The Devil's Horn

by David L. Robbins

  “Do you know what I think?”

  Wophule faced her to answer. Then a whisk cut the air, the sound of a knife slicing cloth. It ended in Wophule with a meaty thud as a muted pop came from the brush. The boy flew backward off his haunches; one of his hands reared up and knocked Promise on the cheek. He landed on his back, spread-eagled. Promise tumbled sideways, shaken and scrabbling in the dirt, away from the convulsing boy. Wophule’s belly thrust off the ground, arching his back, then he collapsed. He coughed a red geyser. The blood rained back to his face, ringing his mouth, spattering his neck. His eyelids fluttered; his pink palms turned up, fingers curled. His head struggled once to come up off the dirt, to see what had happened, to ask Promise. Then he sagged, and his eyelids stopped.

  Promise climbed to her knees, hands stuffing her open mouth. She waited, fighting panic, expecting her own bullet. She didn’t scan the scrub for the shooter and had no notion of running; if she was under crosshairs, she was dead. Seconds passed with no bullet; Promise suspected she might live. Terror clouded her relief as she crawled closer to Wophule, pushing at his boot in a pale hope of rousing him. The boy’s boot, high olive sock, and bare black thigh rolled in the dust, but it was a terrible, perished weight. She stopped shaking his boot, and Wophule came to rest. A dark puddle glistened in the center of his tunic, framing a rip between the pockets.

  Fifty meters away, Good Luck emerged from the bush. He carried his rifle like a soldier, the homemade silencer high above his shoulder. Even at a distance, the empty space in his teeth blackened his grin. He came without hurry, wearing his leopard pelt.

  Frantic, Promise reached for her own rifle. She’d dropped it beside Wophule’s body. Without breaking stride, Good Luck leveled his long gun at her, shaking his narrow head.

  “No, girl. I’m not here for you. But see if I don’t.”

  Promise raised both hands. Good Luck advanced in long strides. When he stood over Wophule, he bent to admire his shot, dead center, pleased with the murder.

  Good Luck kicked Promise’s rifle farther from her reach. He motioned for her to toss away her panga. When Promise did, he relaxed the muzzle of his gun down from her.

  She breathed fast through her nose, clamped her lips, fighting tears. Promise climbed off her knees. Good Luck showed no fear of her, not with his gun and muti.

  “Why?”

  Good Luck was a rag of a man. Spare and shabby, he had only his trigger finger to offer the world. He shrugged, and the spotted pelt rose and fell on his skinny shoulders.

  “I do not ask Juma why. Only how much. Just like you.”

  This damned Promise, but was not a surprise. She’d known it the instant Good Luck stepped out of the thorns. When she’d called Juma, she’d killed Wophule.

  Her great-uncle appeared from the brush. Juma could not have heard Good Luck invoking his name, or Promise thinking it, but he came as though summoned. In one hand Juma carried a toolbox; against his size it seemed no more than a lunch pail. In his other hand, he walked with a staff taller than his head.

  Promise had knelt beside death before. First as a child, beside her father in the AIDS clinic, a young man devastating to look at. Then, four months later, Promise cut down her mother, who’d hung herself and left a note that she’d learned she was infected. A decade after that, a nun at the township orphanage suffered a heart attack in the night. Promise was sent to the sister’s room to find her after the woman missed the evening meal. Those times Promise had prayed to the Christian god for the passage of their souls. But kneeling in the dirt under the yellow eyes of Good Luck, waiting for ponderous Juma to approach, Promise did not mutter to Jesus; he seemed to lack the power to hurt anyone. In her seething heart she called on the older gods, the ones who answered offerings of blood and dance, who rewarded meat and great fires. Over Wophule’s body, Promise begged the jackal for cunning, the tortoise for patience, the lion for strength.

  When Juma’s big leather shoes stopped and the wooden rod rapped the dirt below her lowered eyes, Promise spit. She raised her gaze to Good Luck and silently swore she would kill him.

