Riot Act (48 page)

Then I looked past him, and my heart lurched at the sight of two still figures lying near me on the ground.

“How’s Roger?”

“He’s OK,” Sean nodded towards the inert form of his brother. “He fainted. He’s probably bust a couple of ribs, but he’ll be fine.”

I swallowed. “And O’Bryan?”

“He’s not so fine.” Sean gave an evil smile and for a moment I thought he’d given in to instinct, and to blind anger. “Don’t worry, he’s not dead – he’s just out cold,” he said.

The relief made me sag. “What happened?”

“I managed to get to the Glock just before O’Bryan realised what I was doing. I think we must have fired at each other at almost exactly the same time.” He flashed me a quick grin. “He missed. I didn’t. Took a nice gouge out of his forearm.” He nodded towards his own injured shoulder. “It levelled the playing field a bit.”

I shook my head, trying to clear it. “But I heard another shot,” I said, puzzled.

Sean stood up then, seeming very dark and very dangerous. “I said he wouldn’t get away scot-free, Charlie,” he said. “You just told me not to kill him. You didn’t say I couldn’t kneecap him.”

I had no sympathies for O’Bryan, but I winced at the thought of his shattered joint. “Which leg?”

“The right,” Sean told me. He smiled again, a look of ultimate satanic satisfaction, of perfect revenge, but when he spoke his voice was completely calm and matter-of-fact.

“Even if he does get away with this, I’m afraid he’ll have to sell those classic cars he’s so fond of,” he said. “Now he won’t even be able to drive an automatic.”

The riot on the Lavender Gardens estate went on for two days and nights. By the time it subsided the estimate of the damage ran into millions. The police officers involved suffered numerous minor injuries. One unlucky constable lost an eye. The rioters themselves came off worse, on the whole, but there were no reported fatalities.

Later, they referred O’Bryan to an orthopaedic specialist for his shattered knee, but the man only confirmed Sean’s field prognosis. The bullet, the specialist announced with no discernible irony, couldn’t have done more damage if it had been carefully aimed.

Of course, O’Bryan had tried to claim that Sean had taken the FN away from him, wilfully breaking his arm in three places in the process, and had then deliberately shot him. By that time the jury weren’t in any mind to listen.

The bullet Sean had fired from the FN entered O’Bryan’s leg at an oblique angle, just above and to the inside of his patella, then exited again through the outside of his shin. En route it completely destroyed his knee joint beyond any hope of viable repair.

The best the surgeons could do was bolt the top and bottom of his leg solidly back together and leave it at that. Even the prospect of an artificial joint was ruled out. Prison hospitals are little more than glorified health centres, and I gather that they aren’t too well-equipped for that sort of procedure. Even if they thought he was worth the effort.

Besides, his now-permanent inability to operate an accelerator pedal was a bit of a moot point, anyway. The back of a prison sweat box was the only vehicle he was due to be climbing into for what was adding up to be a very long time.

MacMillan got O’Bryan cold for masterminding the local crimewave, and for Nasir’s murder, thanks to the ballistics match on the FN 9mm Sean took away from him, and the evidence supplied by Roger.

They tried to rip the boy apart in court, of course, but Roger stubbornly refused to deviate from his statement. Besides, he had his brother sitting behind him every single day of the trial, to give him silent support, and I must admit I envied him that. In the end the jury was forced to believe the boy’s dogged persistence.

And speaking of dogs, Madeleine managed, by luck or good judgement, to get Friday to the best vet in Lancaster. They reckon the Ridgeback will probably always carry a hind leg in cold weather, but it could have been so much worse.

It transpired that Mr Ali had skipped the country after our last encounter, but the police caught up with him at his holiday home in southern Spain. He was only too ready to come clean about his part in the build-up to the riot, and his involvement with Langford, and West.

The police were all set to arrest West for Langford’s killing, but he seemed to have done a disappearing act. By some unspoken agreement, Madeleine, Sean and I conveniently omitted to mention our last sighting of the man.

And wherever Ian Garton-Jones has found to hide the body, it must be weighted down somewhere deep, because it still hasn’t come to light. It gives me the odd passing qualm, the odd sleepless night, but it’s no worse than my other nightmares.

I think I’ll learn to live with it.

As for me, Sean offered me a job with his security firm. Quite a compliment, if rumours in the trade about the exclusivity of the outfit are to be believed, but I understand that the demand for female bodyguards generally far outstrips the supply.

Gender aside, he told me it takes a certain mindset to do what I’d done. To react coolly under that kind of intense pressure, and intentionally place yourself in the line of fire. He was really quite flattering about it.

Nevertheless, I turned him down.

You see, Sean thinks the reason I stepped in front of him was because I had complete faith in the stopping power of the body armour MacMillan had provided. But the truth is, having seen Roger go down with such apparent finality, I didn’t really have the faintest idea if it was going to save me or not.

The implications of that one are not something I’m ready to think about just yet.

Sean gave me his business card, with his private line penned across the back. I’ve taped it to my phone so I don’t lose it, and I probably look at it just about every day.

And who knows? One of these days, when I’ve worked out exactly what I still feel for him, I might even be able to make that call.

But I’m not holding my breath.

