Ellie bent over, hands on knees, head bowed and fought the trembling in her legs.    Her ankle ached savagely from the punishing climb to the open moorland on the edge of the Dark Peak.  The joint still did not have a full range of movement.  Ellie rubbed it, impatient with the weakness.  Still trying to catch her breath, she was hit by a vivid flashback.  The man’s eyes, crazy on drugs, signalling his desire to maim.  To kill.  She pushed the vision back into the deepest recesses of her mind.  The injuries she had suffered in the attack had damaged her physically but, buried deep inside, admissible to no-one, Ellie knew there had been a greater psychological cost.  Because of that night, she would always be afraid.

She straightened and looked around.  Winter had bleached the hills, stripping the landscape of colour.   One stunted hawthorn tree, sculpted into an angular shape by the dominating wind, had managed to gain a foothold in the barren landscape .  Beyond it, two small fields, barely sheltered in the lee of the tor, provided poor pasture for hardy sheep.  A line of pylons, marched across the bleak landscape, skeletal giants,  a reminder of man’s desire to dominate the land and force nature to his needs.  Ellie grimaced.  Come the next bad winter, the electricity wires would be burdened with ice many inches thick, sagging until they broke.  Up here nature would always win.

She was about to turn back when a flash of scarlet caught her eye.   There, at the base of the nearest pylon, she could see something fluttering.  Ellie scowled.  Some careless hiker who had left litter, not bothering to clear up his mess.  A townie, probably, oblivious of the risk to animals from a discarded plastic bag.

She hesitated.  A barbed wire fence blocked her access and the ground beyond looked boggy and uneven.   The object fluttered again, as though beckoning her across the damp, peaty ground.  It was madness to push herself further she knew but the thought challenged her.  Ellie looked around.  There was no living soul in sight, not even one of the hardy hill sheep.  There was no-one to see her fail.

Making up her mind, she took a few steps back and launched herself at the fence like a hurdler, relishing the moment of exhilaration as her body responded, flying free from the pull of gravity.  The landing jarred her ankle and she feared she would go down but her feet picked up the rhythm of the run and she flew onwards, only stumbling as she neared the pylon.  Now she could see that the scarlet flutter was a scarf.  Walking forward, Ellie saw the scarf lay around a girl’s body, her sightless eyes staring at the looming pylon which stood, like a gaunt sentinel, above her.

There are pockets of London where you can slip away from the seven and a half million souls who share the city with you and find a secluded backwater so quiet you could be the only inhabitant.  A few streets from Impresso, Megan and I reached a small, semi-enclosed square and found a seat on one of the original Victorian iron benches near the middle, beneath a depressed looking tree.  Someone had spruced the bench up with shiny black paint but it was still as uncomfortable as hell.  Megan planted the gift-wrapped box on the seat between us and turned to look at me.

‘You look good, Red’, she said.

‘You said that already.  Cut the crap, Megan!  What’s in the box?’

Megan smiled, the dimples making a brief appearance.

‘Well, it’s nice to see you, too, Red.  Missed me?’

‘Like a heart attack,’ I muttered.  ‘What’s in the box?’

Megan grinned.  ‘Same old Red.  You really know how to make a girl feel wanted.’

Then she grew serious, was all business.  She still took my breath away.  I guess you could say I’ve got it bad.  Good job I had my survival instincts to fall back on.

‘I suppose you could call it a bio bomb, Red,’ said Megan thoughtfully.  ‘I’m told that there are enough little bugs inside  this box to decimate London.  It would make the Black Death look like a summer cold.’

She looked at the shiny silver box the way you or I would look at an interesting species of butterfly.

‘Apparently, it’s got a really impressive hit rate for the size of the sample.  Or, so I’m told.’

So, OK, the survival instincts had obviously gone AWOL.  I scooted back along the bench until I hit the arm, as far away from the box as I could get without actually running.

‘Jesus, Megan!  Where the hell did you get it?’ I could hear my voice rising.  ‘And why bring it to me?  You need to get it out of London!  Get it somewhere safe.’

Megan put her head on one side as she considered this.

‘The trouble is, Red, I don’t think there is anywhere safe for a thing like this.  If the bugs get out of the flask - that’s it.  There’s no antidote.  At least, that’s what Stephen told me.’

