back his drink. ‘What choice do we have? The Bratva will take everything anyway.’ He looked at Egor, who gave a resigned shrug in agreement. ‘So, Anton, what’s your plan?’
Anton replied with a grim smile. ‘It’ll take courage and guts … and a lot more vodka!’ He waved the almost empty bottle in the air. ‘Nadia, be a good girl and get Papa another bottle from the cellar.’
His five-year-old daughter glanced up from playing with her baby brother by the fire and responded with an eager nod. She hurried into the kitchen, where her mother was cutting up potatoes and adding them to a thick brown stew bubbling on the stove. As she passed by, Nadia caught its delicious meaty aroma and her mouth began to water.
Her mother smiled. ‘Not long now, my little kitten,’ she said, with a tender stroke of Nadia’s snow-blonde locks.
Swallowing back her hunger, Nadia unbolted the door to the cellar and peered into the black depths. Away from the warmth of the fire, she felt a chill run down her spine. The cellar always frightened her with its dark corners, white wisps of spiderweb and dank grave-like smell, and she couldn’t help imagining something terrible lying in wait for her.
Fighting her fear, Nadia fumbled for the light switch. Only a bare flickering bulb lit the gloom. But it was enough to give her courage and she descended the wooden steps. Then, halfway down, the door swung shut behind her, cutting off the kitchen’s reassuring light. Trapped in the damp cold cellar, Nadia shuddered. Even though she knew it was just imagination, the crates of potatoes and carrots seemed to crawl with bugs and beetles. The glass jars on the shelves no longer held jam but congealed blood. And the rows of vodka bottles magnified sinister shapes in the gloom.
As the shadows grew, so did her fear.
Nadia could hear her baby brother crying.
‘Shut that child up!’ snapped a gruff voice.
A deafening gunshot rang out. Then silence. The man who had given the order smiled. ‘That’s better.’
Nadia could no longer breathe. In that instant her whole world had gone numb. She could only stare wide-eyed, silent tears running down her cheeks, as the man jabbed the barrel of his gun into the back of her father’s head.
‘This is what comes of plotting against the Bratva,’ he said, as her father fell to his knees weeping.
Tall, with close-shorn black hair and a crooked nose, the man had a crude tattoo of a dagger with three drops of blood just above the neckline. Even at her young age, Nadia recognized these men as members of the local Bratva gang. But there was one who stood apart from the others. His eyes, cold and grey as a winter sky, observed the scene with disturbing indifference. Pale-skinned and lean, he had the menacing air of a government FSB Secret Service officer. But he didn’t look Russian to Nadia –
A second gunshot rang out, shattering Nadia’s world forever. Her father jerked forward and slumped to the floor.
‘That’s how we deal with problems in Russia, my friend,’ the tattooed man informed the grey-eyed foreigner with pride. ‘You can let the mayor know the weeds were rooted out before they got a chance to grow.’
The foreigner glanced round the room. ‘Too much evidence ties this back to you … and the mayor,’ he replied in surprisingly good Russian.
‘You’re right. We should tidy up.’ The tattooed man collected the glasses on the table, then poured the remains of the vodka over the floor and took out a lighter.
‘Always important to have a good fire in winter,’ he said, laughing, before setting the room ablaze.
Nadia gasped in horror as flames spread through the room. She dropped the bottle from her hands and it clattered to the floor. It didn’t break but the noise betrayed her hiding place. The tattooed man and foreigner spun her way. In five quick strides the gang leader reached the cellar. He wrenched open the door to find a vodka bottle wobbling on the top step.
The tattooed man squinted into the cellar’s darkness. He tried the light switch but the bulb fizzled out.
‘Whoever’s down there, come out!’ he ordered.
There was no reply. No one appeared.
‘Fine,’ he grunted. ‘You’ve decided your own fate.’
He picked up the bottle, emptied its contents on to the wooden steps and set the vodka alight. Bolting the cellar door shut, he and his gang left the farmhouse to burn to the ground. As they strode away across the snow-covered fields – the farmhouse now a raging inferno against the cold black sky – a little girl’s scream pierced the night.
Ten years later …
‘You’re a dead man, Connor!’