  Juma lowered a massive hand to her.

  “Get up, Nomawethu.”

  Promise stiffened her legs to rise without shaking. She took Juma’s hand, but her eyes lingered on Good Luck, sending the message that if the old gods answered her, she would use their gifts on him.

  The skinny shooter lofted his eyebrows as if to say he understood and welcomed her curse. He patted the leopard pelt over his chest, in the place where he’d shot Wophule. The gesture said, You cannot do it, girl. But I can.

  Juma blocked the sun. He wore black cotton pants and a sleeveless T, his big arms thick with flab and strength. He set down the tool kit and tree branch. With fingers under her chin, Juma dragged her attention to him.

  “He did what I told him to do. If you’re going to stare, stare at me.”

  This she did. Could she kill her gogo’s brother? If she swore to it, she must commit to it. Or the old gods would not help.

  Juma held out a rubber-banded roll of rands as fat as his wrist. The roll balanced in his immense palm.

  Promise cut her eyes at Good Luck before she asked:

  “How much?”

  The question made her no better than him, just as he’d said. This made no matter, because when she killed Good Luck, she would be better than him.

  “One hundred thousand rand.”

  Promise snatched it off the platter of Juma’s hand.

  “You are getting closer to your gogo’s house all the time.”

  Promise pocketed the bills. She promised the old gods she would kill Juma, too, after she had enough money.

  Good Luck slung his long rifle across his back but kept his sandaled feet between Promise and her own gun on the ground.

  Now that she’d been paid, Juma relaxed his posture, so large he slumped like a mudslide. “I am sorry, girl. You know I am. But how was I to explain to your partner why I am here?”

  “I told him the drone was from Mozambique. You could have been from there.”

  Juma held out his empty hands, never with blood on them.

  “And what happens when you go back to your head-quarters? You report that Mozambique came for their fallen drone and missile. Do we look like soldiers? Your partner there would describe me in detail. Then, when it turns out the drone is not from Mozambique—and believe me, it is not—it becomes clear that a poacher has taken it. They begin to look for me. Me, Nomawethu. I cannot allow that.”

  Juma indicated the roll of cash bulging in her pocket.

  “You cannot allow that.”

  He lifted the tool kit, humming to himself. Juma turned to the drone.

  “Now, what do we have here?” He curled a finger at Promise. “Let’s take a look.”

  Promise held her ground. To step farther away from Wophule’s body was to begin to deny him. Big Juma disliked being denied, as well.

  “I said come here, child.”

  With a fast glance at Good Luck, Promise imagined the killer lying in the dirt beside Wophule, his hands cut off by her machete.

  Juma ducked under the drone’s raised wing. He did as Promise had done, drawing a hand down its gray skin to keep it mild and asleep.

  He kept his hand on the fuselage, running fingers over the orb underneath. Juma gazed into its tinted-glass face like the miner he’d been, a dark man peering into darkness, looking for riches. Juma nodded into the glass. From his toolbox he retrieved a hacksaw and a screwdriver. With Promise at his elbow, Juma punched holes in the thin metal skin until he could bring the saw into play. In quick fashion, he ripped the electronic eye out of the drone’s belly. He rolled it in his hands like a chopped-off head to examine the opened electronic neck. Juma poked inside with his meaty fingers, then brought his face close, as if to sip from it.

  Juma set the orb down gingerly, then set himself to examining the busted, squared-off firing rack lying on the ground. He nudged it with the tip of his shoe, brandin
g it too broken for salvage. He peeked into the second launcher hanging just below his waist and stroked the tip of the lone rocket tucked inside.

  “Ah, this.” He tapped the warhead. “This is a good one.”

  He smiled at Promise with the greed of a child. With the screwdriver, Juma loosened the access panel in the sleek pylon connecting the square rack to the underside of the wing. Lifting away the panel door, Juma examined a hive of little levers and wheels, all threaded by red, black, and white wires. He rummaged carefully, so as not to incite anything. Juma rolled several colored wires over in his big fingers, until he saw what he was looking for.

