1
PASHA
“You see him yet?” The tinny voice in Pasha Trueman’s ear crackled with a sharp hiss. “He should be in your sights by now.”
“I’m looking.” Pasha rubbed his damp palms dry on his jeans. Tracking a soldier who hid in shadow was a whole lot harder in real life than it was inCall of Duty. Maybe he should give up on these contact lenses. It was difficult to pick out anyone from this distance, let alone someone dressed head to foot in camo. His headset picked up another burst of static. It was worse than useless as well. “Give me another minute.”
“You haven’t got a minute, Pasha,” the faint voice warned. “You haven’t got thirty seconds to waste in this game. You’ll have to start without him. Get ready to go on my signal.”
“Wait!” Fleeting movement caught Pasha’s attention. “I’ve got a visual on him.”
“Talk about cutting it fine. On my count, remember?”
“On your count.”
This was it—a clear shot. The whole of Britain would have to focus on him. Not bad for a shortsighted half-Afghani who, if you listened to his critics, had no right to be here.
A nerve-fuelled spike of adrenaline dampened his palms again.
“Five, four, three, t?—”
Pasha preemptively made his move, only with a microphone instead of aCall of Dutyrifle, swinging around to face the cameraman behind him in the control box of a central London singing contest venue.
“Hello, Great Britain!” he said, affecting a soft Scottish burr to smooth the shake of his voice. “This is Pasha Trueman, your favoriteBritPop!contender. This week, we’re singing about our day jobs. But remember who to vote for. I’m the brightest star of this show!”
The cheeky grin that voters said they loved stretched wide as he turned a dial on the light desk. Behind him, stage lights surged from dim to extraordinarily bright white in less than half a second.
A quick glance over his shoulder showed the contestants gathered for rehearsal covering their eyes against the glare, including the soldier who’d almost missed the start of this week’s filming. Pasha turned back to the camera with a fake contrite expression. “Oops.” He winked, and dialed the brightness back, wondering if he looked half as dazzled right then as his competition.
Tough shit if they didn’t like it.
Getting singled out like this to open the show was a big deal any of them would kill for. It had to be a good sign. Management must think he was destined to go far in the contest.
“That was great, Pasha.” A production assistant got up from the spot where she’d crouched. “We’ll use that segment at the weekend for sure. The viewers love it when you don’t follow orders. You’re their favorite joker.”
Pasha certainly hoped so. He banked on making them laugh. No way would his voice alone get him to the final.
“Stay here,” she commanded. “We need to film another contestant too, but you can feature in his segment as well.” She turned before leaving. “You know, turning the lights up that far gave you a halo for a moment.” A door opened behind her, and a harried sound and light technician pushed his way into the confined space, followed by his young assistant. The older guy had spoken into Pasha’s borrowed headset, and his expression was now pissed off. It sure didn’t look as if he saw Pasha as angelic.
Too bad.
It had been a rare chance to make a memorable impression, and Pasha would do just about anything it took to stay in this competition.
Anything.
It was difficult to focus when sudden emotion pricked at his vision. Below the control box he stood in, the venue lights dimmed very gradually, spilling only a few feet beyond the footlights. Pasha squinted when a spotlight shone directly on a smallXtaped to the stage.
That was the spot he fought for.
It would change his life to stand there.
Next, a huge screen on the back wall came to life in a blaze of red, white, and blue. The opening sequence for Britain’s favorite singing competition started with a montage of the acts still in the running. It played out in complete silence, headshots of the remaining participants appearing in turn over a Union Jack flag background. Even without the familiar theme tune, the sight had visceral impact. Emotions lodged low down in his gut: Excitement, relief, and terror. They roiled, twisting as the door opened again and more people shuffled into the confined space.
“So, Pasha.” The production assistant had returned and now held a microphone toward him. “You’ve been in the running for six weeks, but what are you thinking right now?” She spokequietly, as if she was the only person who would hear his answer rather than millions of viewers across the UK.
“What am I thinking?” Pasha took a deep breath. “I’m thinking that my name will be the only one left soon.” Itwouldbe his name filling TV screens up and down Great Britain. He visualized it happening, the image sparkling as brightly in his mind’s eye as finale pyrotechnics. His sight blurred again as if the explosions he pictured were real, and his eyes stung. He hadn’t intended his voice to come out sounding choked and gritty, but the assistant clearly approved. She encouraged Pasha to come closer.
“And how does that make you feel?”