An Empty Coast

by Tony Park

  Brand suspected Sonja was still alive and had faked the crash to make it look like she had taken a bullet, but alive, dead or wounded, he knew what she expected of him. She had put herself out there as a target for five murderous minutes, and it was his turn now to take the heat. If she wanted fire from the driver’s side of the Landy, then that’s what he would give her, even if she wasn’t alive to do anything about it. He wasn’t going to cower under the vehicle like a dog while the gunman took pot shots at them.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said to Allchurch. Brand rolled out from under the truck and pushed himself to his feet. He came up firing short three-round bursts from the submachine gun to conserve ammunition, aiming for the gunman where the side door had been removed from the helicopter. He saw the man’s open mouth as he screamed instructions to the pilot while trying to reload.

  The pilot backed off, but Brand held his ground, pumping four more rounds in the direction of the gunman and pilot. In his peripheral vision he glimpsed movement from the front of the Land Rover, but deliberately did not look that way. Instead, he walked, coolly and calmly, to the rear of the vehicle, the Uzi still tracking the helicopter, which hovered just out of range.

  ‘Come on boys, don’t be chicken now,’ Brand said.

  The pilot lowered the nose of the chopper and it raced towards him, like a bull at a matador’s cape. The gunman, Brand realised, must have reloaded. Brand squeezed off two aimed single shots at the pilot. He was a good shot, but even so hitting a man in a moving aircraft with a short-barrelled weapon was harder than it seemed in the movies.

  ‘That’s right, come to papa,’ Brand said as the chopper bore down on him.

  Brand skipped around the back of the Land Rover to the Isuzu. Looking into the cab he saw that the airbags inside had deployed, but there was no sign of Sonja. As the chopper turned broadside he opened up with two bursts as the gunman above replied, more than in kind. Brand dived onto the bonnet of the bakkie and slid across to the other side. He glimpsed more movement off to his left and briefly saw the face of Sonja Kurtz appear above the front bumper of the Landy. She nodded and winked to him, and he knew then exactly what he had to do.

  Brand darted from the point of impact between the Isuzu and the Land Rover out into the open ground away from the two vehicles, following the tracks that Sonja had made when she had deliberately rammed the Landy. As he ran he imagined the gunman taking a bead on him and the chopper pilot steadying his machine above the two four-by-fours, giving his passenger a stable platform for the coup de grâce.

  He stopped and turned and saw the gunman moving the barrel of his R5, peering at him through the sights. Brand fired twice more and had the satisfaction of seeing the rifleman duck and flinch; one of his shots must have come close.

  Five metres below the hovering helicopter Sonja was standing on the Land Rover’s roof carrier. In her right hand she swung a length of rope, weighted at the end with a heavy steel shackle, the kind used when recovering a vehicle stuck in sand or mud. Sonja let go the rope at the top of an upswing and the shackle sailed up and between the chopper’s right skid and its fuselage. The shackle dangled for a moment, swinging in mid-air about a metre from the rear of the Land Rover. Sonja darted to the end of the roof carrier but couldn’t reach it.

  Brand lowered the Uzi, as if to change magazines. He wanted the pilot focusing on him, and didn’t want the man to lose his nerve, even if the gunman had temporarily ducked out of the firing line. The rifleman raised his weapon again, sensing victory. There had been several times in Brand’s life of peace and war when he thought he was about to die, and this was surely one of them. It would happen, if Sonja didn’t do something soon.

  The helicopter was drifting slowly further away from the Land Rover. Sonja backed up three paces then ran, launching herself off the rear of the truck. She reached for the swinging metal shackle and managed to grab it. Her weight caused the helicopter to buck and the pilot reacted instinctively, starting a climb. Sonja’s feet touched the ground and she hauled on the rope. At the other end from the shackle she had made a loop which she had attached to the snap hook on the steel cable winch mounted on the front of the pastor’s vehicle. Sonja, Brand saw, was furiously trying to pull through enough slack so that she could get the winch snap hook over the skid.

  The pilot, however, was punching out, climbing rapidly. Brand ran around the crashed Isuzu to Sonja. ‘You’re certifiable!’ he cried over the whine of the engine.

