by L. A. Larkin
And he wants Wolfe alive.
Ignoring the tenderness of his bruised eye sockets, Samuel puts on his night-vision goggles and jogs around the outside of the hut to the open window. The sandy ground is riddled with fresh boot marks.
He follows her trail. As he expected, she’s heading through the tents. Good. A game of hide and seek.
The camp is ten miles from the nearest habitation, thirty miles from the nearest road. He took Wolfe’s phone so she can’t call for help. She has no gun. She’s totally isolated.
The thrill of the chase.
‘O-liv-ia! Ready or not, here I come,’ he calls.
He wants her freaked, so she makes a mistake.
Her footprints lead him down a sandy incline. To his left, a circular steel water tank with side ladder. Next a paved driveway that leads to the large hut with steps leading up to it. There’s a confusion of partial footprints, some large sized, some smaller, left behind by whoever was here last. It doesn’t matter. He’s certain she’s in the hut.
Samuel takes the syringe from his jacket and removes the cap. The step up to the entrance creaks. If she’s inside, she’ll know he’s coming. If he was her, he’d wait just inside the door and smash him with a pot or something heavy.
Changing his mind, he walks around the hut to the viewing platform. There are wooden benches and a circular open fireplace of charred logs and ash. Glass double doors lead to the dining room, the tables set up in a rectangular shape. He heads for the double doors, turns the door handle. It’s either jammed or locked. He pushes. It scrapes across the floorboards. He curses to himself. Methodically, Samuel checks under the tables, then heads for the kitchen, swivelling his head one way and then the next, looking for her heat signature.
A fridge hums. He sniffs. Cooking fat and the faint smell of lemon. What else? Is the sweat hers or part of the building?
Suddenly he is blinded, as if a laser points straight at his eyeballs. He rips off the goggles, his eyes burning. The fucking bitch turned on the lights! He’s smacked from behind. Dazed, he opens his eyes, sees beyond the dancing white blobs. Wolfe swings a frying pan at his head again. He dives for her legs and rips them from under her.
Wolfe hits the ground hard.
82
Butcher trained Wolfe to react fast when under attack. Samuel stands over her. She’s winded from the fall. The hut lights dazzle. She squints up at the assassin. It’s imperative she gets up. While she’s prostrate, she’s at his mercy.
Except for them, the camp is deserted, and nobody knows where she is. Samuel leans in. She blinks. What’s in his hand? A syringe. Wolfe reacts. Turns on one side, props herself up on one arm, and kicks fast and hard at his hand, over and over, pounding him with thick-soled biker boots. She mustn’t let him use the syringe. As she kicks, she claws at the floor, dragging herself away from the killer. But he keeps coming. A powerful kick to the stomach has Samuel reeling back. Wolfe jumps up, then hurtles down the steps to the exterior deck, jumps the deck’s barrier, drops into blackness, landing four feet below. Wolfe sprints for the waterhole. She prays it’s deep enough to hide in.
The water is shockingly cold. The mud sucks at her boots. She wades in further, heading for the dense reeds, her clothes heavy, dragging her down. Warthogs snort in panic and scatter, tails high. Samuel gives chase. Leaves the hut lights on. Good. Surely somebody will see them? Or is everybody asleep?
Shoving reeds out of her way, she heads for deeper water. Stay still and duck low, or keep moving? She peers behind her. Can’t see him. Wolfe kneels behind dense reeds, the muddy water up to her shoulders. Is there something in the water Samuel fears? Snakes? Hippos? Wolfe dare not move.
A snap as a reed breaks. The water ripples. Something or someone is very near.
Samuel sees her, the glow of her body a vivid green through the night-vision goggles. Wolfe’s ingenuity excites him. The chase thrills. But he’s never liked water and he’s now up to his hips in it. He just has to get near enough to stab her neck with the paralysis drug. He moves as quietly as possible.
Wolfe is straight ahead. Her head turns in his direction. Then she disappears. Where did she go? The water ripples. Ah, the clever bitch has swum away.
In the distance, a beam of light cuts through the darkness. Fuck! Somebody has seen the hut’s lights. The single beam bounces up and down and then forms two beams. Headlights. Samuel wades out of the muddy water. He’ll need his guns.
They will not take her from him.
