End It With A Lie

by Peter M. Atkins

Simon brought more beer, and after giving one each to Sarah and Ray he twisted the tops from two and tipped one at intervals, to the lips of Quinn.

  “Who do you work for?” Ray started in a low voice,

  “I work for a company based in Sydney.”

  “Whose company, what’s its name?” Ray asked.

  “It’s called Sudovich Holdings.” Quinn replied.

  “Who runs it?”

  “His name is Garry Sudovich.”

  “We met one of his associates I think, a fellow by the name of Scott. He’s the one who’s in the first back hoe hole.”

  Quinn coughed on his half swallowed beer.

  “Now, it seems to me that your problem is. You know something about us now, and that raises the question as to whether you can be allowed to leave here or not?” Ray questioned. Quinn swore quietly. The last thing that a prisoner needed to hear was that those who held him captive had nothing to lose. They had one back hoe hole occupied, why not two, or a dozen for that matter. If they were ever caught, then what charges would they face? Covering up the outcome of an act of self-defense against home invaders? He felt a rush of sadness at the thought of his existence ending this way.

  “Did you know this Scott bloke?” Ray asked.

  Quinn didn’t give an immediate answer, instead looked into the eyes of each of the three people who looked down at him. He decided then, that they held all the cards.

  “If you’ve done the deed on Scott, then you’ve done the parents of many children a favour. It’s a pity the fact cannot be made known so they can rejoice. You’ve killed an animal.” He quietened momentarily before he asked a question, “Scott was good at his work though. You must have had some luck?”

  “Maybe Sudovich expected country bumpkins?” Simon said. Quinn had no reply.

  His mind up until now had been on escape. Finish the job he was paid for and be out of here, but now the game had changed. Maybe the day he spoke of to his Polynesian girl was closer than he’d expected.

  Spill the beans he thought. Maybe he would get lucky and still find a way to escape, leave these people and get out of this place. If he was really lucky, maybe they’d get rid of Sudovich for him.

  He could only hope.

  Quinn opened up and told all that he knew. Some things about Sudovich were unknown to him, but just his own basic knowledge of the man was a lot.

  Eventually he looked at Ray.

  “The driver who picked me up at the airport told me he guessed that someone had intercepted one of Sudovich’s money transfers. My job was to find out from that man, where the money is and how to get it back to Sudovich.”

  Simon, Ray and Sarah left the room and moved to the hallway. Quinn strained his ears to understand their muffled voices, but a frog outside the window shattered the silence and stole away any chance.

  “What do you reckon Simon?” Ray asked.

  “I believe what he says Ray. It fits in with what I already know. Where do we go from here?”

  Sarah had been quiet for a while.

  “I will tell you both exactly where we go from here.” Ray raised his eyebrows and Simon grinned as she finished her statement. “We go directly to the kitchen, where you and Ray cook those yellow belly fish that are in the fridge and I will open a bottle of wine.”

  Ray laughed as he grew fonder of her and her ways.

  “That sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all day. Let’s do it.”

  He had no doubt that Simon was a lucky man. She reminded him of a woman that he used to know, and for the first time in a long time he rang his wife.

  She’d appreciate the call he thought, as they’d not seen a great deal of each other lately. He knew he was mostly to blame and he was thankful that Sarah and Simon had lit a new fire in him. Their closeness had brushed off and onto him, and their adventure was giving new life to him.

  His life, like Simon’s, was changing.

  *****

   

  Abu left the huge Government building, ran to his car and drove out of the back gate. He’d made it his business to acquire a key to the tradesmen’s entrance. As well, he’d made earlier arrangements with an officer who was a flight instructor with his countries new and inefficient air force.

  That officer was the key to his escape.

  He drove to an airfield which was within a mile of the government buildings, but instead of driving through the main gates, he took a back road which skirted behind the air field to a disused air craft hangar.

  It had been built by the French during a ‘conflict’ they’d been involved in many years earlier with another country further inland. The permission needed for the French to build the structure was given by the government in power before Abu’s revolution eight years earlier.

  It was old, and had no real maintenance in its time. A fact obvious, as it stood like a rusting hulk. Its skeletal frame had been robbed at times by the locals who made use of its corrugated iron for their housing.

  Abu’s car rolled onto the skirt of concrete which spilled out of its large double doorway, where standing in his path was a helicopter. It was big to Abu, who had only known the smaller machines used by the oil companies.

  The helicopter had no doors on its opened sides, and it looked to Abu to be some kind of troop or cargo carrier. He looked around for the aviator, and was startled when the man walked around the corner of the hangar.