  ‘He’s getting away. Don’t let go,’ she said.

  Brand grabbed the shackle and Sonja started to climb the rope. He marvelled at her strength and reckless bravery. When the gunman stuck his head out the open door Brand used his free hand to put two rounds in the man’s general direction, causing him to duck back inside.

  Sonja was almost at the helicopter. Brand held fast to the rope as Sonja hooked an arm up over the skid. She used her free hand to yank the winch cable over the skid, and Brand could only imagine the stresses on her lean body as the pilot pitched and rocked the machine to try to shake her off. The rifleman plucked up the courage to look out again, this time with the barrel of his R5 leading the way. Hudson fired, but the hammer of the Uzi clicked on an empty chamber. He swore.

  Sonja, meanwhile, had the snap hook of the winch cable in her hand now. As the rifleman took a bead on her she opened the spring-loaded link and snapped it back onto the steel cable. The first bullet looked to Brand as if it would surely go through her head, but just as he saw the muzzle flashes Sonja unhooked her arm from the skid. As she fell she grabbed the rope and the end of the snap hook. The linkage whizzed down the wire as her body weight carried her down, as though she were abseiling. A burst of bullets followed her.

  Sonja landed hard enough to dent the bonnet of the Land Rover, then rolled off the truck as another burst of bullets cleaved the air where she had been.

  Brand reloaded. ‘Matthew, get out and run!’

  Allchurch crawled from under the Land Rover, stood, and ran for the treeline. Brand fired at the chopper on the move as he ran to Kurtz, who was struggling to get to her feet.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Leave me,’ she ordered. She took a deep, obviously painful breath. ‘Keep firing.’

  She pushed him aside as the Land Rover started to roll. The helicopter pilot was climbing, pulling the winch cable taut and, in the process, dragging the truck forward. Land Rover handbrakes, Brand knew, were famously inefficient.

  Brand ran to the passenger side of the Land Rover and got in. ‘The pilot’s turning. He’s going to give the gunner a clear shot at us.’ Sonja had successfully lassoed the flying chopper – an impressive feat – but it now looked like all she had done was turn them into a tethered target. Brand leaned out the window and aimed and fired as best as he could until the fresh magazine was emptied.

  He thumbed the release button and the magazine dropped into his hand, but when he felt in the pocket of his trousers there was nothing. ‘Must have lost my last one when I was on the ground. You got a spare gun?’

  ‘Kind of got my hands full here, Brand.’ Sonja started the engine, rammed the gear stick into reverse and stood on the accelerator. The Land Rover fought the helicopter in a tug of war. Her tactic had caught the pilot off guard and he was struggling now just to keep his machine in the air, rather than focusing on giving his gunner a good shot.

  The helicopter dropped and Brand saw the concentration and pure fear on the pilot’s face through the cockpit window as the aircraft’s blade slashed the air in front of their windscreen. ‘If one of those blades hits us we’re finished.’

  ‘He’s finished, too. Get out, Brand. At least one of us needs to survive this so we can kill the bastards that set us up. Find my daughter if it’s you. Save her, Brand, her name’s Emma.’ Sonja battled the helicopter. The Land Rover’s wheels spun on the loose ground, fighting for purchase.

  Brand looked up. �
��He’s moving above us.’

  ‘Watch out right!’ Sonja yelled.

  Brand turned just as the pilot dropped the helicopter and the tip of the skid that wasn’t attached to the truck smashed through the right rear passenger window. Sonja braked hard and even more of the skid pierced the cab of the vehicle. Brand ducked to avoid having his skull caved in and swore.

  ‘Oops, sorry,’ Sonja said, and let slip a maniacal laugh. She put the truck into first gear and dropped the clutch as she accelerated forward. She pulled the Land Rover off the helicopter’s impaled skid, but the chopper pilot, showing great skill, matched her speed. Sonja went up through the gears. Brand knew she couldn’t outrun the helicopter and sooner or later the gunner would put some lucky rounds through the roof.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Brand asked her.

  ‘This is your last chance. Get out. Now.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right, then put on your seatbelt.’

