Kill Four Page 12

  I gathered the guy in the hat and the linen jacket was Uncle Winny. He was doing a lot of pointing north and east. I checked the map and saw that what he was pointing to was an area about a mile away where Janine had said there were abundant herds of springbok. It was a clearing, savannah, about four square miles and roughly the shape of Texas, with a road winding its way to the lower, southwestern corner. Two got you twenty they would establish camp there, with their barbeque, and then go hunting their prey.

  I looked at the group again. The guy in camouflage with the big voice was unmistakably George da Silva, and the rest of them were either his retinue, workers on the reserve or da Silva’s servants.

  I withdrew carefully back into the forest, circled the lodge until it was behind me and set off at a run again. A mile in these conditions would take me about twenty minutes, if the terrain did not get too rough and there were not too many steep hills in the way. Provided they kept talking and laughing, and swigging from their flasks, I might just get there at the same time they did, or even a little before.

  As it turned out, it took me twenty-five minutes to get to the spot where the winding dirt road reached the clearing. They were not there yet, but my gut told me they would arrive imminently. I found a spot among the trees, camouflaged by a thick bed of ferns, set up my bow and settled to wait.

  They arrived just fifteen minutes later, in a convoy of three Land Rovers. They came in off the dirt track, leaving a slow-drifting cloud of dust behind them, penetrated about a hundred yards into the clearing and pulled up in a semicircle. As the grind of the diesels died away, the doors opened and people started to spill out and unload the barbeque, the folding tables and chairs. Linen tablecloths were thrown over the tables and out of the cool boxes came bottles of champagne, while minions started stringing the bows and loading quivers with arrows.

  Winny was there organizing and giving instructions. Da Silva was in evidence, like a black sun at the center of his solar system, laughing and shouting by turns, embracing the women in his cortège and pounding the men on the back as he strode around the campsite.

  I was aware that my plan, as it stood, was limited: shoot George da Silva with an arrow. That was it. I had no strategy and no plan B. Above all, I had no extraction plan. The foundation of all the training I had received at the Regiment was plan, plan and plan; and when you’re done planning, double-check your plan and every step of the way. But with an operation like the one Njal and I had undertaken, meticulous planning was not an option. You take the opportunities as they present themselves and you improvise your plans as you go along.

  As things stood, the shot was not a difficult one. I could feather him twice before anybody knew what had happened. That would leave me four arrows and a Sig with a full extended magazine. A quick look at the company told me there were about two dozen people there. At least half were trained hunters and two of them, at least, were trained killers.

  I took a moment to think it through, and while I was doing that, da Silva approached one of the tables where the champagne was standing in silver buckets of ice among stacks of plates. There was an attractive young woman there, and he grabbed her in a huge bear hug. She squealed with laughter and he grabbed her ass in his huge hands. He was about seventy or eighty paces from me and a sure kill at his size at that distance. I nocked an arrow, but hesitated a moment.

  A small guy in a white waiter’s jacket approached him with a silver tray holding glasses of champagne. Da Silva looked at him a moment, with one hand still gripping the girl’s ass. Next thing, his left hand lashed out, knocking the tray flying. The glasses spiraled in the air, showering the three of them with foaming, golden liquid. The tray clanged to the ground. The waiter cowered. So did the girl. Da Silva kicked the cowering man to the ground, and as he scrambled to his feet, he started slapping him. I was thinking that a slap from da Silva must be like getting slapped by a blue whale.

  The waiter covered his head with his arms and stumbled away from his attacker in a failing run. Da Silva went after him, screaming at him, bending over him, pounding on his head and back, kicking him in the ass and legs. Then I felt a hot jolt in my belly and my heart thudded. Da Silva was walking away from the cowering man toward one of the Land Rovers. He was still shouting and screaming, but he was holding out his hand, demanding something. Another one of his minions scrambled into the back of the truck and emerged with a bow and a quiver of shafts. The waiter started to scream and cover his head with his arms. Everybody else backed away from him.

