The Blurb:
Blair Charlston swapped the stock market for salvation - and now he's making a killing.
Once a controversial venture capitalist, Charlston reinvented himself as a personal and business development guru after surviving an attempt to take his own life when a business deal went disastrously wrong. So when he decides to host a weekend retreat on the outskirts of Stirling for more than 300 people, Connor Fraser is drafted in to cover the security for a man who is at once idolised as a saviour and hated as a ruthless asset stripper.
For Connor, it's an unwelcome assignment. He's never had much time for salvation by soundbite, and Charlston's notoriety is attracting the attention of reporter Donna Blake, who's asking more questions than Connor has answers for.
But when an old colleague of Donna's is found brutally bludgeoned to death, and the start of Charleston's weekend of salvation becomes a literal trial by fire, Connor must race to unmask a killer whose savagery is only matched by their cunning.
No Place To Die was published by Constable in paperback on 7th April 2020. It is also available in eBook and hardback formats. You can purchase it from Amazon, Waterstones or Hive (which supports independent bookstores). But it's worth checking if your usual independent bookseller can take orders. Many can, and they could really do with our support just at the moment.
The Author:
Neil Broadfoot worked as a journalist for 15 years at both national and local newspapers, including The Scotsman, Scotland on Sunday and the Evening News, covering some of the biggest stories of the day.
Falling Fast, which was shortlisted for the Dundee International Book Prize, is the first in the Edinburgh-set McGregor and Drummond series of thrillers.
His new Stirling-set series, which begins with No Man's Land and features close protection expert Connor Fraser, has been hailed as "tense, fast moving and bloody" and "atmospheric, twisty and explosive" with a "complex cast of characters and a compelling hero". No Man's Land was longlisted for the 2019 McIlvanney Award.
As a father of two girls, Neil finds himself regularly outnumbered in his own home. He is also one of the Four Blokes In Search of a Plot, a quartet of crime writers who live write a story based on suggestions from the audience. The Four Blokes have appeared in England, Spain and Scotland.
And here is that promised taster from the book.
Extract:
Connor Fraser heard the laughter just as he felt his chest catch fire. It was the sound of the playground – illicit, humourless, cruel. He blocked it out, focused on the agony in his chest as the weight bore down on him. Closing his eyes he exhaled as hard as he could, pushing the weight back up, arms shaking, the heavy clang of the bar finally hitting the rack the sweetest music.
But then he heard the laughter again.
He sat up, world swimming slightly in a moment of light-headedness from his exertion, then looked around the gym. It didn’t take him long to spot the source of the laughter or its cause. If he was being honest, he felt a chuckle tickle in his own chest.
The kid was in the free-weights area at the far end of the room, looking like he was going to have a heart attack at any moment. His cheeks were angry scarlet, sweat-soaked T-shirt plastered to a sagging chest and a pendulous gut that hung halfway over the waistline of his shorts. The effort of lifting the dumbbells rippled through his chins like waves as he grunted and panted at the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in front of him. Finally, as he curled them up to shoulder height, his eyes gave a nervous twitch to the left, and the source of the laughter.
Standing around a bench, surrounded by an assortment of weights, were three young men. In their mid-twenties, Connor guessed. They might have stepped from the pages of a fitness magazine, designer workout gear clinging to every gym-sculpted muscle. Obviously no strangers to the salon attached to the gym, their hair was perfectly styled and their tans unnaturally healthy, even with the good weather Stirling had been enjoying recently. They were in a loose semi-circle, weights abandoned as they laughed and sneered at the fat kid.
Wankers.
Connor sighed, turned back to his workout. He was just racking another twenty pounds onto either side of the barbell when he heard the clatter of weights and an explosion of laughter from across the gym.
The fat kid was sitting on a bench, weights abandoned at his feet where he’d dropped them, head between his knees, taking deep, hitching breaths, knuckles white on the edge of the bench, gripping it as though it were a raft in a typhoon. With an irritated roll of his shoulders, Connor stood up and headed for the drinks fountain in the right corner of the gym. He took a paper cup from the dispenser and half filled it with water, then headed for the kid, feeling the eyes of the chortling meatheads following him.
‘Leave him, man. Fatso’s taken a whitey. He’ll spew all over ye . . .’ one called.
Connor ignored him, touched the kid’s shoulder gently. ‘Here,’ he said, offering the water, ‘drink this. Slow sips. It’ll make you feel better.’
The kid looked up, pale green eyes watery with tears. His face was a mess of hectic colour, two scarlet plumes on his cheeks. Couldn’t be much more than nineteen or twenty. Despite himself, Connor felt a vague snarl of contempt. How the hell did anyone let themselves get this out of shape so young?
