Second Shot
Second Shot
ALSO BY ZOË SHARP
First Drop
A Charlie Fox Thriller
ZOË SHARP
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS
St. Martin’s Minotaur
New York
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
SECOND SHOT.
Copyright © 2007 by Zoë Sharp. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sharp, Zoe.
Second shot: a Charlie Fox thriller / Zoe Sharp. – 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-35895-2
ISBN-10: 0-312-35895-4
1. Bodyguards—Fiction. 2. New England—Fiction. I. Title.
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| 2007019016 |
First Edition: September 2007
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my fellow LadyKillers
Carla Banks (Danuta Reah), Lesley Horton, and Priscilla Masters
for their continuing support and encouragement—safety in numbers!
Writing this book would not have been possible but for the patience and understanding of a number of very special people who allowed me to pick their brains without a murmur. They are, in no particular order, fellow mystery author D. P. Lyle, M.D., for his superb detailed medical information; other fellow mystery authors Fred Rea and James O. Born, for gun stuff and for U.S. law enforcement info; gunshot wound survivor Mick Botterill, for his unique insights; fellow mystery author and lawyer Randall Hicks, for legal info and for attempting to keep me straight on some of my accidental Britishisms; and friend Lucette Nicol, for filling in some of the bits of Boston I’d forgotten. As always, if it’s wrong, it’s probably my invention.
Other answers to probably stupid questions were given freely, and with grace, by Barbara Franchi, MaryEllen Stagliano, and Jann Briesacher, as well as a number of the enthusiastic contributors to the DorothyL Web site. Thank you all for your invaluable assistance.
My thanks, too, to the staff at the White Mountain Hotel, and Jonathon’s Seafood Restaurant in North Conway, New Hampshire, and the Boston Harbor Hotel in Boston, for generously allowing me to set parts of the action in these outstanding locations.
As always, my advance readers were ferocious and vigilant. Thanks go to Judy Bobalik, Peter Doleman, Claire Duplock, Sarah Harrison and Tim Winfield for not flinching, even when I did.
I am forever indebted to my wonderful agent, Jane Gregory, and to Emma Dunford and all the team at Gregory & Company Authors’Agents for
continuing
unparalleled advice and support.
Also, to the indefatigable Marcia Markland, Diana Szu, and all the staff at St. Martin’s Minotaur, especially those in sales and marketing, who work so hard to make this book a reality in the United States. And to Susie Dunlop and all at Allison & Busby, for picking up the baton with such energy and style in the UK.
Some extraordinarily talented and generous people deserve thanks for lending more than their share of support to this book when they didn’t have to. Above and beyond. I’m speechless other than to list their names—masters of their art Ken Bruen and Lee Child, and the incomparable Jon and Ruth Jordan at
Crimespree Magazine.
But, of course, the biggest thanks of all go to my husband, Andy, who helps more than he will ever know, every step of the way.
Finally, a special mention goes to Frances L. Neagley, who made the generous successful bid in the charity auction in support of the Youth Literacy Program run by Centro Romero—held at the Bouchercon mystery convention in Chicago, 2005—to have her name used as a character in this book. You are included with great pleasure.
Second Shot
T
ake it from me, getting yourself shot hurts like hell.
Not like absorbing a punch, or breaking a bone, but that full blown, relentless, ripped-inside kind of pain. The kind where I prayed for oblivion and yet feared the darkness more than anything I’d ever known.
I’d taken one 9mm round through the fleshy part of my left thigh and another through the back of my right shoulder. The first shot was nasty, but it was a through-and-through, passing clean in and out of the muscle apparently without hitting anything vital. Yes, I was bleeding and it burned like a bastard. But under normal circumstances—like reasonably prompt medical assistance—it was not liable to be a life threatener.
The second shot was the one that worried me. The bullet had plowed into my scapula, twelve grams of lead and copper traveling at roughly 280 meters a second. It had hit plenty hard enough to put me on the ground and deflected off to God knows where inside my body.
The whole of my torso was screaming. When I coughed I tasted blood in my mouth and knew that, whatever other damage it had done, the round had penetrated my lung. I had a vivid mental picture of it still slowly progressing, maybe in a slow-motion tumble, contaminating whatever soft tissue it passed through, like a cancer.
The good news was that I was still conscious, my heart still pumping, my brain still functioning, more or less. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t still going to kill me, given time.
And, one way or another, time was not on my side.
Right now I was lying on my belly in the bottom of a snow-crusted shallow ditch, bleeding into the dirty trickle of icy water that had collected there, and trying to decide if I really was prepared to die here or not.
“I know you’re out there!” shouted a distant voice in the trees farther up the mountain. “I know you can hear me!”
