Road Kill

Mind

SECOND SHOT

Charlie Fox book six

by Zoe Sharp

'Take it from me, getting yourself shot hurts like hell.'

When the latest assignment of ex-Special Forces soldier turned bodyguard, Charlie Fox, ends in a bloody shoot-out in a frozen forest in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, she's left fighting for her life, with her client dead.

Simone had just become a lottery millionairess but she never lived long enough to enjoy her newfound riches. Charlie was supposed to be keeping Simone's troublesome ex-boyfriend at bay and accompanying her on a trip to New England to track down the father Simone had never really known. A relatively low-risk job.

But Simone's former SAS father has secrets in his past that are about to come back and haunt him, and the arrival of his long-lost daughter may be the catalyst that blows his whole world apart. Was the prospect of getting hold of Simone's money tempting enough to make him engineer her death? And what happens now to Simone's baby daughter, Ella?

With Simone gone, Ella's safety becomes Charlie's main concern. She's determined, despite her injuries, not to let anything happen to the child. But the closer Charlie gets to the truth, the bigger threat she becomes. Only, this time she's in no fit state to protect anyone, least of all herself . . .

‘James Bond, watch your back. There’s a tough new breed of British muscle on the block, and her name is Fox, Charlie Fox. A former British Army soldier (and survivor of a brutal gang rape), Charlie now earns her living guarding others, a duty that has a nasty habit of putting her in harm’s way. Her latest assignment is no exception. She’s protecting beautiful British engineer (and recent lottery winner) Simone and her four-year-old daughter from an obsessed ex-boyfriend. She’s also helping Simone search for her long-lost father. The trio travels to New England to follow leads on Simone’s dad. (Charlie also figures they’ll be safer there, a good distance from the ex-boyfriend.) Trouble ensues soon after arrival, when charismatic Greg Lucas claims he’s Simone’s father. (Is Lucas really her flesh and blood, or does he just want her money to bail himself out of a precarious financial situation?) Two bullets add wounds to Charlie’s scar repertoire, but even in a weakened condition, the gutsy twenty something is undeterred. British novelist Sharp’s second thriller to appear in the US (after First Drop, in 2005) crackles with suspense, showcasing crisp prose, plenty of plot twists, and a heroine who adds new meaning to the term femme fatale.’ Booklist starred review

SECOND SHOT

Charlie Fox book six

excerpt

Chapter Three

By the time we got back to where Sean had parked one of his company Mitsubishi Shoguns, I knew I was in trouble. Even for Sean, he was much too quiet.

Sean Meyer was quiet on many different planes. His hands and body were always quiet unless there was something to engage them. It made his actions all the more intense.

Even back when he’d been one of the most feared sergeants on the Special Forces training course I’d abortively attempted in the army, he’d never had to shout and bawl in order to instil a dread respect in his trainees. The quieter he was, the more scared of him we’d all become. The clever ones, at least.

And now, most people wouldn’t have spotted there was anything wrong. He’d been nothing but coolly professional while we’d ejected a still-protesting Matt from the restaurant and evacuated Simone and Ella to the safety of Harrington’s office at the bank, where security was tight as a matter of course.

For speed we’d used Harrington’s waiting car and driver rather than retrieving our own vehicle, and I’d half- expected Sean to order me to stay with them while he went to fetch it. Instead, he ordered me along, and that was my first inkling that something was seriously awry.

He strode along the icy pavements from the bank to the car park with an easy poise, plaiting his way smoothly between the other pedestrians, who were making their hurried assaults on the last remnants of the January sales. He moved without ever missing a step, but under the surface I could sense something simmering. It was there in the slight angle of his head, the way his arms swung fractionally tense from his shoulders.

I held out, waiting for him to make the first move, until we’d actually reached the multi-storey parking structure and were on the right level, almost at the car. Then I sighed and stopped walking.

“OK, Sean,” I said, short. “Spit it out. Don’t give me this silent treatment.”

He deliberately kept moving so there were half a dozen paces between us before he stopped and turned. For a few moments he just stood there, staring at me, hands loose by his sides, his face that of a stranger.

A sullen, sneaky wind whipped into the open concrete building, causing his long overcoat to flap lazily round his legs like that of a western gunslinger. It was only three in the afternoon but already the sky was darkening and the sodium lights strung across the concrete ceiling lit us both with an unearthly orange glow. The whole place smelt of diesel and burnt clutches.

Just when I thought he wasn’t going to speak at all, when an unnamed fear had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart tight shut with it, he said:

“You hesitated.”

It was said flat, without inflection, but I heard the accusation as an underlying harmonic, even so.

“I took him down,” I said, defensive. “And kept him there. What more do you want?”