RACE AMAZON: False Dawn (James Pace novels Book 1) Read online

  It had taken her an hour longer than even she expected to retrieve the missile, so awkwardly was it placed. The only bonus was the absence of an exit wound. After surgery the only visible sign was a neatly stitched vertical incision, about six inches long, running straight down the centre line of his chest. Pace had to trust their word because his entire chest was encased in a sheath of bandaging.

  Political response to the shooting was swift. Gun laws would be tightened further and increased sentences for firearms offences would accompany the public inquiry. European protests over plans to allow children to stand trial as adults in firearms related cases were quashed by a furious Parliament who warned against any further meddling in affairs of British law and sovereignty.

  Pandemonium, to be precise, led to the highly significant move on the part of the government to bow to years of pressure and finally issue firearms to all serving police officers. The only thing they didn’t do was catch the culprits.

  Then they started a fund for him.

  Pace couldn’t believe it. Either the newspapers were sorely short of other stories or his misfortune had triggered a deep-rooted social fear across the country. Whichever it was, and he suspected a bit of both, he was an overnight celebrity. Illicit photographs of him, taken as he lay in critical condition immediately after the operation, were published. Source of the photographs was unknown but he had to admit he looked ghastly, plumbed as he was with several tubes and lines, and completely surrounded by machinery. He definitely looked more dead than alive.

  All press contact was barred save for the daily progress report by the hospital. On the eighth day Pace gave his first interview and it totally exhausted him despite it lasting barely five minutes. Three photographs were taken before the two reporters and photographer were firmly ushered out by Sally, his highly efficient nurse.

  Pace was very grateful and slept, with the help of an intravenous infusion of tranquillizer, like the dead. It was another three days before he felt ready to give his next interview.

  This time he wanted to give a full account of himself so he could be left alone and forgotten. The single journalist had obviously been primed and was careful not to overtax him. For his patience he went away with all the comments and pictures he needed.

  Sally, Pace’s wonderful Mauritian angel, was in her mid-twenties and apparently the youngest sister in the hospital. Normally she wouldn’t have had time to care for patients herself. That had all fallen by the wayside to be replaced by an increasingly administrative role. Apparently he was a special case and the hospital management had assigned her and a team of junior nurses expressly to his care. Who was he to argue?

  It was seven o’clock on Tuesday morning, twelve days after the shooting, when she came into his room, as usual, to see if everything had been okay overnight. Pace grumbled it had been as well as could be expected.

  ‘You have a visitor coming to see you later this morning,’ she told him breezily, opening the floral print curtains and flooding the room with the subdued sunlight of what appeared a gloomy, overcast morning. The window wore a set of plain net curtains beneath the main drapes but he could still see the fine coating of water droplets on the outside of the glass. Either it had rained and stopped, or it was drizzling so softly it made no sound against the windowpane.

  ‘Which newspaper is it today?’ Pace enquired grimly. ‘I thought members of the press were going to leave me alone from now on.’ His throat rasped and croaked the words. He hadn’t had his first drink of the day yet.

  ‘Not a newspaper this time, although I’m sure the reporters won’t be far behind.’ She crossed over to his bed and proceeded to plump the pillows, supporting his head deftly with one hand as she did so. Pace wasn’t able to sit upright at all; he had to remain flat so it was as much as anyone could do to make him more comfortable.

  Psychologically it worked well and the waft of delicate perfume that crept from the neck of her crisply pressed uniform succeeded in brightening his mood.

  She was pencil-slim. The coffee-coloured skin on her face housed intelligent, dark eyes and a full sensual mouth that was nothing short of torture for an immobilised male, subject to the humiliation of bed baths and bedpans. Sally never undertook those herself thankfully, she left that to her staff. Maybe she sensed she wouldn’t be able to build the rapport necessary to ease his long stay if she personally attended to such basics.

  Pace idly wondered if she saw him as anything other than another patient. Did she notice that he had thick dark brown hair and clear blue eyes, or that his jaw line had been separately described as strong and jutting?

  He willed his stirring groin to stop rising, with only partial success, and pumped her. ‘So who is it? The Prime Minister, or a naked chorus line? Hopefully the latter but not the way my luck’s running at the moment.’

  Sally smiled in response, saying nothing. Pillows suitably plumped, she moved away to the end of the bed and picked up the chart that inevitably hung there. She scanned down the medical notations.

  ‘Those people haven’t made their appointments yet,’ she chided his flippancy with her tone, ‘and you’re not up to chorus girls right now. Still a very important person he is that’s coming.’ Ah, Pace thought. At least he knew the gender. ‘I only hope that whatever he wants will lift your spirits and get you out from under my feet more quickly.’ Her stern tone was underscored by a twinkle of radiance in those beautiful eyes.

  ‘So who is it?’ Pace asked his question again. ‘I’ll be a good patient, I promise.’

  Totally ignoring his plea, her face clouded. ‘Journalists and photographers will be crawling everywhere again, upsetting my nurses and ruining any attempt I make at keeping things orderly.’ She was obviously talking to herself, having not heard him.

