Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  Rayne could not believe what he was hearing. Aschaar had almost destroyed him; Aschaar had ruled his life, had been the puppet-master pulling his strings. He felt a cold, quiet hatred burning within him. The man was evil, rotten through and through. They had been fools to think of arresting him. He was beyond the reach of law. Justice was too good for him.

  Bernard was enjoying the expression on Rayne’s face.

  ‘Yes, Captain Gallagher. And there is nothing you can do about it, nothing at all. And yes, I do remember the business of that plane you and Miss O’Keefe were supposed to die in. Lois Kruger - wasn’t that the name of the engineer who was so cooperative? A homosexual, I recall. I believe we still have those pictures of him and his lover somewhere.’

  Bernard got up, the shotgun barrel against Sonja’s bleeding lips.

  ‘But enough of these sordid revelations, ladies and gentlemen. We must be on our way. Yes, we are all going on a little trip. You will not be completing the journey, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy the flight, and especially the landing.’

  Over in the corner, Jay tried to raise himself up from the floor. ‘You think you’ve got it all, Bernard.’ He was forcing the words out against the excruciating pain. ‘But you’ve got everything except a child. That’s why you left Marisa - because she knew you couldn’t father a child.’

  Rayne saw the tip of the shotgun barrel drop momentarily from Sonja’s lips, and moved forward - but Bernard saw him, and he had to back away.

  Jay said, ‘Don’t worry, though, Bernard. Marisa’s got a child now. It’s mine.’

  In one swift movement Bernard threw Sonja to the floor and swung the butt of the shotgun hard down into Jay’s skull.

  Down on the ground floor, General Muller burst panting through the entrance doors and made straight for the lifts. There’d been a snarl-up on the bloody motorway and he was late for his appointment with Bernard. He hated doing the least thing to upset Bernard; he was afraid of him.

  ‘Hey!’ said the security man. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Come on, man. You know me, you’ve seen me a hundred times. I’m going up to see Mr Aschaar.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Sorry, General Muller. Go right ahead.’

  As the General was carried upwards in the lift, the security man sat back and looked at his watch. His relief was late again - that bastard Bert never did bother to get here on time. He glanced across at the couple sitting in the waiting area. The man was reading a magazine and the woman was taking a keen interest in the rubber plant . . . They wouldn’t be any trouble. He’d just nip into the office, get his coat and tidy up, so that when Bert did decide to arrive he could get off home at once.

  ‘Shall we?’ said Sam in a whisper.

  ‘I think we’d better.’ Lois nodded. ‘I didn’t like the look of that chap who just went up. I think maybe Bernard Aschaar is getting himself some reinforcements.’

  ‘OK then. Quick, now, while the guard’s powdering his nose.’

  They moved stealthily across to the lifts. Noiselessly the lift floated down to them. Its doors slid open on oiled wheels to receive them, slid silently closed behind them, and they were carried up to level 3.

  Jay felt almost at peace now, lying alone on the floor of Bernard’s office. There had been a time - how long ago? - when he had been in terrible pain. Pain in his head, pain in his leg - but now all that had gone, and he could be quiet. There had been a time, too, when it had seemed vital to reach the intercom on Bernard’s desk, somehow to drag his body to the intercom, press the button, tell someone that. . .

  But all that desperation had vanished too, now, along with the pain. There was nothing he needed to do, nothing more, ever. He could let the darkness carry him away.

  They were herded up a spiral staircase and into a square, glass- walled office set on top of the roof - Rayne, Deon and Sonja; Sonja with the barrel of the shotgun pressed into the small of her back, and her left arm gripped in Bernard’s. They saw the helicopter perched on the concrete outside, its rotors already spinning in the pouring rain. Deon and Rayne exchanged glances. It was obvious what Aschaar intended to do - carry them up in the helicopter and then push them out of the door over the mine dumps.

  Aschaar shepherded them out into the rain. The wind was suddenly fresh and strong in their faces. All around them was sky, and below them, a long drop to death. There was absolutely nothing they could do.

  General Muller sprinted, puffing, up the spiral staircase, drawing his pistol as he went. In Bernard’s office he’d found Jay Golden dead on the floor in a pool of blood. My God, what the hell was going on?

