Traitor Page 10

  “None of us did,” said Big T, “and he was right under our noses.”

  Kay rounded on the veteran bodyguard. “Perhaps you should get your eyes tested?”

  Big T’s jaw tightened, and his nostrils flared.

  “Brandon was well disguised,” said Charley, coming to Big T’s defense. “He fooled us all.”

  Charley cast her mind back. She remembered the bearded roadie descending the wire-rope ladder just before the bomb scare and spotlight accident. And he was the one who’d yelled at Jessie for handling the microphone before he set it up himself onstage. After seeing the “ashes to ashes” death threat, the police were going to review the hotel surveillance footage for any sign of Brandon before the fire. Charley had no doubt they’d find that evidence, just as they’d be able to link him to the “no more encores” letter and the backmasked threat on Ash’s last single. Nor would she be surprised if the tire blowout that caused the tour bus crash had been another of his deliberate accidents. Brandon was a nasty piece of work.

  A technician had inspected the toaster lift’s hydraulic unit and discovered that it was primed to go off like a cannon. On its next use, the central piston would have shot straight through the platform and speared Ash like a harpooned whale. It would have been a gruesome and very painful death.

  Charley wondered how anyone could become so deranged over an Ash Wild song that he wanted to kill not only Ash but anyone else who got in the way.

  A single glance at the hysterical audience clamoring for an encore answered that question. There didn’t appear to be a sane person in the whole venue. With mad eyes, wild hair and mouths fixed in permanent screams, everyone was going crazy for the rock star as he walked out onstage and began playing his worldwide hit “Only Raining.”

  The familiar chimes of the song’s opening riff filled the massive arena, and as the crowd roared their approval Charley thought her eardrums might burst.

  “Ash is on fire tonight!” remarked Kay, tapping her thigh in time to the beat of the music.

  She was right. This had to be one of the best concerts of the whole tour. And though she’d missed most of it, Charley could finally enjoy Ash’s performance without worrying that some tragedy was about to hit him.

  Ash was safe now, his stalker destined for a lifetime in jail.

  The threat of “no more encores” was no more.

  Leaning close, Kay spoke above the music into Charley’s ear. “You certainly lived up to your word and protected Ash. In fact, I intend to speak with Colonel Black at the end of the tour about extending your—”

  From the opposite wing, they both saw Ash dash onto the stage.

  But that was impossible, since Ash was already performing.

  Before Charley or anyone else could react, the new Ash shoved his other self violently off the stage. The assaulted Ash flew through the air and disappeared into the security pit. It happened so fast that many fans wondered if they’d seen it at all—especially since the band played on and their idol still stood on the stage, haloed in a spotlight, no break in his performance. But when the new Ash began singing, it was obvious to everyone that he was a fraud.

  Sprinting over, Charley leaped down from the stage, reaching the real Ash at the same time as the other security guards. He lay in a heap, having fallen headfirst more than six feet onto the concrete floor.

  “I think I’ve broken my neck!” Ash gasped.

  Charley knelt down beside him.

  “Keep still,” she whispered. “We’ll call an ambulance.” Tears clouded her vision, and her throat choked with a sob. After all she’d been through that night, she’d failed to protect him from the forgotten threat—Pete.

  “I don’t need an ambulance,” explained Ash. “I need a new guitar.”

  He held up his busted instrument, its neck cocked at a severe angle, only held on by the steel strings. “I had to let it go to break my fall.”

  Charley burst into relieved laughter and hugged him. “I thought you were really hurt.”

  “Nah, I’m fine,” said Ash, sitting up.

  She helped the dazed rock star back to his feet. Onstage, Big T had seized Pete in a headlock, and the band finally stopped playing.

  “I am Ash!” declared the boy, struggling in Big T’s crushing grip. “He’s the impostor!” He pointed an accusing finger at Ash in the pit with Charley.

  “Save it, Pete. We all heard your lame attempt to sing,” said Big T.