‘Th-thanks,’ the boy said. ‘Just went at it too hard, you know.’ Connor nodded briefly. He wasn’t looking for a conversation, just didn’t want to have to deal with the kid if he keeled over. ‘Take it a bit easier,’ he said. ‘Get your breathing sorted. Inhale when you’re relaxing, exhale when you’re moving the dumbbells, okay? And drop the weight you’re lifting a little, take it slow.’ The kid’s head bobbed up and down eagerly, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Connor watched the kid breathe for a moment, the gasping breaths becoming more even, the hammering vein in his neck calming. Satisfied, he turned and walked back to his own barbell. Started his set, got about halfway through when he heard the laughter again, followed by the same voice as before. ‘Aw, fuck’s sake, man, now I’m gonna puke. Lookadit jiggle!’
Connor finished his set, sat up. Saw the kid had moved to a running machine, gut and chest bouncing in time to his awkward half-jog. His eyes were locked on his own reflection, face set in loathing and bitter defiance. Despite himself, Connor felt a surge of admiration for the kid.
Decision made. He got off the bench, ignoring the small voice in his head that urged him not to get involved. Walked across to the trio of meatheads. The shortest of the three, who made up for his lack of height with width, turned as he approached and took a half-step forward. Connor watched as the other two fell in loosely behind. They might as well have painted a target on their friend’s forehead. ‘Problem, pal?’ the meathead asked. No menace, just a cold smugness born of the knowledge that he was king of this castle and could handle anything that came his way. Connor studied him: the oily skin, the over-pumped muscles, the dilated veins that snaked up his arms like a roadmap. Wondered if the perfectly sculpted little shit in front of him had any idea how deep the waters he had just waded into really were.
‘No problem,’ he said, his voice low, even. ‘Just keep it down, okay? Kid’s doing his best, doesn’t need you reminding him how far he’s got to go.’
The meathead broke into a smile as fake as the rest of him. ‘Fuck off.’ He chuckled. ‘Seriously, man? Who the fuck you think you are anyway?’ ‘I’m nobody,’ Connor said. ‘I just want to work out in peace. And I don’t need to hear your shit when I’m doing it.’
The first meathead tried to take another step forward, but Connor was already moving. He stepped to the side, got an arm around his shoulders in a we’re-all-friends embrace. Dug his fingers into the hard mound of neck muscle, heard a sharp intake of breath as he found the nerve cluster and squeezed. Leaned in close enough to smell sour sweat, eyes strafing the other two weightlifters, watching for them to make a move.
‘Like I said, I’m no one,’ Connor whispered, voice now as hard as the dumbbells. ‘So let’s keep it that way. You don’t know me, I don’t know you. Don’t want to. But leave the kid alone. Otherwise . . .’ He dug his fingers in deeper as he let the sentence trail off, pain delivering the rest of the message for him.
The meathead stepped back, his two friends crowding in on him. Connor stood, breathing slow and easy, eyes on the three of them. He saw the argument rage in the poisoned dwarf’s eyes, the battle between humiliation and pain being waged.
‘Ah, fuck ye,’ he said at last, turning away as he rubbed at his neck. ‘Nae fuckin’ worth it.’ He stormed off, friends trailing behind him. Connor watched them, just to be sure, then headed for the bikes. He saw the fat kid nod to him in the mirror, returned the gesture. He didn’t want a friend, definitely didn’t want a lost puppy following him everywhere. That only led to trouble.
He set himself up on a static cycle, was just getting into a rhythm when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Fished it out, irritated. Should have left the damn thing in his locker. But that wasn’t an option any more, was it? As an employee, he could go off grid for a while, let Sentinel Securities run itself. But with Lachlan Jameson out of the picture, thanks to his part in three murders and an attempt on Connor’s own life, Connor wasn’t just an employee any more. The board – a strange blend of investment bankers and ex-service personnel – had asked him to stay on with Sentinel, and even elevated him to senior partner. It was, they said, good business. After all, the Jameson case had shown Connor could handle a crisis.
Connor had smiled at the compliment, but knew better. The former chairman of the board and founder of the company had been exposed as a cold-blooded contract killer with a taste for beheading his victims. The affair had very nearly brought down a government. Connor had managed to stay mostly out of the coverage. But, as always, there were rumours. And one of those rumours was that Connor Fraser was not a man to take lightly. So, along with a leg wound that still ached when the nights were cold, he had come through the Jameson affair with a reputation, and a job offer.
More money. More responsibility. More headaches. And a phone he could never switch off.
He opened the text message, read it. Let his legs come to a slow halt.
Time to go to work.
How brilliant does that sound? Check back tomorrow to see what I thought of No Place To Die. Spoiler: I loved it!
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