  He hadn’t been on the roof before. He came out into a sort of glass office, and saw beyond it a strange man about to step into the hold of a helicopter, and Bernard Aschaar standing by with a shotgun. He crouched down behind the glass and took aim.

  Bernard, hearing a noise, spun round. All he could see, through the pouring rain and the wet glass, was a menacing figure with a gun aimed directly at him. Without even thinking about it, he leapt into the office doorway and pumped a shot into the crouching figure.

  Muller collapsed in a pool of blood, his face blown away - and even as Bernard turned back to the helicopter, Rayne was on him, wrestling with him for the gun. Lois and Sam, emerging at that moment from the spiral staircase, saw the two of them locked together - and the helicopter hovering a metre above the roof, with Deon and Sonja staring desperately from the hold.

  Instinctively, Lois made for the helicopter. He sprinted across the wet concrete and grabbed the lower landing struts with both hands. As the pilot accelerated, and the helicopter engines screamed, Lois looked down at the drop below him, his arms already beginning to fail.

  Sam, crouched just inside the office doorway, shut her eyes.

  They struggled desperately for possession of the gun. Aschaar got it, and Rayne dived down as a shot exploded above him. Aschaar crouched to fire again, but slipped and dropped the shotgun in a pool of water.

  Running forward, Rayne kicked the gun away from him, and then the two of them were lashing viciously at one another; Aschaar brought his head down towards Rayne’s skull but Rayne dodged the blow and caught Aschaar’s jaw with a strong right hook. Bernard staggered back and then shot forward, hitting Rayne hard in the pit of the stomach. As Rayne doubled up, Aschaar retrieved the shotgun and took aim.

  There was a dull click as he squeezed the trigger. The water had got into the cartridges.

  The next moment, Rayne was hurtling forward in a flying rugby tackle. But he was too late.

  ‘Don’t move, Captain Gallagher,’ said Bernard Aschaar. ‘Just stay there, lying on the concrete. That’ll do nicely.’

  Looking up, Rayne saw to his horror that Bernard was holding the shotgun to Sam’s head.

  In the air above them, Lois, still hanging on to the helicopter’s landing struts, knew he was almost finished. Then he heard Deon’s voice.

  ‘Hold on!’

  Looking up, he saw to his amazement that Deon had forced open the door of the hold and had made his way out onto the flimsy struts. His left hand locked onto the edge of the door, he stretched his right hand down towards Lois’s left wrist.

  ‘I can’t reach you!’

  Summoning all his courage, Lois let go with his left hand and pulled up with his right. For a moment he was certain that Deon’s grip wasn’t strong enough, that he was going to fall . . . And then, little by little, he felt himself being hauled upwards.

  ‘My God! My God!’ Lois collapsed onto the floor of the hold. He had been so close to death - but he had made it. He looked at the two white faces above him, and struggled upright. ‘Come on. We’ve got to get control of this thing.’

  ‘The pilot’s armed, Lois. I’ll go first.’

  Very, very slowly, Deon turned the handle of the door into the cockpit. Then he flung the door open, and rushed in.

  Quick off the mark, the pilot was already halfway to the shotgun lying beside him on the floor
of the cockpit. Deon grabbed it, but the pilot still held on. A shot exploded through the side glass. Deon heaved the man upwards, then shoved his elbow hard into his ribs and wrenched the gun from him.

  Now Lois was already at the controls, fighting to get the helicopter back on course. Lightning had begun to flash around them ominously. All the time, the cloud base had been dropping steadily, and visibility was now very bad indeed. Struggling to see the Goldcorp building through the gathering gloom, Lois was scared they might run into it. Then, without warning, it appeared in the darkness, ablaze with lights.

  He made out three figures on the roof.

  Another lightning flash lit up the scene, and he cautiously prepared to land.

  Lying face-down on the concrete, Rayne saw another man emerge onto the roof - a man he did not recognise, with long silver hair. In his arms he held a machine-gun. Rayne could see that his face was contorted by some strong emotion - grief, hate? He looked almost mad.

  ‘Why did you do it, Bernard?’ the silver-haired man cried. ‘It was all yours, everything. You knew that. Why did you have to kill him?’

  Bernard, still holding Sam by the hair, shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Max, old man, but that’s just how it happened. He’s dead, and there you are. No good crying over spilt milk.’

  The machine-gun in the old man’s arms spoke. Bernard Aschaar spun round, his body a mass of red holes. Blood and glass splinters exploded everywhere.