  I looked for Winny. He seemed to be paralyzed, transfixed, staring open mouthed at what was happening.

  Now da Silva turned and descended on the poor guy again, pointing out at the vast clearing, shouting, “Go! Go! Run like a fucking animal that you are! Run! Go!”

  The guy was on his knees, begging and sobbing. Da Silva kicked him, once in the chest and again in the ass. “We are here to hunt! So go on! Let us hunt. Run, piggy! Run, run, run!” He turned to the others, who were watching him, frozen. “What are you waiting for? Get your bows!” Then he went back to kicking the waiter. “Run or we will skewer you here! Stupid animal! Run!”

  The man ran. Da Silva’s cortege stirred and were suddenly flocking to the Land Rovers, collecting their bows and their quivers. The game was afoot, and the game was called staying in favor with Crazy. Crazy was now laughing and chasing his victim in circles around the camp, while the unfortunate servant stumbled and tried to kneel, beg and run all at the same time.

  I felt disgust and rage well up in my gut. And from that disgust, an escape plan popped into my head. I pulled my Sig from my waist band and lined up the valve on the propane canister. You might think anything over twenty-five yards with a hand gun is ambitious, but in my book, any decent pro should be able to achieve a group of six inches at fifty to seventy yards with a good weapon.

  I fired six rounds in rapid succession at the valve. Three hit home, shattered it and sent a stream of propane gas blasting up through the flames of the barbeque. The gas ignited in a violent explosion that sent the barbeque flying and everybody froze and turned to stare. Then they staggered back a few steps, shielding their faces from the soaring flames. By that time, I had put away the Sig, picked up the bow and drawn the string back to my ear.

  Da Silva was motionless, gaping at the burning canister, trying to make sense of it. He was a vast target. I loosed the arrow, there was a small rattle of aluminum on wood, the feathers whispered in the air and the shaft thudded home deep into da Silva’s chest. By that time, I had nocked and drawn a second arrow, lined up one of his bodyguards and loosed again. The shaft pierced the base of his throat and burst out the back of his neck, severing his vertebrae. By now, Da Silva had gotten slowly down on his knees, while his bodyguard crumpled beside him. Only now did people begin to look away from the roaring, flaming canister at the dying men.

  His second bodyguard shouted suddenly and ran to his boss. He fell on his knees beside him, drawing his weapon and scanning the area around him, still struggling to understand what was happening. My third shaft punched through his skull, sliced cleanly through his brain and burst out the far side. Then I turned and ran.

  At first I thought they were not following, but then I heard the roar of diesels and, behind me, the crackle and spatter of automatic fire showering the trees where I had been standing. Now I needed urgently to know how many were in pursuit.

  I did some rapid mental arithmetic as I vaulted a fallen tree and scrambled down a slope into a gully, then began scrambling up the far side. His two bodyguards were down. That might leave as many as ten men in pursuit. Some would try to cut me off in the trucks, but if Winny was running a legit operation, they would not want him or his staff to witness a murder. Clearly that had not worried da Silva, but I was willing to bet his men would be more careful. So my guess was the bulk of them would be following through the forest. But the forest was not my only problem. Before I got to the road and my car, I had a broad expanse of open land t
o cross, and my pursuers were armed with assault rifles. Unless I could get rid of my pursuers before I reached that open land, I was in serious trouble.

  Another deep gully ahead, with ferns growing thick and dense at the bottom. It was a risk—a big risk—but I was running out of options. I scrambled down into the ferns, then scrambled up the far side. When I’d gotten to the top, I ran nine or ten feet, then turned, ran back and leapt into the ferns. It was a blind jump and I was lucky not to land on a rock or a fallen tree. I lay flat on my belly in the soft dirt and backed up slowly along the gully. Then I nocked an arrow and waited.

