Commander Braithwaite has received intelligence that there may be a threat on the life of the daughter of a friend of his. At the special request of the Commander, Charlie and fellow agent Barbara Witherspoon are sent to Austria to pick up Penelope Fortescue-Brown from her finishing academy and deliver her safely to her home in Scotland.
Charlie and Witherspoon soon discover that the academy is a front for a gang of criminals who hold girls for ransom to gain military information from their parents to sell to the highest bidder. Against their will, the criminal gang hold the two agents and Penelope prisoner at the academy. The criminal leader tells Charlie and Witherspoon that their bodies will be found floating in the nearby river.
Can Charlie and Witherspoon escape and rescue Penelope before the criminals carry out their threats to murder them all?
There was a bang and I heard the vicious whine of the bullet as it whizzed past my left ear before it thudded into a tree behind me. Frantically, I dove behind a huge boulder, my rifle clutched nervously in trembling hands. Cautiously, I peered round the edge of the boulder, and immediately attracted a further rattle of shots that thwacked into my refuge, making me squirm deeper into my rather dubious safe haven. The enemy was making a final assault on my position and I didn’t think I could survive this time. I was done for. There was no hope left because there were too many of them this time and they were closing in for the kill, determined to get me.
I kept my belly as close to the ground as possible and wriggled deeper into the thick scrub with the rock between them and me. I could hear them talking as they advanced toward my position—the arrogant assholes did not even care that I knew where they were.
Suddenly, the bleeper on my belt sounded. I glared at it in consternation and stood to read the message. Immediately, twenty paintballs pounded me on the chest and helmet. Damn it, just when I had them where I wanted them.
“You’re dead, Boyd,” someone shouted. “Give it up.”
Ignoring them, I studied the readout with dismay. The boss wanted me to return, immediately, if not yesterday, and that usually meant right now. My heart sank to my boots. What the fuck did the cranky old bastard want this time, I thought in despair.
A dozen more paintballs splattered against my helmet. “Alright, damn it, stop shooting. I give up.”
“Come out with your hands up,” a sharp voice snapped.
I raised my hands above my head, my gun dangling from my fingers hooked in the trigger guard, and stepped into the open. Someone shot me again, right in the nuts. “Ouch,” I shouted in pain. “Watch the damn wedding tackle, Johnson.”
There was a roar of laughter from the other agents. “You’ll probably never get to use it anyway, Sixty-nine.”
“I use it plenty, Agent Gregory, don’t you worry about that. Anyway I have to go coz the boss wants me right away.” I slunk away with my tail between my legs, metaphorically speaking, that is.
The paintball site was large, about fifteen or twenty acres of woodland, where agents of the British Secret Services could let off steam and have a bit of fun. Good training, the boss always told us. He insisted that we practise at least twice each month, operations permitting, with the various other UK agencies, and no one argued with that because it was fun and everyone enjoyed the competition. The site had a building where there was a small bar, showers and changing rooms.
I showered, dressed in my slacks and polo neck, and threw the paint-covered kit into a bin for someone else to clean.
It had to be important for the boss to recall me from the essential training session. I thought back to my last mission. A Russian agent had been killing off our agents. Agent Witherspoon and I had captured her and saved some lives in the bargain. Had I fouled that operation up? I didn’t think I had, so what did the old man want?