  Bernard staggered to his feet. He grasped the thin-bladed throwing knife from between his shoulder blades. It sang through the air. Max Golden span round to avoid it, but it landed in the back of his neck. Screaming in anguish, he sank to the ground.

  No one

  John Fry merged into the crowds at Charles de Gaulle airport. He had a rendezvous with a senior member of the KGB; he was to be briefed on his next assignment. He did not see the man who followed him, an umbrella in his hand.

  ‘Sorry, old chap.’

  The tip of the man’s brolly had accidentally caught him on the left buttock. John felt a slight stinging sensation. But when he turned round, the man had disappeared.

  The cramps in his chest started seconds later. He guessed what was happening, guessed that Gallagher must have spoken to someone at the Pentagon, so that now, for him, the game was over.

  He fell on his side, people clustering around him. He died of a heart attack in an ambulance some fifteen minutes later.

  The man on the wheelchair was pushed out through the front doors of the hospital by a nurse.

  The surgeon followed them.

  The surgeon thought how different Max Golden looked with his long silver hair shorn off. He had waited till this moment to tell his patient the truth.

  ‘Mr Golden.’

  The intense, blazing blue eyes caught his own. He was afraid of this man in the wheelchair.

  ‘The extent of your injuries was more extensive than we realised. At your age I’m afraid there will be no chance of recovery. You will be completely paralysed from the neck downwards for the rest of your life.’

  Max Golden did not say anything. But the look in his eyes made the surgeon recoil.

  It was a look that spoke of the most savage revenge.

  Rayne sat at his desk in the window, reading the text book. He was so absorbed that he hardly noticed when Sam came in with the paper.

  ‘Rayne.’ He looked up, blinking. ‘Rayne, there’s something here I think you should read.’

  The headline was, ‘Sudden Death of American Diplomat in Paris.’ ‘Mr John Fry,’ the article ran, ‘former economic adviser to the American Embassy in South Africa, died suddenly last week in Paris. A statement from the American Embassy here maintains that foul play is not suspected. Evidently Mr Fry had been ill for some time.’

  Rayne folded up the paper and looked at Sam. ‘At least it’s a small measure of vindication for Michael Strong and all the others who died.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  Rayne looked across at the postcard on the corner of his desk. It was from Deon and Sonja, on honeymoon in the Seychelles. He knew the news would please them too.

  ‘Sam, I’m going to take a walk.’

  ‘It’s raining . . .’ But she didn’t continue her protest, and smiling, watched him go.

  She loved this house in the Magaliesburg Mountains outside Johannesburg. She was here as Bruce Gallagher’s guest - wel­come to stay here with Rayne for as long as she liked. She got on well with Bruce Gallagher, and was glad that he seemed to understand what his son was going through.

  She remembered Deon and Sonja’s wedding ceremony a week before. How she had wished that it could be her and Rayne. She’d never wanted children before, but now she wanted them desperately.

  Sam watched Rayne’s straight back as he walked up the slope towards the top of the hill. She looked down at the books on his desk. She had no doubt that he would achieve his goal, that he would one day become the brilliant advocate he so longed to be. But there were other things that she was more concerned about. She knew that he was still in conflict with his past.

  She stared after him, praying that he might find some peace within himself, might finally understand that life was for living.

  As he neared the summit, the rain pelted down and lightning crashed round him. Storm clouds filled the horizon, and the parched lands beneath drank up the rain. There was nothing up here except himself and the elements, and he was reminded again of the violence on the roof of the Goldcorp Building.

  Slowly a faint smile spread across his face. It was Fry who had died, not him. Aschaar who had died, not him.

  He thought again of those last terrible moments with Aschaar; of Mozambique, and the men who would never return. He thought of the day - so long ago it seemed now - when he had killed his own men in the bush. All his adult life had been spent gathering knowledge of death and war, a knowledge not worth having.

  Now he wanted to become a part of his own country again, to fight for a future free of violence and corruption. He would spend the rest of his life fighting injustice.

  Rayne stood for a long time on the summit of the hill. Then he started to walk back to the house.

  Now, at last, he knew that he was at peace with himself. The violence was a part of his past. He had a duty to the men who had died, a duty to live.

  It was time to tell Sam how much he loved her.

  The walk turned into a run.