  Abu greeted the pilot, and then watched as the aircrafts long blades slowly gained momentum, before he bent his head to run towards the aircraft. Suddenly he felt a stabbing pain in his back, and he cried out as he turned and saw Che’anton. Her face was a picture of tear stained fury and the knife she held glinted in the sunlight.

  Abu tried to hit her as he backed away, but his flailing only caused her aim to fail as she continued to slash with the blade. He felt the knife dig into his hand and he roared in pain.

  He turned to run, but slipped and fell.

  His huge body stood out to her as an easy target and she swooped in to deliver another slash. Suddenly there was a single loud shot, and Che’anton fell heavily onto the hard concrete with blood staining her shirt.

  She’d spun in her fall, and now lay where she could see the face of her aggressor. She was frightened, and wished her mother were here to comfort her.

  The knife had fallen from her hand and she raised her bloody fingers as she tried to cry out to the man who had stolen her chance of revenge.

  No sound came as her mouth formed the words.

  “Non-justice.”

  Then her facial features relaxed to a little girl’s softness, as her soul slipped away and she went to meet her God.

  Abu sat in his tears and self-pity on the concrete. It seemed to be as cold and hard as his life had become of late.

  His hand was badly cut and it bled profusely. Its drops of blood drained into his groin and quickly soaked a small area of his trousers. He was in shock, and through his pain he knew he must escape. He’d heard the gunshot, and his fear of being a victim was as great as his fear of losing the contents of the bag he carried.

  Too many things had happened too quickly, and in his confusion Abu decided that he must stall for time. Allow his mind to catch up and get a grasp on the situation. Firstly, he must thank the person who had saved him. Try to talk his way around whoever it was, and get on board the aircraft.

  He fought his way to his feet, and as he turned toward the aircraft he came face to face with Horton.

  “Who are you, my friend? You have saved me from that witch.”

  Horton gave a sneering grin.

  “Out of the frying pan, eh?” He said as he prodded his rifle into Abu’s soft belly and asked shortly, “What’s in the bag?” Abu winced at the thought of being robbed and wondered if he had the strength to run to the aircraft that idled nearby.

  He knew he couldn’t make it, and the realization offered an instant vision of inevitability.

  “Please, it is
all I have,” he pleaded through quaking lips.

  Horton prodded him again with the rifle and ordered him into the helicopter. Abu’s knees were weak as he led the way to the aircraft. He clutched his bag to his chest as tears of torment rolled down his cheeks.

  They both climbed on board and Horton motioned the pilot to lift off. When the craft rose to about fifty feet he motioned to the pilot again.

  “Hold it at this height,” he called as he unsheathed a large hunting knife to emphasize the order.

  The pilot complied.

  Horton moved again to Abu, turning him so he was facing the open doorway.

  “I will not steal your bag, but it seems that a situation has arisen where you will be kind enough to give it to me, or you might fall from the aircraft.” Horton called loudly over the noise.

  Abu could feel the breath and spittle of the scarred face man as he yelled at him. He couldn’t make out a word he was saying over the noise of the aircrafts motor, but he knew what the man wanted. Through his tears he saw the ground a lifetime away below him.

  He loosened his grip on the bag, passing it back to the scarred man as he begged for his life.

  Horton ears were closed as he reached for the winch switch, pressing it to let out wire rope into loose coil at his feet. He looped the end the thin cable around Abu’s neck, hooked it on to itself and gave Abu a push.

  Abu’s knees were on the verge of giving in on him altogether, and the pressure on his back was enough to buckle them and send him out the door.

  Nothing happened for an instant. Then suddenly the craft lurched awkwardly, and for a moment it appeared the pilot might not hold it in the air.

  A shudder tore through the machine and Abu’s head shot up into view outside the doorway. It hung in the air for a moment, and then was gone again.

  “Into the fire,” Horton called as it dropped out of sight, then with a laugh he motioned the pilot to put the aircraft down again.

  The pilot felt fear, and it showed in his control as the aircraft landed heavily.

  Horton appeared not to notice the landing as he sat on the floor in the back of the craft and pawed through the African’s bag. Its content’s value was greater than his expected pay, and he decided then to take this aircraft and escape to wherever the machines fuel would allow.

  The fighting here was all but over, and it was nearly time to leave anyway. He looked to the pilot as the blades slowed overhead,

  “What is the range of this heap of shit?”

  The pilot answered and Horton thought for a moment before he told the pilot where he wanted to go. As the machine lifted off again, he made himself as comfortable as he could and counted his new found wealth. He found some of the African’s documents very interesting, and new schemes came to mind as he stuffed them back into the bag.

  CHAPTER 28