‘Stephen?  Who the hell is Stephen?’

My voice may have risen again.  I saw a woman who’d just entered the square with a small over-groomed poodle on a pale pink lead look across at us, then turn away with a scowl.  Fat lot of good that was going to do her and her dog if Megan’s bio bomb went off.  They’d be among the first to go.  Unless the bugs only targeted humans, in which case her dog might be safe for a while but it was going to have to resurrect its wolf ancestry to survive.  I could feel part of my mind playing out this scenario as a diversion from the incomprehensible terror that the box was generating.  The poodle looked as if it might be OK nipping ankles but I didn’t see it leading a pack of feral hounds through deserted London streets.  Too much pampering had tamed the beast.  I fought to get my mind back on track.

Megan gave me the look she gives me when she knows I’m struggling to keep up.
​
‘You know, Red. Stephen.’  She sighed as I still looked blank.  ‘Stephen Mackenzie.  He’s an old friend from college.  You’ve met him, Red.   Tall, thin, wears glasses and never looks as if he knows what to do with his hands.’

OK, yes.  I had a vague memory of someone called Stephen.  He worked for some pharmaceutical firm, as far as I could remember, and definitely looked as if he didn’t get out much.  Megan had a knack for picking up stray dogs and giving them the odd titbit.  I must have met him at one of the gatherings at her flat a while ago, back when I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for, getting to know Megan.  I felt a sudden lurch in my stomach.  Maybe I, too, was one of her stray dogs, useful occasionally and meriting the odd pat on the head.  I felt my mouth turn sour at the thought.
​
‘I vaguely remember Stephen,’ I said.  ‘Science geek.  Why would he give you a bio-bomb?  What the fuck was he thinking?’

I posted the start of this on 29/12/2015 as "Opener for First Chance" & invited comments.  So far, I've had no luck with that but hey, I know you're busy.  Here's the next part and, if you have any comments you wish to share, please feel free...

I’m Will, by the way.  William Alexander Peyton to be formal.  Most people know me as Will but Megan has always called me ‘Red’, for reasons which are obvious unless I’m wearing a hat.  I’m thirty-four, around six foot one and I can handle myself in a fight.  You can probably chalk that up to long years in the school playground, learning to defend myself from evil bastards who saw my red hair as a red flag until I convinced them they’d picked a fight they couldn’t win.  My nose ended up a bit crooked but it suffered less damage than most of the ginger bashers did.  I guess I’ve got a temper to go with the hair.

Megan... well, Megan is a whole other thing.   If you saw her, you’d say she was beautiful and she is, she really is, but that’s not her defining feature.  That would be her complete and utter lack of fear.  Where you or I might hesitate, Megan jumps right in.  Now, you could say that’s a good thing - life belongs to the brave and all that.  But we hesitate for a reason.  It’s a survival skill.  A sensible amount of caution allows us to regroup, withdraw and fight another day.  At the very least, it gives us a chance to weigh up the odds.  With Megan, the odds are firmly stacked against you at the start and your main priority is to prevent her getting herself killed before she reaches her target.  Hanging on to your own skin is also a major concern.  Make no mistake - between Megan and a heat-seeking missile there’s not a whole lot of difference and God help anyone who’s around when the explosion happens.

You might say Megan is her father’s daughter.   I’ve said it myself but I’m not sure it’s the whole truth.  Eliot Chance is, without doubt, the coldest hearted bastard you are likely to meet this side of Christmas and, believe me, I’ve met a few.  He founded Chance Associates, a high-end security firm based in Mayfair and that location pretty much defines his clientele.  They are loaded.  Whatever they want, they have the means to buy it or to pay someone to get it for them.  Which is where Eliot’s firm comes in.  Protection, kidnap negotiation, blackmailing employee or abusive spouse - whatever the problem, Chance Associates can provide a solution.  For a price.  Megan has learned a lot from her father and she’s being groomed to inherit the family business.  If she survives him, that is.  And that is really my problem with Eliot Chance.  He’ll protect any deadbeat member of some billionaire’s family but he doesn’t protect his own daughter.  Just as he failed to protect his own wife.

