Murderous

by David Hickson

  “We must dump the boxes,” I said.

  “Dump the boxes?” said Fat-Boy. His voice was tight. “That’s my life in those boxes. Dump them? Fuck you.”

  “What we do in the next few minutes is going to bring the gold in, or not. We need to distract them.”

  “You’ll get us killed,” said Fat-Boy. “I saw those guns. Change the plan and one of them will be putting their lead in our guts.”

  “Drop the boxes. I don’t want to be sitting in this damn crawling machine when they come after us to see what we’ve got balancing up front. Pull over.”

  There was a cluster of damaged machinery in a demarcated area to the side. Two forklifts, one of them with a twisted loader, and a mobile crane that was leaning against them as if it was trying to recover its balance.

  “Not a fuck,” said Fat-Boy, and he hunched down over the wheel as if that would make us more aerodynamic.

  “We’ll come back,” I said. “Pull over here.”

  A sudden wail filled the air, and Fat-Boy almost lifted out of his seat at the shock of it. An alarm. I wrenched the wheel from Fat-Boy’s sweaty hands, and our forklift veered off to the side, and crunched into the lopsided crane, bending a steel support so that the crane collapsed further over the front of our load. The wooden edge of one of our boxes splintered under the impact, revealing a glinting sliver of gold. I was out of the truck and pushing Fat-Boy ahead of me towards the black gaping hole of the pedestrian door that would take us onto the quay, as the alarm cut out. It left an echoing silence. The trucks all stopped moving. The constant throbbing noise settled to a low hum. The sound of confused voices and running feet came from behind us. Then a cry of triumph. Hendrik was leading a team of White Africans. His shouts followed us out into the icy night air.

  Twenty-Three

  I kept my hand on Fat-Boy’s round back and pushed him along the quay away from where our frothy concrete mix was slowly setting. Fat-Boy was not built for speed, and despite Roelof’s snide remarks about Hendrik’s level of fitness, he was gaining on us.

  Hendrik called out behind us as we rounded a corner of the warehouse. I pushed Fat-Boy towards a wide-open door, which spilt light out onto the broken tar. If we could reach that doorway, we could get back into the warehouse and lose ourselves in the maze of boxes and crates inside.

  Then came the sound of a gunshot. I felt Fat-Boy’s body jump with the shock. He stumbled on the uneven ground and fell forwards like a baseball player diving for home base. I stooped down to help him up. His hands and face were grazed, and blood dripped from a gash on his forehead. I helped him to his feet, but his breath was coming in quick choking gasps.

  “Leave me,” he said. “Go find the colonel, leave me with them.”

  I put my arm around his broad shoulder to hold him up and turned to face Hendrik.

  Hendrik came to a stop ten metres from us. His face was flushed from the exertion, his blond hair a tangled mess. He pointed his Beretta at us.

  “Fucking knew it,” he shouted between gasps of air. “I fucking knew it.”

  Three White Africans came running up behind Hendrik, weighed down by their AK-47s. They stood beside him and raised their weapons to point at us.

  “I told Roelof I’d shoot you,” said Hendrik, as if he felt the need to explain. “We found the old guy and that drunk girl. Roelof’s dealing with them. I told him to take them round the back and shoot them. I knew I’d find you here, trying to get your weapons back. I said I’d shoot you.”

  Before we could respond, there was a sudden roaring sound from the open doors of the warehouse, and a pair of bright halogen lights shone at us. Hendrik and his colleagues turned to look. The roar settled to a low growl, and the lights started sliding towards us. It was the tractor cab of the semi-truck which had been attached to the trailer with Hendrik’s crate of lions. We had run a full circle and ended up where we had started. The tractor belched a cloud of black smoke from its vertical exhaust stack, and it hauled its load out of the warehouse. It crept behind us and then hissed and puffed as the hydraulic brakes were applied. There was some clanging and screeching and the truck settled to a stop. The driver’s door opened and Kenneth climbed out, leaving the engine of the truck idling. He slung an AK-47 over his shoulders and looked at us with surprise.

  “What you doing, boss?” he asked.