  “But . . . I’ve got a sore throat from the fire,” Pete pleaded as he was dragged away.

  Ash clambered back onstage to the rapturous applause of his fans. Shouldering a new guitar, he joked to them, “Fame must have gone to his head!”

  As the audience laughed, Charley called up from the pit, “You sure you’re okay to go back on?”

  Ash nodded and grinned. “You’d have to kill me to stop me doing an encore.”

  30

  As the tour bus headed south on Interstate-5 to Los Angeles the following day, Kay called a meeting in the upper-front lounge. Ash, Charley, Big T and Terry settled themselves into the leather sofas while Vince and Rick stood with the band to hear the update on Ash’s demented double.

  “The doctor says Pete is suffering from grandiose delusions,” Kay explained. “The boy is convinced he’s Ash Wild. No one can persuade him otherwise.”

  “What if he is? And we’ve got the wrong one?” The bassist scrutinized the Ash sitting beside Charley on the sofa.

  Ash’s lip curled. “Ha ha! We’d soon know if you were replaced. The bass playing would be better!”

  “Harsh!” The drummer laughed, punching the bassist’s arm at Ash’s joke.

  Kay silenced them with a glare. “According to the doctor, Pete has a history of mental health issues, usually kept in check with medication. But it appears he’s been forgetting to take his.”

  “Where’s Pete now?” asked Charley.

  “He’s being held in a secure psychiatric clinic,” Kay replied. She turned to Ash. “The question is, do you want to press charges?”

  Ash gazed through the window at the passing traffic. “Pete did me a favor. As my decoy, he gave me the space that I needed.” Ash glanced fondly at Charley, who felt an unexpected flush rise in her cheeks. She still wore the white-gold bracelet he’d bought her in Las Vegas. “Besides, I wasn’t hurt badly. Let’s call it quits.”

  Kay looked surprised. “That’s your final decision?”

  Ash shrugged a yes. “He’s a superfan, and they can all get a little crazy sometimes.”

  “Fine. I’ll let the clinic know, so he can be sent back to the UK.” Her tone hardened. “But what I want to know is how a mentally disturbed fan was allowed backstage in the first place.”

  Her eyes raked across Vince, Rick and Charley before settling on Big T. Just as she was about to rip into the veteran bodyguard, Ash cut in. “That was my idea,” he admitted. “As I said, Pete made a great decoy.”

  “Still,” said Kay, her glare returning to its original target, “it was Big T’s responsibility to security-check everyone on the tour.”

  “I did do a background check on Pete. It came up with nothing,” said Big T.

  “Well, you obviously didn’t do it thoroughly enough,” said Kay. “How could you miss—”

  “I got the same result when I ran a separate check,” Charley interrupted, trying to take the heat off Big T as he’d so often done for her. “There’d been a huge database crash, and Pete’s medical records were corrupted. From what was available, he appeared normal, aside from his obvious fixation on Ash.” She held up a picture on her phone of a room wreathed from floor to ceiling in Ash Wild memorabilia. “Pete posted this online. As you can see, his bedroom’s a virtual shrine to Ash.”

  “Jeez, that guy is beyond a superfan! It’s creepy,” remarked the bassist. “He’s even got Ash Wild duve
t covers! Now, that is terrifying.”

  Kay stabbed a gold-ringed finger at the photo. “Shouldn’t that have rung alarm bells?”

  Charley winced at the sharpness of her tongue. “Like Big T, I was always suspicious of Pete, but his room isn’t any different from countless other fans’ bedrooms around the world.”

  “That may be so”—Kay turned on Big T again—“but Pete was the second danger to slip through your fingers last night.”

  The bodyguard puffed up his chest. “Kay, we all missed Brandon. Terry hired him! Even defended him, for heaven’s sake!” The tour manager said nothing, but shrank into the sofa, hoping not to attract Kay’s wrath. “Brandon was a devious psychopath. He altered his appearance, faked his ID and credentials, and even fooled you for a while.”