I don’t know the details.  I guess, in his business, it pays not to advertise failure.  I heard Megan’s mother died in some botched kidnap switch when Megan was sixteen.  I didn’t know her when her mother was alive but I’m guessing that Miranda Chance’s death might have something to do with Megan’s kamikaze attitude to life.  You sure as hell can feel Death standing at Megan’s shoulder when you get involved in one of her hair-brained ventures.  Maybe she just doesn’t care if she survives or not.  My problem is - I do care.  I care a lot.  Which is why I needed to hand off my caffeine deficient commuters to another barista and scoot after Megan.

The only problem with that was Rachel, my business partner and actual boss of the coffee shop, Impresso, who had spotted Megan and was shooting me a look guaranteed to sizzle small insects.
‘Don’t you dare, Will’ she hissed, between customers.  ‘There will not be a job to come back to if you follow that evil bitch.’
Which I knew was an empty threat.  You see, I part own the coffee shop, although, I’ve got to admit, Rachel does all the serious work: ordering supplies, serving commuters from 7am to 7 pm and hiring and firing.  But she couldn’t actually fire me.  I hoped.
‘Sorry, Rache... You know how it is... I’ve got to...’

I tried a conciliatory smile which just earned me a more intense glare combined with a scowl which would have made Medusa proud.  It didn’t matter.  Whatever Megan was up to, I couldn’t leave her to it.  Those green eyes had looked more than serious.  They’d looked scared.  Which was a first.  I have never once seen Megan look frightened, even at moments when I was reduced to babbling terror.  Whatever this was about, Megan needed back up.
​
Several customers took a step back as Rachel’s glare scythed through the crowd and I could feel it burning into the small of my back as I left the coffee shop and hurried after Megan, out into the street.  I knew I was being an idiot.  I knew I was going to regret it.  But I also knew Megan was in serious trouble and I might be able to help.

 This is the opening scene of a work in progress.  I'm posting it here to find out if anyone would want to read further...  So far I have 45,000 words and need some encouragement to get it finished!  Over to you.

Oh, shit!
I didn’t say it aloud.  Maybe I should have.  Although, knowing Lara, it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference, because she knows me well enough to read my mind and she knows ‘Oh, shit!’ is pretty much my default position whenever she turns up to wreck my life.  So I continued to serve coffee to a waiting line of impatient commuters and kept my thoughts and feelings to myself.  Three skinny lattes, four cappuccinos and a double espresso later and there she was, standing in front of me, her dark blonde hair tucked under a navy baseball cap, big green eyes, a megawatt smile and absolutely no indication that the last time she got me involved in one of her crazy schemes I nearly died.  Twice!  I was determined not to get drawn in again.
‘Help you?'
‘Hi, Red!  You look good.’
She always calls me ‘Red’, mainly because she knows I hate it and she likes to see me get mad.  It wasn’t going to work this time.
‘Cappuccino?  Latte?  A little steamed milk with a shot of cyanide to go?’
She smiled widely enough to bring the dimples out.  Double shit!  I’m a sucker for those dimples.  But I hardened my heart.  I was determined to keep out of whatever hellish plot she was working on this time.  The last time I saw Lara, she was skipping out of Nice with £2 million of assorted coloured gemstones in her pocket, leaving me behind to wrestle a rabid Alsatian who had a grudge against mankind and breath you could surf on.  I’ve still got a six inch scar on my inner right leg from teeth which came this close to leaving me singing falsetto.  No go this time.
‘I brought you a present, Red.  Happy Birthday!’
She handed me a small box, wrapped in shiny silver paper with a big blue bow.  There was only one problem.  My birthday’s in October, as Lara very well knows.  This was April.  I didn’t know how, yet, but she was doing it again.  Drawing me in.
‘What is this?  A bomb?’
The guy behind Lara looked up from his earnest perusal of the sports page of his newspaper, alarmed.  OK.  Maybe my voice had risen a little bit and maybe the modern world is not the best place to joke about explosive devices in crowded city centres.  But if you knew Lara, you’d know that anything is possible.  And then I caught the expression in her eyes and suddenly I knew the joke was on me.
She gave me the look which scares me most of all.  The one where she’s absolutely, deadly serious.
‘Good guess!  We need to talk, Red!  Now would be good.’
Not a dimple in sight.  And, just like that, I was in it.  Up to my neck.