  “I’m gonna shoot them,” said Hendrik and he raised the Beretta, which had drooped a little in the excitement of seeing his truck emerge.

  “Not here,” said Kenneth calmly, and he looked towards the open doors of the warehouse.

  Hendrik also looked towards the warehouse. He gave a terse nod.

  “Load them up,” he said. “Put them on the back, we’ll take them with us.”

  He used his Beretta to beckon his White African colleagues towards us, and they advanced cautiously with their weapons ready. Fat-Boy and I raised our hands in the air. We turned obediently and followed Kenneth around to the back of the trailer.

  The flat steel base was about shoulder height. Crude rungs in the trailer's rear created a simple ladder on each end, and I climbed up. Kenneth helped Fat-Boy up, shoving him with more force than was necessary and causing him to trip and fall face first onto one of the steel attachment points. Fat-Boy dropped onto the steel floor with that extra looseness that results from a momentary loss of consciousness. I went to help him up. Blood was running down his face from another cut on his forehead, and he looked at me with eyes wide with fear.

  “On your feet,” shouted Hendrik.

  “He’s hurt,” I called.

  “What the fuck do I care? Get up there Kenneth, pick the fat one up.”

  Kenneth clambered up and stood over us as he wondered how to lift the substantial bulk of Fat-Boy. Hendrik had stepped up to the cab out of our sight beyond the crate, and we heard him pull open the driver’s door. A moment later, one of the White Africans tossed Kenneth a coil of rope.

  “Tie them up with that,” called Hendrik. “And make it snappy, we’ve gotta go.”

  By now several other White Africans had emerged from the warehouse, and they stood in a ring around the trailer watching with some confusion as Kenneth and I helped Fat-Boy into a sitting position. He shuffled back to lean against the crate, and Kenneth started binding the rope around Fat-Boy’s wrists.

  “Where is Roelof?” I said to Kenneth in Zulu. “Where has he taken our friends?” Kenneth’s hard eyes focused on me in surprise.

  “You speak Zulu?” he said.

  “Tell me where he took them.”

  Kenneth frowned at me, but a ray of light passed over his face, and I turned to see the White Africans outlined suddenly with a rim of bright light. The sound of a motor being revved too fast came over the wind. The lights poked through between the row of men like fingers reaching for something. The vehicle skidded to a halt, and the doors sprang open. It was a Cape Town Harbour security vehicle, and the four men who climbed out were wearing the black garb of dock security. They had their pistols drawn. Behind them, a further three vehicles rounded the corner at speed and skidded to a halt beside the first.

  “Lower your weapons,” called one of the men, and there was a silence filled with the low thrumming of the truck’s engine.

  The White Africans lowered their weapons. The silence extended.

  “What the fuck?” called Hendrik’s voice from the front of the truck. His voice had the pitch of tension that I recalled from the Maputo docks. There came the slamming sound of a door closing. I felt an odd slipping sensation and then realised that the truck was moving.

  The men from dock security held their weapons up and watched in disbelief as the truck crept forwards.

  “Step out of the vehicle,” their leader shouted, but the truck kept sliding forwards.

  I could feel the crunching of the gears vibrating through the driveshaft until Hendrik found one that worked. The engine whined, and the wheels moaned as we crept forward. Then Hendrik discovered the release handle for
the parking brake, and the truck gained speed. One of the security men reached out to grab the truck and held on as if he could stop its progress, but then let it go in confusion and watched as we inched away from them.

  “Stop the vehicle,” shouted the leader.

  Two of the security men started after the truck as if they were intending to stop us by holding on and digging their heels in. They realised their mistake when someone behind them opened fire. The sharp rat-tat of a double blast from a Sig Sauer brought them to a stop. I felt the truck lurch as one of the double rear tyres burst, but we kept rolling. Hendrik was riding the clutch and pumping the accelerator, nursing the truck forward and the distance between us grew. The other men lifted their weapons, and the air reverberated with a burst of single shots. They were aiming for the wheels and the undercarriage of the truck, as the most obvious way of stopping it. But for Fat-Boy, Kenneth and I, pinned against the crate, it felt very much like we were their targets. Besides, as the distance between us grew, it would make little difference where they were aiming. We needed to get off the truck before we were riddled with bullets. Kenneth had the same idea, and he shuffled to the edge of the loading bay, waiting for a break to jump to the ground.