  “It still amounts to a major oversight in security,” snapped Kay. “You and I will revisit this issue at the end of the tour. In the meantime, please reassure me that it’s within your capability to keep Ash alive for the final two dates in L.A.”

  Big T bristled, but he kept his cool. “Yes,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ll guard Ash with my life. He’s safe as houses.”

  31

  “Ash, five minutes to showtime!” called Terry, knocking on his dressing-room door at the Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles.

  Charley and Big T stood on either side of the door, ready to escort Ash to the stage.

  Security was super tight. No one was allowed in or out without a pass, and faces were being checked against computer records. The entire security team was on duty and in a state of heightened alert. Only an hour before Ash was due to perform, Kay had received a disturbing call from the San Francisco police. Brandon Mills had escaped earlier that morning after the vehicle taking him to the courthouse was involved in an accident. An official manhunt was now under way.

  On hearing the news, a heated argument broke out among the team about whether to go ahead with the gig. But Ash had been adamant that he wouldn’t be terrorized into canceling. These were the final two dates of his sold-out tour, his fans were waiting and he wouldn’t disappoint them. Terry had backed this decision, pointing out that Brandon’s pass had been confiscated. And, after repeated reassurances from Big T that his security could handle the threat, Kay had reluctantly agreed.

  Terry glanced at his watch impatiently. “Ash?” he called. He was about to knock again when the door opened and Ash emerged, sunglasses on and stage ready.

  “You all right?” asked Terry.

  “Yeah,” replied Ash, his voice still hoarse from the fire. “Just a little nervous, that’s all.”

  “No need to be,” said Charley, offering him an encouraging smile even though she was as tense as a wire. “You’re safe as houses.”

  Big T shot her a sideways look. “Now you’re stealing all my lines!”

  Surrounded by his entourage, Ash made his way along the corridor toward the stage like a prize fighter about to enter the arena. No one could have gotten near the rock star. Any attacker would have to battle through a first ring of bodyguards, then tackle Big T and his legendary right hook, after which they’d still face Charley, the final invisible ring of defense.

  Of course, Brandon Mills knew from experience that Charley was someone to be reckoned with, and he might even suspect she was Ash’s personal bodyguard. But now that the whole team knew who Brandon was, every eye in the place would be on the lookout for him.

  As they approached the auditorium, the entourage split. Ash headed beneath the stage with Big T to the toaster lift, while Charley and the other bodyguards peeled off to take up strategic posts around the venue. Stationed in the wings, Charley peered out at the stage to be confronted by an endless sea of faces. Once more the task ahead seemed insurmountable.

  How am I supposed to spot a killer in a crowd of fifty thousand screaming fans?

  Her eyes scanned the front rows of frenzied teenage girls, embarrassingly excited moms, pockets of rocker boys and a handful of reluctant fathers dragged along yet secretly thrilled by a live rock concert. The lack of adults, Charley realized, should make it easier to spot a lone man in the crowd. But she couldn’t take anyone for granted. Brandon had already shown a cunning talent for disguise.

  As her gaze swept the audience, Charley spied a familiar ratty face in the press pit.

  Gonzo.

  How has he, of all paps, snagged a press pass for the final shows? she wondered.

  Then the house lights went down and the video screens began their countdown. The crowd shouted along, cheering as the number one flashed up on the monitors and a huge explosion rumbled through the arena. The cascade of red and gold sparks lit up the stage like a supernova and the gut-thumping throb of a heartbeat blasted out of the speakers.

  At that moment Charley was blind and deaf to any threats.

  The sound of a blazing fire grew, and the silhouette of a winged boy flitted from screen to screen until consumed by the flames.

  INDESTRUCTIBLE . . . IMPOSSIBLE . . . I’M POSSIBLE!

  Charley felt her stomach clench as a thunderclap heralded Ash’s dramatic entrance. From now on until the end of the concert, Ash would be exposed and unguarded on the stage.

