Free Bodyguard: Ransom (Book 2) by Chris Bradford Page B

salute.
    ‘Don’t let Connor take all the glory, Ling,’ said Jason as Connor clambered in beside her.
    Ling blew him a kiss. ‘Don’t worry. He’s carrying my bags!’
    With a final thumbs up to his teammates, Connor went to close the door, but Charley reached in and touched his arm.
    ‘Try not to catch any bullets this time,’ she said.
    Connor gave her a quizzical look. ‘Surely that’s the point of a bodyguard?’
    Charley locked eyes with him. ‘
Only
if all else fails.’

 
    ‘
Wake up, you lazy fish-eaters!
’
    The stern order in Somali barely roused the loose band of pirates who lay sprawled, like dozing lions, beneath the shade of the courtyard’s single acacia tree. The blazing sun had baked the earth bone-dry and the glaring white walls reflected the heat like mirrors. It was too hot even for the flies that buzzed listlessly in the still air.
    ‘I said, GET UP! Oracle wants to see us,’ growled the towering man who strode over from the main building of the walled compound. With broad shoulders and rippling muscles, forged from a hard and brutal life, the man moved through the shimmering heat like a charging black rhino. Over his shoulder was slung a battle-worn AK47.
    ‘Hey, Spearhead, relax, man,’ said one of the pirates, chewing languidly on some khat leaves.
    Spearhead ground his ivory white teeth into a snarl and kicked the man in the ribs.
    ‘Oww!’ yelled the pirate, rolling away from the abuse.
    ‘When I say move, Big Mouth, MOVE!’
    The other men quickly got to their feet. Picking up theirrifles, they begrudgingly followed Spearhead across the blistering hot yard towards the main house. As they entered a dim wide hallway, the harsh sun was left behind and the air became cool and welcoming. Leaving their weapons by the door, the pirate gang trudged barefoot into a spacious living room. An ornate crimson rug took centre stage, framed by a slender beige divan. Thick maroon drapes blocked the persistent sunlight that tried to force its way through the barred windows behind. Each man instinctively salivated as their nostrils filled with the mouthwatering aroma of stewed goat’s meat.
    Oracle reclined on the rug against a gold-tasselled bolster, a wooden bowl of spiced ribs in one hand. In the other, he held a thin bone, which he gnawed at for the last vestiges of meat. Dressed in an olive shirt, with a red shawl slung over his right shoulder, and a black diamond-pattern
ma’awis
around his hips, Oracle cut a princely figure compared to the unkempt appearance of his pirates. A pair of silver-mirrored aviator sunglasses were perched high on his closely shaved head. Behind him on the divan, within arm’s reach, lay a loaded Browning semi-automatic pistol.
    ‘Sit,’ said Oracle, picking with a fingernail at a bit of meat stuck between his teeth.
    The pirates each found their spot on the luxurious rug and, squatting, waited mutely for their boss to finish his meal.
    Eventually putting aside his empty bowl, Oracle licked his fingers then wiped them on a square of white cotton cloth. ‘You’ll be going to sea again within the week,’ he announced.
    The pirates all looked at one another with a mix of excitement and trepidation.
    ‘You’ve had another vision?’ asked a rake-thin man with jug ears.
    Oracle smiled enigmatically. ‘Well, let’s say … I foresaw fortune headed our way.’ He patted the blue sports bag cradled at his side. ‘We have a new investor.’
    ‘So what’s happening with the cargo ship we’ve already got?’ asked Spearhead.
    ‘That’ll take a few more months of negotiation,’ replied Oracle. ‘Red Claw and his men can handle the babysitting. I need
you
for the serious work.’
    ‘But what about boats?’ asked Big Mouth. ‘We lost two skiffs in the last hijack.’
    ‘It’s all in hand,’ reassured Oracle. ‘Four brand-new twin three-fifty horsepower outboards are on their way from Dubai.’
    ‘Can I pilot one?’ beamed a skinny buck-toothed