First Drop

ROAD KILL

Charlie Fox book five

by Zoe Sharp

“If you stay involved with Sean Meyer you will end up killing again,” my father said. “And next time, Charlotte, you might not get away with it.”

Still bearing the emotional scars from her traumatic first bodyguarding job in the States, Charlie Fox returns to her former home to try and work out both her personal and professional future.

Instead of the peace for which she's been hoping, Charlie is immediately caught up in the aftermath of a fatal bike crash involving one of her closest friends. The more she probes, the more she suspects that the accident was far from accidental – and the more she finds herself relying on the support of her troubled boss, Sean Meyer, despite her misgivings over the wisdom of resuming their relationship.

And Charlie's got enough on her plate trying to work out who suddenly wants her dead. The only way to find out is to infiltrate a group of illegal road racers who appear hell-bent on living fast and dying young.

Taking risks is something that ex-Special Forces soldier Charlie knows all about, but doing it just for kicks seems like asking for trouble. By the time she finds out what's really at stake, she might be too late to stop them all becoming road kill . . .

‘After the traumatic events that took place in First Drop, Charlie Fox is back in England to recuperate. But then an old friend is seriously injured after a motorbike accident (that kills the driver) and Charlie's lethal instincts kick in to find out what the real story is, and who the true target was. It's really quite impossible to put this book down, but what really makes this (and the whole series) shine is how Charlie's kickass skills are rooted in her own femininity and character. So why might this not be published in the US? 'Too British.' More like too bad if it proves to be the case.’ Sarah Weinman, Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind

ROAD KILL: Charlie Fox book five

excerpt

part of Chapter Thirteen

. . . My parent’s house, on the outskirts of a little village near Alderley Edge, was a gracefully proportioned Georgian pile with a stiflingly manicured walled garden at the back and impressive circular gravel drive at the front.

They’ve lived there since they were married, before the area went stratospheric and all the celebrity Manchester United footballers moved in. My mother pretends to sneer but I suspect that she’s secretly as smitten by their glamour as everyone else.

We arrived a little before eleven o’clock. Early enough that my mother’s beautiful manners didn’t oblige her to invite Sean to stay to lunch. Her barely concealed relief, when he apologised that he didn’t even have the time to come in for a cup of tea, might have been funny if it hadn’t been so pathetic.

Sean deposited the rucksack containing my bike gear on the old church pew in the tiled hallway and laid a hand on my arm.

“Take care of yourself, Charlie,” he murmured.

“Yeah, you too.”

“I’ll try and get back up again before the weekend.” Undoubtedly aware that my mother was hovering in the doorway at the end of the hall, he bent his head and kissed me, no more than a fleeting brush of his lips. “And remember what I said.”

“Which bit?” I asked, suddenly a little breathless and stupid from the effects of even so ephemeral a contact.

He smiled, a full-blown knock-you-off-your-feet kind of smile. One that had my heart turning somersaults and made me want to beg him either to stay, or to take me with him. Hell, or just to take me.

“All of it,” he said.

Then he walked out of the front door and climbed into the Shogun without looking back. I watched him turn out of the gateway at the end of the drive and disappear from view before I closed the door. I turned to find my mother had moved up into the hall, as though it was safe to venture closer now he’d gone. She was wearing pearls and a summer dress with an apron over the top of it, and wiping flour from her hands on a tea towel.

“You’ll stay for lunch, Charlotte, won’t you?” she said and although her voice was coolly gracious there was something a little despairing in her eyes.

In a moment of pity, I nodded. “I have to get back up to Lancaster this afternoon, though,” I said quickly, forestalling her next question.

“Of course,” she said, more brightly. “I’ll just go and check how those rhubarb pies are doing. We’ve had so much of it this year I’ve been baking for the WI market but I’m sure I can spare one for dessert.” She waited until her back was towards me and she was halfway to the kitchen door before she delivered her killer punch. “Your father will be so pleased to have caught you.”

I’d forgotten. I froze in the middle of picking up my rucksack and it bumped against my hip. “Excuse me?”

She paused then, turned to give me an anxious smile. “Oh, didn’t I say?” she said, artfully casual. “He rang earlier to let me know he’s on his way home. If the traffic isn’t too bad we should all be able to sit down together at one o’clock. Now, why don’t you go and wash your face and get changed, darling?” She gave my jeans and rumpled shirt a slightly pained glance. “I’m sure there are still some lovely dresses in your wardrobe.”

***

My father rolled up on the dot of twelve-thirty, as though he’d been waiting in some lay-by down the road in order to arrive at such a neat and precise time.

I heard the crunch of tyres on gravel and crossed to my bedroom window. When I looked down, I could see the roof of his dark green Jaguar XK-8 just disappearing into the garage. After a few moments, the car door thunked shut and he walked out carrying a small overnight bag and a briefcase. The garage door slid smoothly down behind him.

He looked tired, I realised. From this angle I could see the slight drag to his shoulders. As I watched, he paused and seemed to take a deep breath before climbing the two low steps to the front door more briskly.

It was interesting, I thought, to learn that even my father had to brace himself before he could face my mother’s company.

Not to put off the inevitable, I came downstairs straight away to greet him. I reached the half landing just as he was setting his luggage down on the pew in the hall. He heard my footsteps and looked up.

“Charlotte,” he greeted me distantly and his gaze skimmed over my clothing.

I had, as my mother suggested, washed my face and changed – into my bike leather jeans, ready to beat a hasty retreat as soon as lunch was over. Rather childishly, I’d been skulking upstairs until my father arrived, knowing she wouldn’t make a big production about it in front of him.

Now, I thought I saw a fractional smile tug at the corner of his mouth, as though he knew exactly what my motives had been.

My mother appeared out of the kitchen at the end of the hallway and came forwards to welcome him. He put his hand on her arm, almost exactly the way Sean had done with me but, when he bent to kiss her, it was a sterile little peck on the cheek.

She stepped back and caught sight of me descending. Her face registered her disappointment but I didn’t have time to feel ashamed of my petty behaviour.

“I’d like a word with you before lunch, Charlotte,” my father said. He inclined his head politely. “If we have time?”