Wolfe has seen the vehicle’s lights too. Hope energises her. She stumbles and falls face down in the water, her legs numb with cold, the waterhole’s bed, slick. She’s up again, legs pumping, shoving the reeds aside.
The vehicle screeches to a halt. Doors swing open. Two people get out. The headlights are blinding. She can’t identify them.
‘Olivia!’ Her name is called over and over. Two voices. One familiar. Casburn’s.
‘Over here!’ Wolfe tries shouting between gasping breaths, her muscles screaming, the water like glue. ‘Help me!’
Faster!
Casburn doesn’t hear. Doesn’t see her emerge from the waterhole. He and the other man head for the hut with lights on. She reaches solid ground, her sodden boots, heavy, her feet sliding inside them. She heads for the light and the rumble of the truck’s engine.
‘He’s got a rifle!’ she calls.
An ear-splitting gunshot booms. Bats screech and fly from the trees. Wolfe throws herself to the ground, grazing her hands. She looks up. Forty or so feet away, a man lies splayed on the ground outside the big hut.
‘Dan?’ she calls. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes,’ replies Casburn from behind the vehicle’s open door, pistol raised and ready to fire. ‘Tumi’s been shot.’
Tumi moans, calling to God for mercy. She has to help him. This is all because of her. Samuel followed her to this reserve. He’s already taken Hannah’s father. She can’t let him take Tumi too.
If Casburn breaks cover, he will die. She’s about to bet her life that Samuel wants her alive. He easily could have killed her many times before now. He hasn’t. He drugged and handcuffed her. Probably intends to torture her, like Pieter Venter. It appears that everyone else in the killer’s mind is expendable: Hannah, Tumi, Casburn. Samuel might shoot to injure her, but it’s a risk she’s willing to take.
She bolts towards Tumi.
‘Dan! Stay where you are,’ she yells. ‘He’ll shoot you.’
Casburn shouts back. ‘Get down.’
Wolfe keeps running.
Casburn moves his pistol, searching for a sign of the assassin’s location. But even with her minimal knowledge of firearms, she knows a pistol won’t be much use. Samuel is too far away. Seems to have a clear line of sight. Has a long-distance rifle.
Tumi clutches his stomach. He’s shaking. Moaning he’s cold.
Ten feet to go. A shot rings out and sends dirt flying just ahead of her. Wolfe looks up. It came from the direction of the water tank. It has a ladder and a narrow platform around it. A perfect vantage point. That was a warning shot. Samuel wants her to stop.
I’m not stopping. No way.
‘Get down, Olivia!’ Casburn shouts.
‘He won’t kill me. Wants me alive.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Water tank,’ she says.
Another shot only just misses her boot. By design, not accident. She’s right: Samuel wants her alive. It also tells her he’s a very good shot. Wolfe throws herself to the ground next to Tumi.
‘Tumi?’
His eyes are glazed, his jaw locked into a grimace, his shirt is soaked in blood. ‘Oliv… help–’
Tumi’s head flops to one side. She checks his pulse. Nothing. ‘Tumi?’ She presses her ear against his chest. No heartbeat. She closes his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Anger builds inside her. Tumi was a good man. And now he’s dead. Killed trying to save her. And she could put an end to this. With one shot. Wolfe has never
taken aim at someone with intent to kill. But all she can think about is stopping the monster from killing again.
Wolfe looks up at the water tank. ‘You bastard!’ she screams. ‘I’m coming for you! You hear me!’
Wolfe grabs the RI Battle Rifle, the same brand as Hannah’s. It’s surprisingly heavy.
‘Throw it to me,’ Casburn shouts.
Casburn is former SAS. He will hit his target. But Wolfe hesitates, overcome by an aching need for revenge. It’s as if her brain is in lock down and the only message getting through is kill Samuel.
‘Olivia, don’t! You’re completely exposed.’ From where Casburn shelters behind the car door, he frantically gestures at her to join him.
A bullet thuds into the ground next to her. The shock snaps her out of her crazy thoughts. She scuttles over to Casburn. Hands him the rifle.
‘What the hell were you–’ Casburn begins.
‘Tumi’s dead, Dan. It’s Samuel.’
‘You sure it’s Samuel?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Call Hannah. Number’s in my phone. We need backup and fast. Phone’s in my jeans pocket.’