This story was inspired by the real-life problems in the town near where I used to live. An Asian shopkeeper had bought a store on a predominantly white, run-down sink estate and a nastier element of the local population seemed intent on making his life a misery. I remember reading the regular news reports about the latest trouble and eventually they fermented into RIOT ACT.

I started writing this book, the second in the Charlie Fox series, at the end of 2000. At the time there hadn’t been any civil unrest in the UK for about five years and I was hoping people would find that element of the plot credible. Soon afterwards, however, several northern cities erupted into violence.

Weirdly, just as I was preparing to put RIOT ACT out in eBook form in summer 2011 – making it available again for the first time in several years – there was suddenly more rioting here, starting in parts of London and spreading outwards from capital. Spooky.

When I was originally planning this story, Charlie’s reason for being in Pauline’s house on the Lavender Gardens estate was going to be because she was looking after Pauline’s cat. I don’t remember at what point the cat morphed into a Rhodesian Ridgeback called Friday, but from that point on he became an integral character. So integral that the only concern of my early test readers was to find out what happened to the dog at the end of the story.

First of all, there are people to thank who patiently provided technical information, particularly Ian Cottam and Lee Watkin for their self-defence expertise; Glynn Jones for his in-depth practical knowledge of body armour and ballistics; all the staff at the DFW Gun Club & Training Center in Dallas, Texas for letting me brush up my handgun skills; John Robinson at Safety Services Agency in Northern Ireland; Dr Andrew Parkes MB BS for invaluable inside information on gunshot wounds; Jonathan Lodge and Tim Winfield for the low-down on shotguns; former Magistrate Sue Pickles; and Peter Gilmore, for introducing me to the right people. I take full credit for any errors.

Once again, many people were kind enough to offer their opinions during the early stages, including everyone at the Lune Valley Writers’ Group. My grateful thanks for particularly critical reading go to Peter Doleman, Claire Duplock, Sarah Harrison, Clive Hopwood, Glynn Jones, Iris Rogers, Tim Winfield, and my copy editor, Sarah Abel.

Thank you, also, to Timothy Hallinan for generously allowing me to include an excerpt from LITTLE ELVISES as a bonus feature at the end of this novel; to ZACE-eBookConversion for immaculate conversion of the printed book to e-format; and to Jane Hudson for the stunning cover design.

But the biggest thank you of all belongs to my husband, Andy, who has suffered with me through every twist and turn.

‘Susie Hollins may have been no great shakes as a karaoke singer, but I didn’t think that was enough reason for anyone to want to kill her.’

Charlie Fox makes a living teaching self-defence to women in a quiet northern English city. It makes best use of the deadly skills she picked up after being kicked out of army Special Forces training for reasons she prefers not to go into. So, when Susie Hollins is found dead hours after she foolishly takes on Charlie at the New Adelphi Club, Charlie knows it’s only a matter of time before the police come calling. What they
don’t
tell her is that Hollins is the latest victim of a homicidal rapist stalking the local area.

Charlie finds herself drawn closer to the crime when the New Adelphi’s enigmatic owner, Marc Quinn, offers her a job working security at the club. Viewed as an outsider by the existing all-male team, her suspicion that there’s a link between the club and a serial killer doesn’t exactly endear her to anyone. Charlie has always taught her students that it’s better to run than to stand and fight, But, when the killer starts taking a very personal interest, it’s clear he isn’t going to give her that option . . .

‘Charlie looks like a made-for-TV model, with her red hair and motorcycle leathers, but Sharp means business. The bloody bar fights are bloody brilliant, and Charlie’s skills are both formidable and for real.’ Marilyn Stasio,
New York Times

‘Sharp deserves a genre all her own – if you are just discovering Zoë Sharp then you are in for a real treat.’ Jon Jordan,
Crimespree Magazine

‘Charlotte (Charlie) Fox is one of the most vivid and engaging heroines ever to swagger onto the pages of a book. Where Charlie goes, thrills follow.’
Tess Gerritsen

'Perhaps if the army had known what was inside me, what I would eventually turn into, they might not have been so keen to let me go.'

Charlie really didn't care who shot dead her traitorous ex-army comrade Kirk Salter during a bodyguard training course in Germany. But when old flame Sean Meyer asks her to go undercover at Major Gilby's elite school and find out what happened to Kirk she just can't bring herself to refuse.

Keeping her nerve isn't easy when events bring back fears and memories she's worked so hard to forget. It's clear there are secrets at Einsbaden Manor that people are willing to kill to conceal. Some of the students on this particular course seem to have more on their minds than simply learning about close protection. Subjects like revenge, and murder. And what's the connection between the school and the recent spate of vicious kidnappings that have left a trail of bodies halfway across Europe?

To find out what's going on, Charlie must face up to her past and move quickly before she becomes the next casualty. She expected training to be tough, but can she graduate from this school of hard knocks alive?

'If you only know Charlie Fox from
First Drop
,
Second Shot
, and
Third Strike
, you don't know Charlie. What you've got in your hands is a rare and special treat. It’s like finding some lost Jack Reacher novel or a couple of non-alphabet Kinsey Millhones that nobody knew existed. Don't let anyone tear it from your hands without drawing their blood.