I recognized the voice, but more than that I recognized the tone. Hatred and lust. Not a good combination.
Simone’s voice. My principal. Seven days ago I’d been sent to New England with the express purpose of protecting her against possible threat. Now she was out there somewhere in the woods with a SIG semi-automatic, while I lay here incapable of protecting anyone, least of all myself.
What a difference a week makes.
I lay quite still. Not moving was the easy part. I felt horribly vulnerable in that position, but turning over didn’t seem like a good plan. Even the thought of attempting it made me break out into a cold sweat.
“Cold” was the word. The temperature was four degrees below and the wet blood round the entry wounds in my shoulder blade and leg had already started to crystallize on my clothing. My face was turned to the side so one cheek was scorched by the freezing earth and the other by the freezing air. All I could smell was blood and pine needles and ice. I think I might have been crying.
But, I decided sluggishly, cold was good. It would slow my system down, delay my bleed-out—right up to the point where hypothermia got me. I tried not to shiver. Shivering hurt. I tried not to breathe too deeply. That hurt, too.
The pain was extraordinary. A biting, seething, swirling mass of it that sheathed my entire body but had pooled in my chest. My leg was pulsing like I was being rhythmically and repeatedly stabbed by a red-hot blade. I didn’t seem able to feel my right arm at all.
A scatter of small stones cascaded down the side of the ditch and rolled towards my face. I opened one eye and watched them approaching in the light from a clear hunter’s moon reflected on the stark ground.
There was a shadow above me, I realized. Someone was standing a little way up from the ditch and staring down at me sprawled below them. They were too far back among the trees for me to see a face, but instinct told me it wasn’t Simone. This observer was too quiet and too controlled.
Friend or foe?
Better to assume foe.
I closed my eye again and played dead. It wasn’t a stretch.
In the near distance, higher up the slope, I could hear Simone crashing through the trees, sobbing out little grunting cries as the thin branches whipped back at her. It was like listening to an animal that had been frightened beyond reason and would kill anything within reach just through that fear. And she was heading my way.
I risked another look. The shadow had gone, making the light over me seem brighter now. Or maybe that was just my own shifting perception. Even the pain had receded slightly, dropping back to a leaden throb. But I was achingly aware of every sodden breath, of the urge to just let go of it all and sleep. I fought it with everything I’d got left. Something told me that if I succumbed to this bone-numbing weariness, the game was going to be over.
I’m sorry.
I formed the apology soundlessly, quickly, like I needed to go through this final absolution while I still had the chance. I pictured my parents and wondered if they’d be as disappointed by my death as they had been by my life.
And Sean, who had once
been
my life and had become so again. Sean, who’d sent me out here not expecting me to be careless enough to die on the job. Suddenly I wished I’d told him that I loved him on the day I’d left.
The light gleamed stronger all the time and had begun to flicker. It took a moment for me to realize it wasn’t my vision starting to fail but flashlights being carried up the icy incline at a jerky run. There were voices, too. Loud, and so harsh I failed to make out the words.
A thumping rumble swooped down low over the tips of the trees, making the ground quiver under me, spinning up the loose powder snow. The beam of a high-watt searchlight stabbed downwards, intense and blinding. I knew I should make some signal, offer some sign of life, but I couldn’t summon the energy.
“Charlie!”
Close now.
Simone was gasping for air and weeping like her heart was broken. I heard her before I saw her, lunging across the final few meters that separated us, and offered a silent curse that the helicopter should have drawn her to me in this way I tried to form words but could barely whisper.
My gaze swiveled upwards as she staggered over the rim of the ditch, bleeding from a dozen scratches, wild-eyed, her hair a disordered mass around her face. Her left arm was rigidly outstretched. The barrel of the gun seemed to be pointing nowhere but towards me.
She lurched to a stop. I looked into her eyes and saw the pure intensity of her grief and anger and shock. Any one of those emotions in such quantity and weight would have been good enough to kill for. A mix of all three made it a certainty
She never got the chance.
In the instant before Simone could act, the shots slammed into her. I didn’t hear the shouted warning from the police officers who fired them. My senses were winding down by this time, fading to black.
I vaguely remember seeing her fall, sliding down to come to a crumpled rest only a meter or so away from me. The gun dropped and landed between us, like an offering.
Simone’s face was turned towards mine so that our eyes met and held as her blood pulsed out to mingle with my own in the bottom of the ditch. The police were using hollowpoint Hydra-Shok rounds and she’d taken four to the neck and upper body She never stood a chance. I watched her die feeling only a kind of petty determination not to be the one who gave in first.
And I knew then that I’d just broken the cardinal rule of close protection work—never outlive your principal.
But it was a close-run thing.