Wolfe shoves a hand into the pocket. ‘I swear, this is the only time I’ll ever rummage in your pants.’
The truck jolts, and tilts to the left. He’s taken out a tyre, the same trick he used earlier on Hannah’s vehicle. Another bullet shatters the windscreen. Wolfe stares at Casburn’s mobile phone. ‘Shit! No signal. Two-way radio?’
‘Too risky. We’re sitting ducks. Okay, let’s nail this son of a bitch,’ Casburn says. ‘Water tank?’
‘Yes.’
Casburn takes the rifle, unfolds the bipod which takes the weight of the mid-section and stabilises the muzzle, and also makes it easier to move up and down, left to right. He checks the twenty-round detachable box magazine, then lies in the dirt on his stomach with the vehicle’s door above his head. ‘It’s an oldie. Let’s hope she’s still accurate.’
He peers through the rear scope. ‘I can’t see him.’
‘He was there a few seconds ago.’ She crawls closer to Casburn. ‘Did you find Hannah?’
‘She found us. Tough lady. Drove on bald tyres. Woke us up.’ He moves the muzzle slightly. ‘Where did you go?’ he says to himself, trying to spot the assassin.
‘Police coming?’
‘Yes, but they’ll take too long.’
Casburn moves the rifle a fraction to the left. ‘Ah, there you are,’ says Casburn, aiming for a tent. ‘You sneaky bastard.’
‘He’s wearing a bulletproof vest,’ Wolfe says.
‘Fine. I’ll take off his head.’
Casburn’s finger gently squeezes the trigger. The crack and following boom stuns her. An empty cartridge flies through the air and lands on the ground. Samuel returns fire. A bullet clanks into the pick-up truck. The next hits its mark. Casburn cries out and rolls back under the door, dragging the rifle with him. His eyes are clenched. He clutches his chest.
‘I’m hit.’
83
Blood wells through Casburn’s splayed fingers. ‘Jesus!’
Wolfe tears off her quilted coat, rolls it into a ball and stuffs it inside Casburn’s jacket to stem the blood flow.
‘You’re going to have to do this,’ says Casburn, voice ragged.
‘I’m a crap shot.’
‘Kill him before he kills us,’ Casburn gasps through gritted teeth. ‘He’s behind the nearest tent. Left side.’
Wolfe takes the R1 and gets into position, belly on the floor, searching for Samuel through the scope. Her hands tremble. Can I kill in cold-blood?
There’s a blur of movement between two tents. Samuel is out in the open, about to dive behind another tent. Wolfe holds her breath and squeezes the trigger. The rifle butt kicks back into her shoulder painfully. The noise is deafening. Then, nothing.
‘I missed. Can’t see him.’
The rifle is suddenly blown out of her grasp, the shockwave reverberating up her arm. Wood splinters. She screams. The rifle lies three feet away, the stock splintered, the sight shattered. Wolfe watches in horror as Samuel sprints at them.
Casburn sees him too. ‘Go! Now! Get help.’
‘I’m not leaving you.’
‘Stop arguing. Key’s in the ignition.’
‘You’re coming with me.’ She takes an arm. ‘Get up!’
Casburn clings to her, teeth clenched. Struggles up, then collapses back to the ground.
‘No time,’ Casburn mutters, grimacing.
Samuel is almost upon them. She has only a few seconds to make a decision. She’ll do what she did when Hannah was wounded. She’ll get Samuel to chase her. Lead him away from Casburn.
She bolts. Not towards the cover of the reeds, or into the dark bushveld, or through the jumble of tents. She heads for the camp’s kitchen-dining hut.
Follow me, you son of a bitch.
Wolfe takes the hut’s steps two at a time, throws the door open, her eyes overwhelmed by the sudden bright light. Slamming the door behind her, she curses. No lock. Looks around. Tables and chairs. Wildlife pictures pinned to the walls. A tea urn and mugs. But no landline. She kills the lights. On all fours, she feels her way through the darkness to the kitchen, following the fatty food smells.
‘O-liv-ia!’ Samuel calls, his voice taunting. ‘I have something you might want to see. Why don’t you come out?’
Wolfe has reached the kitchen sink. Above it, moonlight spills through the window and reflects off the taps. On both sides of the sink are countertops in wood.
