Truly Deadly

By Rob Aspinall

Biggest. Identity crisis. Ever.

First came the heart transplant. Then I activated the list. Now a secret organisation wants me dead.

It all started with the dreams. The crazy new skills and behaviours. The crush on the one person I CAN'T be crushing on.

Turns out my donor had a talent for killing. And I inherited far more than his heart. Now I'm on the run. Only a dead assassin's instincts for company.

Will I survive? Will you? All I know is there’ll be blood, bullets and weird stuff you’re not gonna believe. But if you’re happy to white-knuckle it and don’t mind a few bits of sick in your hair, we might just make it out alive. (Might.)

Will life ever get back to normal for 16 year-old Lorna Walker? Will she survive long enough to make it to the next page?

Find out, in the action-filled, humour-packed series that will absolutely, positively kick your behind.

Recommended for age 16+ (Contains violence. Not for the faint hearted.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Aspinall
• Release date: Feb 2, 2019

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Prologue

Sixteen and my life was basically over. And, no, I’m not being dramatic.

I kept the accelerator planted to the floor, doing over a hundred, with the grille of a Range Rover twisted in a tangle of metal to the rear bumper of the ambulance, driven by a grim-faced bitch doing her best to run us both off the road.

Two police cars tried their best to box us in and slow us down. A sniper leaned out of a black helicopter, keeping pace on the other side of the motorway, taking potshots at my head.

Meanwhile, the old man strapped down in the back of the ambulance was laying down super-gabba beats through a heart monitor, while one of the guys from the grab team, kill squad, whoever they were, lolled forward in the passenger seat, long strands of gloopy blood dripping slowly from his mashed-in face.

I didn’t know who was after me or why they thought I was worth all this effort, other than I’d seen something I really shouldn’t.

It can’t have been because of anything I actually knew. Because I knew less than squat.

All I did know for sure was that if I slowed down and stopped, I was dead.

If the sniper got his aim together, I was dead.

And if the traffic got any thicker as we sped up the bridge running dangerously high over the deep and dirty Manchester ship canal … yup, I was pretty much worm food.

Sprinkle in a complete lack of driving lessons and my long, illustrious history of blacking out at all the wrong moments and you’ve got the perfect recipe for underpant brownies.

Of course, a few weeks ago, it was all so different.

Still shit. But a different kind.

Different shade. Different stink.

Rainbows and unicorns compared to this.

Then almost overnight, everything changed.

I changed.

Things got really weird and totally out of hand.

And now you’ve stepped right into the middle of my nightmare. And, like me, you’re probably wondering what in God’s gonads is going on.

So … how does a girl get herself in a pickle like this?

Well, before I catch a bullet, crash off the road or collapse at the wheel, let’s rewind a little.

It all started with a change of heart.

1

The Cut

First, I should really introduce myself.

My name is Lorna Walker and I had two choices.

a) Stick to the meds and die within the year.

b) Have the surgery and risk dying during the op.

If neither of those got me, the Death Squeeze 2000 (aka Auntie Claire) would surely hug the life out of me in the meantime.

I’d gone for Option B, of course. And there I lay on the operating table, trembling so much that the whole team had to hold me still while the anaesthetist stuck me with a needle. I stared at the circular bone saw, the bright theatre lights dancing off the blade.

Please don’t slip and chop my nipples off.

The head surgeon, a lanky grey-haired man with an accent posher than the queen’s asked his hairy-armed assistant how long the organ had been on ice.

Four hours, Arm Hair said. DOA came in carrying a bullet and a donor card.

The anaesthetist smiled down at me through pretty Indian eyes. Lucky you, she said, prepping me for the big sleep.

They usually didn’t give you the anaesthetic on the operating table, but they’d had to fly in the new heart against the clock, so there was no time to deliver it in another room – where I couldn’t see all those scary surgical tools.

My consultant, Dr Jennings, had already laid out the realities of the surgery, subtle as a double-D boob job.

You’ll have a scar. Quite a prominent one extending from the centre of your collarbone to the sternum … the bony bit between your breasts.

That’s assuming you survive the surgery, Dr J had said, and your body doesn’t reject the donor’s organ. You’ll be on immunosuppressants for the rest of your natural life.

Was there such a thing as an unnatural life? When this one was over, did they turn you into a robot sex dancer? This was the kind of pointless, random shit that ravaged my mind in the days and weeks I spent hanging around hospital wards with my life on hold.

In fact, I’d started writing it all down in a journal called Thoughts N Shit. Kind of a posthumous thing in case I didn’t make it. A sign I’d been here. That my sixteen years on Earth had counted for something. It would need a good safety edit of course; especially the bit about starting my own penis museum.

As the surgeons compared notes on golf swings, the anaesthetist gave me the gas. I felt the weak, jerky rhythm of my heart. Did it know what was in store? Was it saying one last goodbye? Suddenly I felt really sad for my heart. I didn’t want it to die.