  They were just a minute behind me, six of them. I expected them to be fanned out, but they were in a cluster, following my tracks. At a glance, three of them looked like serious trackers and hunters; the other three were Armani hunters, over excited and out for the kill. They followed my tracks down the gully and up the other side. The hunters went up first, examining the tracks; the playboys followed, the least fit lagging behind.

  When he was two thirds of the way up, and his pals were over the edge, I put a barb into the back of his neck. His body quivered, but he made no sound. He just lay on his belly, slid a few feet down the slope and went to Armani Heaven.

  There were shouts. They had lost the trail and were fanning out, hoping to pick it up again. I slid farther back along the gully, staying cool, keeping movement to a minimum; fifteen paces would do it. Then I could turn around and move faster. As I moved, under the cover of the ferns, I heard the shouts above, with their dull echo under the high, green canopy. They hadn’t noticed yet that they were one down. They were still searching for my tracks ahead of them.

  I came to a fallen tree, slipped beneath it, stood, half-crouching, and ran up the slope, in among bushes and undergrowth. There I dropped and lay again. I could see two guys, maybe thirty feet away, moving slowly, scouring the carpet of brown pine needles and leaves. I had three arrows left. I had to make them count. I dropped quietly to one knee, drew and loosed: the small rattle of metal on wood, the lethal whisper, the soft thud as the shaft drove home. I’d skewered him through the neck. The broadhead had severed his jugular and his brain had bled out before he folded to the ground.

  His pal turned to look at him, frowning. Then his expression turned to alarm as he scanned the undergrowth, but he was out of time, the arrow was already whispering toward him. He saw it too late. It split his sternum, sliced through his heart and he, like his pal, died silently, folding to the ground.

  I nocked my last arrow and waited. Nothing happened, so I crawled out from the cover and dragged myself a few feet closer to the bodies, so I could see where they had come from. Fifty, sixty yards away, I could see a figure searching the ground. I heard a shout, but nothing much happened. I stepped over to the nearest of the fallen men and picked up his assault rifle. It was an AK-47.

  Without running or making sudden movements, I stepped back into the undergrowth and slipped down into the gully again. While they searched south, I moved west until I was a hundred yards from the dirt track that led to the lodge. There I let off two bursts of automatic fire, dropped the rifle and ran, hell bent for leather, twenty paces toward the road. There I stopped and loped, taking broad, random, irregular steps for a hundred yards south, then turned again and ran crouching at a steady, silent pace, east for twenty minutes. After that, I finally turned south again and made my way to the N2.

  My three remaining pursuers would still be scouring the woods on either side of the road, convinced I was lying low there somewhere. They probably didn’t realize that the difference between hunting an animal and hunting a man is that a man can be unpredictable.

  I took down the bow, put it back in my rucksack with the field glasses, climbed over the fence and walked quickly back to where I had concealed the Audi. I scanned the area, but there was nothing to be seen anywhere along the road, and I was beginning to think I would get away, back to Knysna, without too much trouble. Feeling almost optimistic, I arrived at the car, opened the trunk, threw in the rucksack and slammed it closed.

  That was when I saw the Land Rover at the intersection, with the guy leaning out of the window, looking at me. He shouted, “Hi!”

  I glanced at him, then ignored him and opened the door. The truck turned and came down the track. The door opened and one of the guys got out. The other stayed at the wheel. Blocking the road.

  The guy who approached me was white, in his thirties, with the hard look of a man used to scrapping, and hurting people.

  “How long you been here, mate?”

  It was a good question. I said, “Maybe a couple of hours, why? Do you work for George da Silva?”

  He frowned hard. It was the last answer he had expected from me. “Yuh,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the guy who killed him.”

  I pulled my Sig from my waistband, and while he was still trying to make sense of what I’d said, I blew his brains out the back of his head. His pal was shifting from neutral to first when I double-tapped through the windshield and tore his chest open. Then I climbed in the Audi and headed back toward Knysna, with the windows open and the wind in my face, telling myself it was almost over. Three down, two to go.