  I struggled to untie the knot holding Fat-Boy’s wrist to the crate. Kenneth glanced back and there was a moment’s hesitation as he realised he was abandoning us.

  “Help me untie my friend,” I said in Zulu.

  The truck had picked up speed, and we gained some distance. The firing had slowed, but then a wild shot struck the base of the truck with a loud twang. Kenneth spun back around and lifted his AK-47.

  “Don’t,” I shouted, but it was too late.

  Kenneth squeezed the trigger, and there was a deafening burst of automatic fire. He aimed high, intending, I guessed, to give a warning shot. But the result was catastrophic. The White Africans suddenly found themselves being fired upon. They raised their AK-47s and returned Kenneth’s fire.

  Fat-Boy and I were wearing vests under our overalls, but they are effective against single shots aimed for the chest and make little difference when you’re standing in a hail of bullets. As I processed that thought, I felt Fat-Boy’s round shoulder jump under my hand. I looked down to him and saw the flash of pain and desperation in his eyes. He opened his mouth. The blood from the gash in his forehead dripped between his lips, and his tongue cleared it so he could speak. But instead of words, all that came out was a groan.

  “Where is it, Fat-Boy? Where do you feel it?”

  Fat-Boy opened his mouth again. “I’ve been hit, Angel.”

  “Where do you feel it? Is it high or low?”

  “Low,” he said, and coughed. Some blood spurted out of his mouth, but I couldn’t tell if it was blood from the forehead wound, or whether it came from his lungs. It wasn’t frothy, which was a good sign, and if the bullet had struck low, that gave him a better chance. “I trusted you, Angel,” he said. “I did what you said to do.”

  His eyes pleaded for reassurance. I settled for what I intended as a comforting look, but Fat-Boy didn’t seem to draw any comfort from it.

  “We’ve lost everything,” he said, then blinked slowly as the pain swelled. His hand was still tied to the crate. I looked at Kenneth, whose eyes were on me like a diver waiting for the signal to plunge. He had seen my exchange with Fat-Boy and guessed what had happened. Fear had rushed in.

  “Untie my friend,” I called. I reached under my overalls and my fingers found the comforting shape of my Glock’s tempered steel grip. I drew it out, and Kenneth’s eyes widened further. He scrambled over to Fat-Boy’s bound hand and started working to loosen the knot. Another burst of fire sounded, and the bullets smacked into the metal sides of the truck.

  “When we get some cover, we get my friend off,” I said to Kenneth. “I go first, then you help him off, and come with him. We wait for cover.”

  Kenneth nodded. The truck lurched to the side again as another tyre burst, followed by the shrieking sound of a metal rim grating across the tar. Hendrik went with the sudden swing in direction caused by the blowout. He’d orientated himself and was heading for the side security gate. We needed to get off before he reached that gate. There was a series of booms there, spikes in the road, and security who were unlikely to take kindly to a truck travelling at speed and spewing sparks.

  “He’ll never make it,” said Kenneth, still struggling with the knot in the rope.

  “He will make it,” I said.

  “Not him. Hendrik. He won’t make it out of the docks. To meet Roelof.”

  “Where is he meeting Roelof?”

  “Up the coast. Near the lagoon on the beach. Roelof is waiting there to take the weapons.”

  Kenneth released the knot and Fat-Boy’s hand dropped beside him. Kenneth’s eyes held mine.

  “I couldn’t do it,” he said. “I couldn’t kill your friends. I shot the man, but not the girl. Roelof sent me to do it. But I couldn’t kill her.”

  Fat-Boy coughed suddenly, his body heaving with the effort.

  “Time to go,” I said to Kenneth, then to Fat-Boy, “Think of the sand. You’ll be kicking it in our faces soon.”