Weird when you think about it. Imagine waiting two years for THE phone call, wondering if you’d ever get to use that transplant bag, packed and ready to rock in the bottom of the wardrobe. Then, when you finally get what you want, all you feel is sad. Someone had to die for me to live. And three people in the UK died every year waiting for an organ. Why couldn’t I just be happy and grateful? Before I could spin through it any more, the drugs kicked in and I felt light-headed, my vision beginning to split and blur.

Then I felt nothing at all.

2

Operations

Ilay belly down on a dune, overlooking a desert highway. Early morning, the sun rising, already oven-hot. What the hell was I doing here? Scanning the long, straight road through the crosshairs of a rifle, I guessed it wasn’t sightseeing.

Oh no, I thought. The operation had been a con all along. They’d turned me into a drone soldier instead. A drone soldier with big, dry man hands.

I certainly wasn’t the one in control of the decisions, but I’ll use the royal I and my, because every action felt like my own.

I ran the rifle sighting over to my far left, where a procession of liquid cars turned solid, breaking the heat haze. A black Merc limo rode in the centre, a pair of Range Rovers either side. The limo had a couple of small, red, green and white flags stuck on the front, flapping in the wind. The convoy moved fast and tight. Leaving a finger on the rifle trigger, I took out a push-button phone. Some ancient piece of crap. There was a number punched in ready to dial. I held a finger over the call button and tracked the movement of the cars again through the crosshairs.

The train of cars passed below my position. I pulled my head away from the rifle and hit call. Before you could say boomshakalaka, the road beneath the lead Range Rover erupted in an almighty crack and blast, shaking some of the sand loose on the dune, flipping the vehicle up and back onto the one behind.

A split second later, the same deal with the two at the rear. Big explosion. Giant flaming wreck.

Black smoke plumed into the air, the limo caught in a fireball sandwich. It tried pulling out around the blaze. I trained the rifle on the near side-front window and let off a single shot. It punched a hole in the tinted window and revealed a driver slumped over the steering wheel, brain-spat patterns all over the dash.

Oh. My. God.

I hated gory stuff.

I wanted to vom.

The limo rolled to a stop, burning bodies spilling out of the Range Rovers and collapsing on the road. I fixed the crosshairs on the rear of the limo and waited. I flexed a sun-cracked finger around the trigger and let out a deep breath. The rear door of the limo opened and an Arab bodyguard in a black suit stuck his head out, yelling into his phone. It only took a second to line up the shot. One tiny squeeze of the finger and his head popped right off.

Ugh, yuck. This was horrible. Seriously, make it stop.

Another bodyguard climbed out of the far side of the car, staying low. He unleashed a hell-storm of machine-gun fire in my direction, bullets pounding into the dune just a few feet below me.

The guy ducked back down behind the rear of the car, before rising to return fire again. I got him in the neck, the shot tearing his throat apart, blood spraying left and right.

I spotted an older man in military uniform running scared into the vast, flat desert over the opposite side of the road. I pulled the rifle apart and slid back down the dune to a beige four-by-four dusted in sand. I threw the rifle bag in the passenger seat and cranked up the engine. The air con kicked in, full blast. Ice-cool heaven.

I took off down the dune and across the road in front of the burning convoy. The man in uniform was old and covered in war medals, a trimmed white beard standing out against his dark skin. I cut in front of him and slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the four-by-four with a handgun by my side.

The old man stopped running. He knew the game was up.

Just do it, he said in Arabic.

So, what, I speak Arabic now?

I raised my gun and fired, but there was no bullet. Just a dart with a fluffy pink tail that stuck in his neck. He dropped to his knees, flopping mush first in the sand.

Time jumped ahead, the sun high in the sky cooking everything in sight. Uniform dude lay on his side in the back, hands tied with plastic cuffs and a black hood over his head. He groaned as he came to. The dash on the four-by-four rattled on the bumpy roads. The landscape was an endless yellow sea with a long stick of empty liquorice tarmac running through it. A far cry from the industrial wasteland I called home. Grotty grey council estates and boarded-up shops on the outskirts of Manchester, where regeneration didn’t stretch and people with money didn’t stray.

I rumbled along for a few minutes, alone, until I noticed a tiny speck in my side mirror, gaining fast. Now there were two of them, growing bigger and bigger until it was obvious they were chasing me down. One hand tightened around the wheel while the other reached in the rifle bag and pulled out a handgun. A real one this time. Heavier.

I steered with my knees while I locked and loaded. The two specks turned out to be a pair of shitty, dirty white Toyota pickups keeping pace either side of me, Arab guys inside signalling to pull over.

Army? Police? Worse?

We came to a stop just off the road. I tucked the gun in the waist of my combats. My drone body felt awfully calm, considering. There were five men in total. They held up scary-looking machine guns, screaming at me to put my hands up and get out slowly. I did as they screamed, walking forward a few metres and dropping to my knees. I tucked my hands behind my head, my phone concealed within them.

They trained their weapons on me while a man who appeared to be the leader performed a search. He relieved me of my weapon, asking me what I was doing and where I was going. Another guy wandered round to the back of the four-by-four, peering through the dirty windows.