  Charley could only watch, hope . . . and react.

  Shooting up from the toaster lift, Ash flew through the air and landed to the sound of euphoric screaming. He stood, legs astride, relishing the adulation.

  Then Ash pumped a fist in the air and cried, “What’s up, Los Ang—”

  But he didn’t finish the sentence. On the massive screens overhead, in full glorious definition, every fan watched in horror as a spurt of blood burst from Ash’s chest.

  32

  Charley was running before Ash even hit the ground. At first she thought she was experiencing déjà vu, a flashback to when the spotlight had almost crushed Ash. But then reality struck. She’d seen the red laser dot—a second too late.

  Charley was first at Ash’s side, shielding his body from whatever attack might come next. He lay in a pool of his own blood, spluttering and writhing in pain. His sunglasses dislodged, hazel eyes bulging, he caught sight of Charley and desperately tried to focus on her face.

  “H-h-help!” he gasped, clasping her wrist.

  “Don’t try to speak,” said Charley as she rapidly assessed his condition. His shirt was soaked with blood, his breathing wet and rapid, and his pulse erratic.

  Ripping off his top to examine the damage, Charley discovered a small round puncture wound in his upper-right chest.

  A bullet hole.

  Big T, now at her side, barked into his mic. “Gunshot confirmed. Secure all exits. Suspect armed and dangerous.”

  In her earpiece, Charley heard a burst of security chatter. More and more people crowded around the bleeding body. Kay, Terry, Zoe, Jessie, band members, roadies . . . even Gonzo, who’d broken through the security line determined to capture the money shot that would become the defining image for the world’s media. In the background, Charley was dimly aware of chaos in the arena, fans screaming and panicked parents fleeing with their children in their arms.

  The venue’s medic appeared with a first-aid kit and dropped down opposite Charley.

  Ash was now panting rapidly, each breath more strained. His chest barely moved, and there was a blue tinge to his lips.

  “Oh my!” exclaimed the medic, turning pale at the profusion of blood.

  When he failed to act, and simply stared at the dying rock star, Charley took the situation into her own hands. “Give me your med-kit,” she ordered.

  In his shocked state, he handed it over. Rummaging through the bag, Charley found a large-bore needle with a one-way valve and tore off the sterilized wrapper.

  “What are you doing?” the medic cried, suddenly aware that a teenage girl was about to perform a serious medical procedure.

  “He’s suffer
ing a tension pneumothorax,” explained Charley, locating the second intercostal space on Ash’s chest. “His injured lung will collapse and he’ll die if we don’t release the pressure.”

  Placing the sharp point against his skin, Charley prayed her diagnosis was correct and that she wouldn’t puncture any vital organs. But there was no time to hesitate. Ash’s life was on a knife’s edge. She drove the needle in at ninety degrees. Ash was in too much pain to notice it slide between his ribs and penetrate deep into his chest cavity. As the valve opened, a sharp hiss of air was heard and Ash’s breathing immediately eased.

  But the medical emergency wasn’t over yet. In her head Charley ran through Dr. ABC again. Big T was dealing with the danger. Ash was still responsive. His airway and breathing were stabilized, at least for the time being. But, judging by the ever-expanding pool of blood on the stage, Ash’s circulation was the critical issue now.

  Kay was on the phone to the emergency services. “Of course he has insurance! Just send a bloody helicopter!”

  “He needs fluids,” said Charley urgently.

  The medic nodded and took out a pouch of saline solution, a sterile tube and a cannula. With practiced efficiency, he inserted the cannula into Ash’s forearm, while Charley set to work bandaging and sealing the open chest wound.

  Yet, despite all their efforts, Ash’s condition continued to deteriorate. His breathing was shallow, his heart rate more erratic than ever. Then suddenly his eyes rolled back in their sockets and his head flopped to the side.

  “Ash! Stay with us!” cried Charley, shaking his shoulder. “The ambulance is on its way.”