Does anybody know where they are? Did Tumi call it in before he was shot? Wolfe raises her head above the sink, just far enough to see outside. Bathed in the pick-up’s headlights, Samuel holds a pistol to Casburn’s head. Rifle slung over his shoulder. Casburn’s arms are behind him – probably handcuffed.
Casburn calls out. ‘Run!’
Samuel responds by wrenching his arms back further. Casburn groans.
‘Let him go. It’s me you want,’ she shouts.
‘Come out. Or he dies.’
For the first time, Wolfe can see some of Samuel’s features. Receding hairline, five foot eight, wiry and muscular. Bulletproof vest over his shirt. Rifle slung over his shoulder. Nothing remarkable about him.
‘Undo his cuffs,’ she shouts. ‘Let him walk away. Then I come out.’
‘No!’ Casburn shouts.
Samuel smirks. ‘So he can get help and spoil my fun? I don’t think so. Surrender and you have my word I’ll let the filth live.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. You and I leave this place. Leave Casburn behind. He lives. I go with you voluntarily. That’s the deal.’
‘You’re in no position to make deals. I kill him now, then you.’
‘But that’s not your style, is it, Samuel? Sure, you can kill us. But where’s the satisfaction in that?’ Wolfe pauses. Samuel is silent. He’s listening. ‘I’ve seen the care you take with your victims. The precision. The… creativity.’ Wolfe almost chokes. Her flesh crawls. But she must be convincing. ‘You have followers, don’t you? People who appreciate your work?’
Samuel tilts his head to one side, listening.
‘Olivia, don’t,’ Casburn pleads.
Wolfe ignores him.
‘I can be your greatest work. But nothing comes for free. My price is his freedom.’
‘Olivia, for God’s sake!’ Casburn says.
Samuel digs the muzzle of his pistol into Casburn’s face. ‘I’ll shoot him right now!’
‘No, you won’t. If you do, you’ll never have me. I swear to you. I’ll kill myself before that happens.’
‘Ballsy bitch, aren’t you?’ Samuel peers down at Casburn for a moment, then up again at her. ‘You have a deal.’
‘This is a contract, Samuel,’ Wolfe says. ‘I need to know you’re going to honour it.’
Samuel lowers the pistol. Unlocks Casburn’s handcuffs. ‘I will.’
84
Hands above her head,
Wolfe leaves the hut. Her legs threaten to give way. A voice screams in her head to stop. She lifts her chin, stiffens her back, trying to disguise her terror. Casburn is on his knees, slumped forward.
‘No,’ he says. ‘Go back.’
She hears him, but if she listens they’re both lost. Her eyes are locked on to Samuel.
When she is about halfway between him and the hut, Samuel raises his hand. ‘That’s far enough. Take off your pack. Drop it.’
Wolfe is loath to lose it, but he won’t make the same mistake twice. He must have worked out the lock-pick was in her pack. Reluctantly she slides the straps off her shoulders and drops the bag to the ground.
‘Good. Keep coming.’
All too soon, she has closed the gap between them.
‘Here I am, Samuel. Now Casburn leaves, unharmed.’
Samuel raises his pistol and aims it at the back of the detective’s head.
‘We have a deal.’
Samuel smiles. ‘He wanted you,’ he says, ‘in perfect condition. Delivered to his door. But he broke our contract. So now you’re all mine.’
In perfect condition for what? And who? Her blackmailer?
‘Samuel, please,’ Casburn says. ‘If the contract’s cancelled, let us go. You don’t have to do this.’
‘Ah, now I have a new contract. With Olivia. She must keep her promise.’
‘Okay, Samuel. You have me. Casburn gets in the bakkie and drives away, okay?’
Samuel laughs. A childish giggle. How can a man who tortures and murders laugh like a child in a playground?
‘What’s so funny?’ Wolfe asks.
‘You.’ The smile is gone.
‘Where’s he going? Huh? Bleeding like a stuck pig. Can’t walk. Truck’s busted. And, besides, I like an audience.’
Wolfe suddenly feels very cold. Her saturated clothes and the frigid night air are nothing to the harrowing realisation her gamble has failed.
And now they are both screwed.
‘Help him inside,’ Samuel orders.
Wolfe places an arm around Casburn’s back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says to him. He puts an arm around her shoulders.