His arm trembling, Connor Reeves gritted his teeth against the pain. His fingers felt like they were being crushed in a vice, his shoulder wrenched from its socket.
‘Give up!’ Jason grunted, leaning his whole bodyweight into the attack.
Never, thought Connor, as the two of them glared at each other across the table.
‘Hey, what’s going on?’ asked Amir, entering Buddyguard HQ’s briefing room.
‘Arm-wrestling match,’ Charley replied. She crowded round the table with Ling, Marc and Richie, the other three teenage recruits that made up Alpha team.
‘Who’s winning?’
‘Jason, of course.’ Ling smirked, with an admiring glance at her boyfriend’s bulging bicep.
‘It’s not over yet,’ Charley shot back, wheeling herself closer. ‘Come on, Connor! You can beat him!’
But Connor’s arm was already halfway to the table, every muscle straining against Jason’s drive to pin it down. At over five foot ten and built like a heavyweight boxer, his Aussie rival was significantly stronger than him. Still, Connor had no intention of giving in without a fight. All his hours of gym work and punchbag training hadn’t been wasted. He might not be as strong as Jason, but he had stamina. If he could just hold on long enough, Jason would tire as the lactic acid built up in his muscles. He’d weaken first, then Connor could go for the kill.
‘Careful, Connor, you’re in a break-arm position,’ Amir warned as he joined the others. ‘Your shoulder must be in line with your arm. Turn your body back towards Jason, straighten your arm and look at your hand –’
‘Hey, no coaching!’ said Ling, narrowing her jet-black eyes at Amir.
‘It’s not coaching,’ Amir replied with a flash of a smile. ‘It’s helpful heckling.’
However, before Connor could follow his friend’s advice, Jason made a renewed effort to force his hand to the desk. Biting down hard on his lower lip, Connor resisted with all his might. As he fought Jason, he felt his forearm twisting and the pain increased.
‘Connor, keep your upper arm close to your body,’ Amir hissed into his ear. ‘That way, you can combine your arm and body strength. Try to curl your wrist inwards and draw his hand towards you. It’s called a “top roll” technique – it’ll make it harder for Jason to use his muscles against you.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Richie,
eyeing Amir’s slight frame. ‘You’re not exactly Rocky Balboa!’
‘Internet,’ Amir explained. ‘Once saw this video of a professional arm wrestler in the same position as Connor. His arm snapped like a twig. I almost vomited; it was so gross.’
‘I’d like to see that!’ said Ling with a wicked grin.
‘Hopefully not right now,’ said Charley, her hands gripping her wheelchair more tightly as she followed Connor’s battle with increasing dismay.
Connor blanked out the image of his arm snapping like a twig and repositioned himself so that his body was closer, his arm aligned and his wrist curled inwards. The pain eased and he was able to stop Jason’s advance.
‘You’re nothing but a wuss, Connor!’ taunted Jason.
Connor ignored the insult, saving his strength for the battle. They both knew there was more at stake than a simple arm wrestle. Their pride and personal standing with one another rested on the outcome of this match. Jason had clearly expected an easy win. But Connor saw in his rival’s eyes both surprise and annoyance that he hadn’t yet triumphed – and with every passing second that victory seemed less certain.
‘Finish him, Jason!’ urged Ling.
Jason grunted as he made another attempt to pin Connor’s arm. Connor lost more ground to his opponent before managing to hold his position. But he didn’t know how much longer he could last. His arm was shaking so violently he looked like he was having a seizure.
‘You’re only … prolonging … the inevitable,’ gasped Jason, his face beginning to redden with the effort. The veins in his arm were bulging as if about to burst.
Connor took strength from Jason’s evident struggle to defeat him.
‘Don’t give up, Connor! Allez! Allez! Allez!’ urged Marc, breaking into his native French in his excitement.
Richie cheered for the other side. ‘You’ve got him, Jason!’
Now everyone joined in with shouts of encouragement, transforming the briefing room into a noisy fighting pit. Connor’s knuckles, white under the strain, were now but a centimetre from the tabletop. Sensing victory, Jason threw all his energy into the final push.
But remarkably Connor began to fight his way back from the jaws of defeat. Millimetre by millimetre he was regaining the advantage –