  Sonja veered to the right and wound the speedometer up to eighty kilometres per hour. It seemed much faster on the uneven ground as they bounced up and down in the cab. Brand buckled up. ‘Weave, you’re spending too much time in a straight line.’ Brand stuck his head out of the window and saw he was right. The chopper pilot, still matching their speed, had drifted to the left. The rifleman on board was lying on the floor of the chopper, the barrel of his R5 aimed right at them. Brand ducked as three rounds stitched the bodywork no more than a metre behind him. ‘Zigzag, damn it!’

  ‘No,’ she said, her voice ice cool. ‘See that dip up ahead, with the slight rise on the other side?’

  He peered through the dust cloud the chopper’s rotor wash was stirring up. It was hardly more than an indentation. ‘Seen.’

  ‘When we hit it, hold on. Shit’s going to happen.’

  Sheesh, Brand thought. Everything about this woman was messy. ‘Well, I’m out of ammo, so this better be good.’

  She glanced across at him and grinned. ‘Oh, it’ll be good all right. Now hold the fuck on.’

  Sonja revved the engine until it was screaming, then popped up into fifth gear. They were pushing a hundred now, and the depression and dip that had looked quite mild to Brand from a distance loomed up at them like the Grand Canyon. He looked at her and saw she was still smiling, loving this, embracing and enjoying the prospect that she could very well die in the next few moments. Brand knew that ironic thrill that the presence of death could bring.

  As soon as their front wheels dropped into the dip Sonja did two things she shouldn’t have – she accelerated, coaxing the last of the power out of the Land Rover’s engine, and she hauled the steering wheel to the left as hard and fast as she could.

  With lightning-fast reflexes, the pilot swung his machine out on the same side, as far as the winch-cable tether would allow. The gunner opened up on them and he must have reloaded, because Brand reckoned thirty rounds punctured the Land Rover from stem to stern.

  They started to roll. ‘Shit!’ Brand said. He braced his hands on the dashboard as Sonja turned the steering wheel in the opposite direction, overcorrecting and guaranteeing that the big, brick-like vehicle would turn over.

  Brand felt a stab of pain in his left arm and everything seemed to go into slow motion as the horizon swam and tilted in front of him. He was vaguely aware of a shadow passing over them, then the helicopter swung back into sight and he saw the pilot’s mouth open in an unheard scream of terror. The flier was too slow, this time, to stop the rolling vehicle from pulling the chopper down. Its rotors sheered off as they hit the ground, flying in different directions, and then the fuselage ploughed into the dirt. Fire, noise, dust and the agonising screech of twisting metal erupted around them.

  *

  Sonja coughed. Flames crackled and the tortured frameworks of the helicopter and four-by-four pinged as they expanded and contracted. She spat, undid her seatbelt, and fell onto Brand.

  He yelped, which was a good sign. He’d looked motionless, dead maybe, blood flowing from his head, but he said, ‘Goddammit, get off of me.’

  She pushed down on him, levering herself up. The Land Rover had come to rest on its left-hand side. She put a boot on Brand’s arse and reached up, opened the driver’s side door and hauled herself, somewhat painfully, out of the vehicle.

  The heat from the burning helicopter washed over her. She jumped down. ‘You need help?’

  Brand answered. ‘No, I can manage.’

  ‘Good.’ She had work to do. Sonja surveyed the scene of devastation around her. The chopper’s tail boom had snapped off and the main cockpit was engulfed in flames. The pilot’s body burned like a Roman candle. Shame, she thought, he’d been good at what he did, but not good enough. Like all men he was greedy for the climax. She would have stood off and got her gunner to concentrate on the Land Rover’s wheels or engine bay instead of trying to get close enough to see the whites of their eyes.

  Sonja heard a low moan and turned. Thirty metres away was a prone form.

  She pulled the pistol from her shorts and held it up as she approached him. The man was on his back, his face a mask of blood, his arms blackened and his clothes smouldering. He must have been shot out of the bird like a champagne cork when it blew up. The man might have thought himself lucky to be alive. He was wrong.