  Pi and Ro, Ruud and his son Jelle.

  Tonight. It would have to be tonight. Because within the next few hours, the whole place would be crawling with cops; cops and Omega operatives. It would be a miracle if I made it back to the construction site.

  TWELVE

  She arrived three minutes after I did, as I was undressing to climb in the shower. I heard the key in the front door, was reaching for my Sig and she stepped in and stood staring at me. I thought about smiling, but her face told me there was no point.

  “What have you done with Prince Mohamed, and Ameya Dabir?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The yacht was never returned. The coast guard found it drifting ten miles out at sea. The police have been here, asking questions.”

  I studied her face for a long moment. “What has that got to do with me?”

  She crossed the floor and stood staring up into my face. “What have you done with them, Lacklan?”

  I scowled. “You’re being ridiculous. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. I thought we’d got past this kind of nonsense last night.”

  “Don’t patronize me!”

  I shouted at her, with more feeling than I had intended. “I am not patronizing you! You’re being ridiculous!”

  Her voice became shrill. “Are you serious? You come here with your cock and bull stories and your fake accent! You start nosing around asking questions about van Dreiver and his party. You find out about bin Awad and Ameya Dabir going out on a yacht together and next thing, they disappear without a trace! And I’m being ridiculous?”

  “For God’s sake, Janine! Get a grip! You don’t even know whether Ameya was on that yacht! You don’t even know he was on the yacht! All you know is that he hired it for the day!”

  “I told you the cops were here!”

  I went quiet, studying her face, wondering how to handle the situation. Eventually, I said, “What did they say?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Please stop it, Janine! You’re jumping to crazy conclusions based on practically nothing but your own assumptions. What did the cops want?”

  Her face was taut with anger, but her voice had dropped in pitch. “They wanted to know if we had seen either Prince Mohamed bin Awad or Ameya Dabir in the last twenty-four hours, because Ruud van Dreiver had reported them as missing.”

  I sighed and shook my head. “Look, Janine, in the first place, you know as well as I do that those two are insane about each other and having an affair. They probably set up the yacht as a ruse and now they are off having a romantic couple of days together in Cape Town. Day after tomorrow, they’ll turn up with shining eyes and everybody will put it down to their being in love.” I pushed open the bathroom door and p
aused. “And in the second place, I told you last night, I have no interest in either of those two. The person I want to talk to is Ruudy.”

  “What about da Silva?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t bother. I was hoping he could get me to van Dreiver, but the lodge was on lockdown and they wouldn’t let me in. So I went and spent the day in Port Elizabeth. I have to tell you, you’re sounding pretty crazy right now. You’re blowing things right out of all proportion.”

  She turned and dropped into a chair. “You have to admit…”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t. This isn’t the movies. I’m not a murderer. I’m not even an assassin. I’m just trying to get close enough to van Dreiver to talk to him.”

  She buried her face in her hands and sighed noisily. I gave her a moment and asked, “Were there any signs of violence on the yacht?”

  She shook her head. “I went to see it. The bed had been slept in—or not slept in—the sheets were tangled up and stained, and their clothes were all over the place. There was a bucket of ice with champagne in it, but there was no sign of them anywhere, no sign of violence, no blood… nothing.”

  I sat on the sofa. “Forensics going over it?”

  “All I know is that the police have sealed it and are trying to decide whether to treat it as a crime scene. At the moment, there is no evidence that a crime has been committed.”

  I snorted. “Billionaire rich kids, brought up to believe that the world is their oyster and they can do what the hell they like. They want to get away alone so they can have their forbidden love affair, but they want to do it in the most narcissistic, attention-grabbing way they can.”

  “You’re a cynic.”

  “I’m a realist. And you should sue them for any damage that was done to your boat.”

  “Yeah, that would be good for business.”

  I shrugged. “That’s how they get away with the way they behave.”