  He held out a hand for Promise, as if to dance. She did not take it.

  “Come look.”

  Promise knelt beside the missile launcher. Juma plucked at the wire to separate it from the jumble inside the pylon. He teased it out.

  “Can you read that?”

  Tiny white lettering on the black wire read Lockheed Martin USA.

  Juma beamed.

  “Nomawethu, you are owed more money, I think.”

  He tucked the wire back in place, then secured the access panel.

  “Go stand over there.” Juma snapped his fingers for Good Luck to come in her place.

  The Mozambican grabbed Promise’s rifle to keep it near him. Wophule lay on his gun, still strapped to his back. Promise could not get to it without drawing attention.

  Her great-uncle took several pictures of the downed drone from every angle with his cell phone. When he was done, he explored the ways the missile launcher was harnessed to the wing. He trailed fingertips over all of it, searching for how to free the missile. Quickly, he found the weak place; this was Juma’s talent. He pulled a ratchet from his tool kit, then tried several sockets over four bolts that fixed the pylon to a rail attached to the wing. After several misfits, Juma measured one more socket. This one snugged over the bolt.

  He laughed at himself.

  “I’m stupid. It’s not metric. It’s half inch. American.”

  Juma showed Good Luck where to lift to take pressure off the launcher and pylon so he could loosen the bolts. The first fought him off. Then Juma displayed how powerful he was. He leaned into the wrench, groaning, making no progress. He did not back off, straining longer than Promise believed he could. The wrench moved a fraction, the bolt creaked, then broke loose. Juma undid three more the same way, with great exertion. Exhausted but taking no rest, he and Good Luck lowered the freed mechanism gradually, respecting the unfired missile. The thin shooter seemed of little help; Juma bore most of the burden.

  The big man folded to the ground beside the launcher. Juma mopped his brow against his bare arm.

  “Something . . .” Juma paused to catch his breath. He gathered in the evidence of the crash: the long gash in the earth, a single American missile on an unidentified drone, a pair of rocket launchers, one of them empty. “Something does not match here. Strange.”

  Juma spoke not to Good Luck but to Promise, as though she were his partner.

  Good Luck shot a silent snarl at Promise, sensing the slight. His tongue peeked through the gap in his teeth, making Promise think of the blood around Wophule’s mouth, the boy’s last red breath only minutes ago. Promise blocked the surge in her breast to leap at Good Luck.

  Juma struggled to get his girth off the ground. He pointed at the tree branch. While Good Luck fetched the staff, Juma took three leather straps out of the toolbox. These he tossed beside the launcher.

  Juma stood beside Promise, dwarfing her, hands on hips. He continued to survey the scene, calculating. Good Luck lapped the leather bands around the contraption, then slipped the rod through them. When he was finished, he lifted Promise’s rifle off the ground and slung it across his back. He pushed Wophule to a sitting position—a horrible thing to see the slack boy yanked upright, empty like a puppet. Good Luck slipped the boy’s rifle off him.

  Juma turned fully to Promise. He pulled her into his chest and hard gut; she let her arms dangle. Through the heavy layers of the man, she heard no heart.

  He whispered, “Give us time to get across the border. Then call your rangers. Tell them you stumbled on the drone. Tell them while you were inspecting the crash, poachers came out of the bush. You exchanged fire, your partner was killed. You surrendered, there were too many. The poachers took your guns and what they wanted from the drone, then left. Do not describe me. But if you like, tell them of Good Luck. I give him to you.”

  Promise spoke into Juma’s chest.

  “I’ll kill him.”

  “Leave that for another time, Nomawethu. I need him to help me carry this.”

  Promise stepped back against Juma’s embrace. He let her loose, trailing his hands across her arms as she stepped away.

  “Tell your gogo we do good business, you and me. I will expect it to continue. Yebo?”

  Juma gestured at dead Wophule.