  “Particularly,” said Fat-Boy, and he coughed and splattered blood into my face. “Particularly yours.”

  Hendrik’s route had taken us away from the pool of light, and now a curtain of darkness drew over the highlighted scene behind us. It was a pile of shipping containers, one of the apparently random and forgotten piles that were scattered around the older and abandoned side of the docks. A glance ahead showed that it was only a few crates long, but it was cover. It was our only chance.

  “Now …” I called and grabbed onto the edge of the base and jumped off the back of the truck. The speed of the fleeing ground took me by surprise and snatched my feet from under me, but I had both hands firmly wedged under attachment hoops, and I felt the trigger finger of my right hand snap as my weight hung from it. My knees hit the ground and scraped along for a moment, but I pulled myself up and stumbled along behind the truck. I pulled my hands out and grabbed the sleeve of Fat-Boy’s overall. He raised himself and dragged towards the back edge. My right hand was going numb from the pain of the broken finger.

  Kenneth stood up, placed a leg on each side of Fat-Boy and leaned forward to lift him. Then suddenly I could see the white of Kenneth’s teeth as he grimaced with the effort. The containers that had provided cover were behind us, and we were out in the open again. Kenneth’s head jerked up and backwards as a bullet struck him in the chest. Then another bullet hit between the eyes. His face disappeared in a burst of blood and he fell back. I grasped Fat-Boy’s hand.

  The truck was gaining speed rapidly now. Kenneth’s lifeless legs were pinning Fat-Boy down. Sweat and blood and grease made his hand slippery. His eyes pleaded with mine, then his hand was snatched from my grasp. He drifted away from me in slow motion. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t catch up. I raised my Glock and threw it forward. It landed with a clatter on the back of the truck and then jumped and hopped and started sliding off as the truck hit a pothole. Fat-Boy reached out a hand and trapped the Glock under it. He looked back to me, but suddenly the truck, Fat-Boy, the Glock and Kenneth’s dead body flipped up and the road slapped me in the face. I had tripped on a patch of broken tar and ploughed into the ground like an airborne missile. My hands instinctively broke my fall, and scraped across the tar, but my face took some of the brunt of the collision, and when I looked up to see the truck disappearing in a cloud of sparks and dust I felt the blood dripping down my face.

  I didn’t get to my feet, or struggle up onto my knees. My body was throbbing with the pain of my broken finger and the scrape across the tarmac. Adrenalin was pumping, and I closed my eyes for a moment to regain control. Scanned my body to be sure there weren’t any other injuries. If a stray bullet had struck me, it would be better to know about it now than discover it when I had lost too much blood, or the damage passed the point of no return. I found nothing unexp
ected and took a deep breath to focus my energy.

  I reached the containers at the far side of the road at a crouching run. The sound of an engine came from behind me; a car travelling without lights, moving cautiously down the road. It was an open-top jeep, bumping slowly over the broken ground as if they were searching for something. The sound of the jeep’s engine modulated, and it left the road to travel in the no-man’s-land behind the shipping containers. I moved around the side of my container to stay out of the driver’s sight. Another vehicle was accelerating up the road towards me, headlights on full beam and engine whining. Harbour security in pursuit of the truck. The jeep in no-man’s-land approached my container, and then the engine dropped to an idle, and there came the gentle crunching of loose gravel beneath the wheels as it drifted to a stop.

  “Corporal Gabriel,” came a voice. “You’re not made of glass, for god’s sake. Get your arse over here.”

  I ducked out of sight of the harbour security vehicle moments before they screamed past and scrambled into the back seat of the jeep.

  “What took you so long?” I asked. Robyn put the jeep into reverse and we started moving backwards at speed. Chandler was sitting beside her, his cold grey eyes searching me. He was holding his left hand over his right shoulder and I could see a dark stain oozing between his fingers.

  “Fat-Boy?” asked Chandler.

  “On the truck,” I said.

  Robyn swung the wheel to turn us about, crunched into second and sped across the open space to regain the road. I gave them the shorthand version of our failure to extract the gold. Chandler’s jaw set in a determined grimace.