  ‘Remember me?’ Pace asked sarcastically. He would have waved his arms at her if he could. Even after nearly a fortnight he was unable to move either of them particularly well. Any attempt to lift them up past the base of his throat rewarded him with a sensation akin to a herd of African elephants dancing the tango on his chest.

  Eyes flicking back up the bed towards him, her feigned frown broke into a half smile. The corners of her mouth lifted and a glimpse of pearl appeared briefly between parted lips.

  ‘That is the price we pay for looking after a hero, I suppose.’ Still not answering the question, she smoothed down her uniform. ‘I have to go now.’ She nodded her satisfaction at whatever she’d read on his chart and replaced it. ‘I’ll send one of the nurses in to attend to you before breakfast.’

  Then she was gone, replaced almost seamlessly by Margaret, a portly white nurse in her late fifties. Somehow this made his embarrassment more tolerable. A breakfast of limp toast and lifeless porridge came and went, closely followed by a bedpan and sponge bath. Pace couldn’t even shave himself; Margaret had to do that as well. She was highly proficient too, not even a nick or a slice in the whole procedure, but it still served to emasculate him just that little bit further.

  His secret visitor came, without the feared hordes of journalists and cameras, at dead on eleven o’clock. If anyone was with him they must have been stopped from coming within thirty feet of his room because Pace heard nothing at all from beyond the door as it quietly opened and Sally ushered the man into his room. He noted a brief smile of encouragement from her, perhaps even of anticipation, before she closed the door softly and left them to it.

  The shock of his instant recognition must have registered plainly because the man lowered himself onto the orange plastic chair at his bedside, smiled wanly and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Pace was very pleased to have been dressed in a fresh set of hospital-issue blue pyjamas. He knew he looked vaguely presentable.

  The face that smiled at him and the hand that patted him spent more than their fair share of time being plastered around the world, in magazines, on billboards and in business reviews.

  His was one of Britain’s greatest entrepreneurial success stories of th
e last two decades. He was not one for personally undertaking personal challenges; he often admitted to being far too scared to risk himself like that, instead he spent a great deal of his free time organising publicity events to highlight his own private concerns for the planet’s health.

  He made a great deal of money through his business ventures and was quoted as saying that ecological crusading was his way of relaxing.

  Doyle McEntire, soon to be Sir McEntire if the media’s constant speculation of late was based at all on fact, was a man pushing sixty. The hair on his head was full and healthy, grey turning white at the temples. His heavily lined face suggested a man who’d spent far too many years working way too many hours. McEntire was also burdened with a paunch that suggested he enjoyed living the good life.

  Standing only a shade over five feet six inches, his stilted height made his stomach seem more pronounced yet he had a public reputation for possessing a razor-sharp intellect and of being a very astute operator. He was dressed in a smart, dark green suit, white shirt and silk paisley tie. His shoes literally gleamed and despite the absence of jewellery or gold watch, he exuded an aura of relaxed wealth.

  The real puzzle was that he was inside Pace’s hospital room without any reason he could fathom. He said as much.

  McEntire’s smile broadened into a grin and he settled back further on to the chair, regarding him over the top of expensive gold-rimmed spectacles like a father about to lecture a wayward offspring. The grin faded and he grew serious. When he spoke there was absolutely no trace of the Scottish accent he’d allegedly been born with. His English was crisp and smartly delivered.

  ‘Mr Pace, or may I call you James? James,’ he didn’t wait for permission, ‘look, let me explain myself straight away.’

  ‘That would be good,’ Pace agreed, his curiosity rising.

  ‘You know who I am of course.’ There was no trace of pretension in his voice. It was just a statement of fact and Pace found himself warming to the man.

  ‘That’s the problem.’

  McEntire gave an acknowledging nod. ‘You,’ he swept an arm out over his bed in a very theatrical motion, ‘have become the focus of a great deal of attention from the media of late. All of it has been good, I might add.’

  Pace hadn’t had any brainwaves at that point and saw no reason to interrupt the man’s flow.

  McEntire breezed on. ‘I don’t know if you are aware of my new project, James, but I am here to try to enlist you as a member of the team. That’s the reason for my visit.’ He was not a man to beat about the bush.

  ‘Your new project?’ Pace wondered if he sounded as stupid as he imagined. ‘The only thing I’ve read about you lately is that you’re setting up some kind of eco-race in South America.’ He hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to the article itself and the details that came back to him were sketchy.

  ‘That’s the one.’ McEntire was surprised the man knew anything about his race at all. He needed to snare this one and so lit up his tone with enthusiasm as he leaned forward excitedly. ‘A challenge race designed to test human endurance, and protect the world’s many endangered habitats. The theme, young man, is one of mankind striving to protect, instead of destroy.’

  McEntire paused to study Pace’s reaction. The patient strove hard to keep his expression neutral.

  ‘The idea is that I organise the race,’ McEntire went on. ‘I stump up the cost of kitting the teams out and providing the considerable logistical support needed. In return, the international business community gets to collectively put up the equivalent of five hundred million American dollars to establish and preserve certain habitats around the globe.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Pace cautiously.

  ‘Of course they get to plaster their logos and products on everything we print, photograph or film about the race and lap up immeasurable positive press, but I am hopeful the real message won’t be lost on the world. A new century and new millennium must equal a new attitude towards conservation.’