He’s here! he said. Alive.

Who are you? the leader asked me.

I said nothing. He slammed the butt of his rifle in my stomach. Jesus, the pain.

Who do you work for?

He’s not going to talk. Let’s get rid of him, one of the men said.

Shouldn’t we take him back for interrogation? asked another.

What’s wrong? said the leader. Don’t you want to make Major?

The men hurried themselves into a line, clearly excited by the thought of a promotion. And I thought it was my heart condition that was going to be the death of me. After all this, it would be an AK-47 firing squad. I wanted to tell them it had all been a big misunderstanding. I’d been turned into a super-soldier by secret army surgeons. But drone-soldier Lorna didn’t like to talk. She preferred to text.

While my captors were busy preparing their weapons and I was busy pooping my mind pants, those clever man hands of mine were texting away on my push-button phone. I was so distracted by all the fear and facial hair that I hadn’t noticed until my right index finger pushed the last button. I expected another roadside bomb to go off somewhere, but nothing. Through squinting eyes, all I could see were the silhouette figures of the men; and, in the distance, a small black dot against a dazzling sky.

It’s the end of the road for you, friend, the leader said to me.

Rifles clicked. Fingers twitched. Eyes narrowed behind sights.

Ready, said the leader, aim …

I braced myself for an impact that never came. The instant the leader said fire, the entire firing squad was cut in half by a blink-and-miss rattle of bullets the size of Coke bottles, making Swiss cheese of their trucks in the process.

A grey-black drone flashed by low overhead, engines like thunder. It turned and performed a fly-by, before melting back into the sun, leaving nothing but the sound of the wind.

Five lives snuffed out faster than you can clap your hands. Vultures already circling high over the body parts and sand soaking up the blood. I got back to my feet and checked my phone. A text from me that said: Skybird. A text back saying: Skybird confirmed. I walked round to the back of the four-by-four, re-hooded my still-drowsy captive, climbed back behind the wheel and continued on my way.

3

Side Effects

Back in breezy old Manchester of England, I woke up sloooooowly in intensive care. My eyes sticky. The world just shapes and muffled sounds. Someone held my hand, talking. Wah, wah, wah.

When I eventually came round properly, the hospital room was dead except for my Darth Vader click ’n’ breathe ventilator and the gentle beep of the heart monitor.

Suddenly it hit me. That was my heartbeat and it was beeping steadily. I was alive. I felt like deep-fried shitballs, but I was alive!

Auntie Claire was snoozing in a chair by the bed. A nurse was checking my vitals. She smiled and nudged Auntie Claire awake.

Auntie Claire gasped in delight, seizing my hand. Hey, Lorny.

It was all too much. I couldn’t muster a single word, yet the rogue tear rolling down my left cheek said it all.

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A few days later they took me off the ventilator and the head surgeon stopped by to debrief.

Your surgery went well, he said, with a big grin. No complications and, so far, zero signs of rejection.

Thank you, I said, for everything. You’ve no idea how—

He waved it away. All part of the service … Now, since you’re on the mend, there are a few things I need to run through with you. First, you’ve had major heart surgery. So you need to act appropriately. We’re going to keep you on fluids the next few days. Then we’ll start to get you back on your feet. The number-one rule is to take it slow. Your new heart has perfect function, but you could still suffer from blackouts if you overdo it. Some patients are too weak to walk at first. Some get frustrated because they’re not allowed to do more, but just do what the nurses tell you, okay? Donor organs like yours are precious, so take care of it.

I nodded and smiled. Then asked how long I’d be in there.

Two to three weeks, depending … But you’re doing really well. And you’ve got a strong, healthy heart in you. I held it in my hands. It’s one of the best I’ve seen.

He checked his watch and said he’d see me before I left the ward.

What’s the number-one rule? he asked on his way out.

Take it slow, I said.

I looked over to the bedside table, where a leaflet chirped: Hey, I’ve had a heart transplant! What next?

The first time I found out I’d made the waiting list for an op, Dr J had warned me about the rehab and medication.

They’ll decrease the likelihood that your body will reject the foreign tissue, but, obviously, there are some risks, he’d said. Infections, illness, fatigue, cancer …

Oh fab, I thought, the C word. I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and sing la-la-la! But the hard facts kept coming like spots and tsunamis.

Don’t worry, he’d said, creaking forward and touching me awkwardly on the arm. Donors can be difficult to find, so you don’t have to think about any of that yet.

Yeah, he’d not quite got the hang of this bedside manner thing, had he? Made me wonder what he was like with Mrs J. "You’re sagging horribly, dear, but so are most women your age. Don’t be unduly alarmed."

I looked down at the mega-dressing running down the centre of my chest. I was definitely in the wanting-to-go-fast camp. I wanted to run and jump and dance and roller disco, but that would have to wait. First, I had to contend with the warm plate of pig slop being plonked in front of me for dinner. You think the chicken surprise is bad