  Sonja looked him up and down. There was no sign of his R5 assault rifle and he seemed clean, but all the same she patted him down. The man winced. ‘Shut up.’

  He spluttered, then summoned: ‘Poes.’ Satisfied he wasn’t carrying a sidearm Sonja stood and kicked him, hard, in the ribs. The man screamed.

  ‘No one calls me the c-word, mister.’ He convulsed and blood oozed from his mouth. Internal injuries, she thought. He’d die without emergency medical care and there was no chance that was on its way. At least she knew now that he spoke Afrikaans. Sonja kicked him again. ‘Who sent you to do this?’

  He coughed again. ‘Fokof.’

  Sonja put a foot on his right arm, and when he grabbed at her leg with his left she shot him in the forearm. The man screamed again. ‘Settle down. It’s a through-and-through, you’ll survive.’

  She shifted her foot to his wound, making him cry out more. She was straddling him now, looking down his body. She put the pistol back in the waistband of her shorts and pulled her Leatherman out of its pouch. She squatted, increasing the pressure on his arms, and eliciting more crying and swearing.

  The noises stopped with a sharp intake of breath as she hooked the wicked serrated saw blade into the waist of the man’s charred jeans and ripped up, hard and fast, exposing his underpants.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. Tell me your name and who you’re working for, or you’ll bleed out through the hole where your manhood used to be. Call me poes . . .’

  ‘Please, no. I can’t tell. I don’t know their names.’

  ‘What about yours?’ She wrenched down his underpants and grabbed the shrivelled little white thing. She pulled on it and rested the blade under it. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Viljoen. Cobus Viljoen.’

  ‘Good.’ She held his prick still and increased the pressure on the blade. ‘Now, who are you working for, Cobus?’ She looked over her shoulder, meeting his eyes.

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Yes, you can, and you will, or you’ll die.’

  ‘You’re going to kill me anyway.’ He spat to the side.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  ‘Kurtz!’

  They both turned to look at Brand, who staggered towards them. He held a hand to his left arm and his fingers were stained with sticky, drying blood. ‘For crying in a bucket, what the hell are you doing, can’t you see that man’s wounded? We’ve got to call the police.’

  ‘Fuck the police,’ Sonja called back to him. ‘He’s going to talk or I’m going to cut his cock and balls off.
’ She started to move the knife.

  ‘No!’ rasped Viljoen. ‘Help me, man, this bitch is crazy.’

  Brand held his hands up as he approached them. ‘Now, now, let’s everyone stay calm and there’s no need for cussing.’

  ‘Jesus, man, get her off me.’

  ‘Or blaspheming,’ Brand said to the man.

  Sonja smiled. ‘Shut up, Hudson. I just want to see him bleed.’

  Brand looked to the man and Sonja focused on her work.

  ‘Now, Cobus,’ Brand said. ‘Is that your name, did I hear right?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he wailed in a high pitch. ‘Cobus.’

  ‘I believe the lady asked you who you work for. Not too hard, is it.’

  Sonja looked at Brand and, when Viljoen said nothing, shrugged. She started to saw, and held on to him tightly as his body convulsed. She felt the hot blood start to wet her fingers, but she knew she had only just pierced the skin.

  ‘Russians! All right, for Christ’s . . . I mean, for goodness sake, I was paid by a Russian gangster, all right?’

  Brand held up a hand to her and Sonja smiled at him. The terrified man underneath her couldn’t see her wink to Brand, or his acknowledgement through a slight nod.

  ‘Names?’

  ‘One guy. His name was Miro, I was never given a second name. You killed two of our crew, Hannes and Eddie, in the BMW.’ Viljoen spat blood again.

  Sonja was getting impatient. ‘And who, exactly, are your crew?’

  He seemed reluctant to talk to her, a woman, so she cut a little more. ‘Stop that! All right. We’re in the import-export business, security, that kind of stuff.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’ she pressed.

  ‘We bring in drugs, mostly. Also hookers and strippers for South Africa – they come into Namibia on tourist visas and we ship them across the border into SA. They’re Russian or from some other eastern European places; that’s how we knew Miro. Please, please, please stop cutting.’