  His excitement visibly eased and he sat back again. ‘So yes, you are right in what you say. It is a race. Actually it’s a race to be run in the Amazon jungle. That’s in Brazil, but I’m sure you know that.’

  ‘The idea is brilliant,’ Pace said, honestly meaning it, ‘but what does it have to do with me?’

  He still couldn’t remember many more details but he had a niggling feeling the teams were all going to be comprised of expert competitors; they always were in races like this. Unless they needed an experienced helicopter pilot, or worried that some of their people might go crazy and need nursing out there, he didn’t fit the bill.

  ‘Surely all the teams will be made up of top people? I don’t qualify on that score,’ he said, ‘but then you know that already.’

  ‘Agreed James, very much agreed.’ McEntire was a good enough judge of character to realise he needed to be brutally blunt if he was to be believed. ‘Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t fit the selection criteria.’

  ‘But I am a possibility now?’ Pace guessed cautiously. ‘Now I’m flavour of the month with the media, so to speak. Something has changed? What and how?’

  ‘One reason the public has really warmed to you is the bravery aspect,’ McEntire had to stop a smile curling the edges of his mouth. ‘They appreciate the courage you showed in nearly being killed just to help people you didn’t even know. The newspapers dug up everything they could about you to boost their articles, including your military background and experience with a video camera. That’s why you are a possibility. You have a flying background and a knack with a video camera.’

  They had made a meal out of it, it was true. Hardly Hollywood, just a few wedding videos for friends that led to a small commission from the local council to make a couple of training films for their staff. Pace had been given a nice camera to use though, and the luxury of a sound and lighting technician.

  As for his military background, he’d served with the Royal Air Force for eight years, the last six of them flying helicopters of differing types, though mainly the Westland WG13 Lynx back in those days; a decade ago. He still flew enough hours every year just to keep up his license but his salary didn’t stretch to pleasure flying and his higher flying skills were as rusty as the hull of a century-old tramp steamer.

  ‘I made a couple of short films,’ Pace said. ‘It was very basic stuff.’

  ‘But you did make them, and you can work a camcorder with some degree of flair.’ Seeing his questioning look, he added, ‘I had a brief look at those council videos you shot. It’s true to say the content is hardly riveting but both of them had a solid feel. You made something out of nothing with them. For an amateur you show real potential.’

  ‘So what’s your point, exactly?’ Although flattered by having such an esteemed visitor praising his work, Pace was tiring of the conversation and the first twinges began to overcome his drug-induced pain relief, to prick at his chest beneath the bandages.

  ‘My point?’ If he was annoyed at the bluntness, McEntire didn’t show it. ‘My point is simply this. I need a camera operator to accompany each of the teams in order to film the racing perspective. There will be three teams and I only have two camera operators signed up. I would like you to consider being my third.’

  Without wanting to, Pace laughed. He instantly regretted it as the needle pricks of pain suddenly transformed into jackhammers. His laughter triggered three coughs in a row and by the end of the third choke McEntire and his offer didn’t matter. All that mattered was being able to breathe again.

  Gasping for air, he went very cold, oblivious to a trickle of blood streaking from the corner of his mouth, running down his chin and dropping onto the newly changed sheets, spotting the crisp white with patches of vivid red.

  McEntire was stung into action and moved for help with speed that belied his paunch, having Sally there in moments with others in tow. A new infusion was pumped into Pace’s arm, followed almost immediately by a delightful warmth that chased aw
ay the chills and darkened the daylight.

  When Pace awoke, several hours later, everything was as it had been except for a new set of bedding and an oxygen mask firmly plastered over his face. He sensed movement next to the bed and Sally’s face appeared, etched with a mixture of concern and disapproval.

  She checked his breathing, pulse and temperature, jotting them officially on his chart and pausing long enough to say how glad she was to see him still alive and adding that visitors of any kind were now banned for at least a fortnight. The doctors feared a repeat performance would risk permanent collapse of his injured lung, she explained. They had miscalculated his level of recovery and placed him at risk. It was a mistake they would not repeat.

  During the following two weeks Pace had no further contact with McEntire, other than a brief note of apology and an expensive floral arrangement by way of recompense. Time dragged by sluggishly and it was as close as he’d ever come to a heavenly experience when the day finally arrived for his supportive bandaging to be removed.

  The doctors, in all their wisdom, pronounced him to be in good general health and definitely out of danger. X-rays exposed directly onto a computer, as opposed to the more traditional film, revealed his lung to be healing well along with his abused breastbone. X-rays exposed this way allegedly only used one third of the radiation of their regular cousins but Pace still had so many taken he began to worry if he’d glow in the dark.

  In total he ended up being in hospital for six weeks. The final week was spent undergoing a battery of tests but finally he was pronounced a free man, which was good because he’d just about had enough.

  All that remained was for him to give a press briefing in the hospital foyer prior to returning to a normal life. Despite being able to have visitors after those initial weeks of recovery, Pace had convinced the powers that be to extend the boycott for the entire period of his stay. In return he promised them an impressive discharge interview, filled with praise for their medical care.