  “You should know. I came personally to be sure you would be safe.”

  With that warning, Juma took her rifle from Good Luck. Aiming it high, he fired one round, paused, then fired two more. The cracks raced away across the open savanna, chasing birds out of a dried bushwillow tree. Juma strapped her rifle across his broad back.

  He lifted the electronic eye from the dust to take it with him. Then he and Good Luck hefted the staff onto their shoulders, Juma at the rear. Good Luck hardly managed his end. The two men, great and thin, put the low sun to their backs and walked east into the veld, the American missile slung like a trophy between them.

  When they had gone out of sight, Promise drank from the water bottle in her pack. Chewing the last of her biltong, she squatted close to Wophule, with nothing to defend him. She considered picking up a stick or a rock, but she would win no fight with a beast who came to the smell of a man’s death.

  So Promise waited beside Wophule, watching the slowly pinking sky, the green and gray bush, the rusty earth, for anything, anyone coming.

  Chapter 12

  At just under thirteen thousand feet, the leap into thin air was frigid. LB’s face stung from the razor wind rushing past, below freezing. Wally, the best skydiver in the Guardian Angels, plummeted beside him, and even he, without the proper gear for this high-altitude jump, grimaced against the cold.

  Free fall hurtled them into warmth quickly; LB stopped shivering. Miles below, the Kruger sprawled as far as he could see. It was a desolate place, lusterless but for patches of green; pale paths in the reddish earth spread everywhere like capillaries. Dried streambeds and low hills gave the land some texture, but for the most part it looked as drab and scoured as any battlefield. From his descending height, LB scanned for animals and believed he did see something big gallop across the plain.

  At three thousand feet, Wally maneuvered away from LB. Facing each other, both reached to their backs to grip the pillow handles on their containers. Two seconds later, at two thousand feet, Wally yanked his cord, LB followed, and both threw out their pilot chutes.

  Gray silk and cord unraveled furiously behind them. With a suddenness that LB never grew used to, his chute bloomed, pinning him in midair, snatching away his speed and breath. In that instant he felt every bit of him collapse like an accordion, skin, muscles, eyes, and organs, then jerk back to the right size when the chute slowed his fall. The silence was immediate; three miles overhead, unheard, the cargo plane banked away. LB reached left and right beside his head for the dangling toggles and pulled to circle in behind Wally.

  The team freq sizzled in LB’s earpiece, Wally sounding off.

  “One up.”

  LB responded, “Two up.”

  A breeze cooled the dusk over the vast Kruger. Sundown was an ideal time for a clandestine daylight jump. The earth was darker than the sky, and the different shades made for tough viewing from the ground. Wally circled downwind above a long slash in the red dirt; there at the end of it, after smashing a hole through a hedge, lay the South African drone. Clearly the missile hadn’t exploded on
impact, or the Denel would be a scorched crater and nothing else.

  Wally turned into the wind to slow his descent, dumping the last of his altitude. LB whooshed behind him. He searched the landing zone for flat ground, ready to touch down running. The drone stood on its nose like a lawn dart, resting on one wing with the other snapped away and clinging by cables. The wheels had been clipped off and lay in the trough. Other than that, the damage looked minimal. Without active avionics, lost, short-circuited, and sightless, the thing simply flew into the ground. Wally aimed for a spot thirty meters from the Denel. LB wondered if this was enough distance from a live Hellfire.

  Wally yanked on his toggles, flaring the chute to bleed off the last of his airspeed. He set his boots down perfectly, as if standing out of a chair. LB pulled on the toggles to do the same. But with just fifteen feet of air left, his eye snagged on a dark patch near the drone. From higher up he’d figured this for a low shrub or debris from the crash. With the last of his fading altitude, he made out a human figure.

  LB hauled both toggles down to his waist to flare the chute. The instant his boots touched down, he quickly released the chest strap and bellyband, leaving him attached to the container and chute only by the crotch straps. He flipped the ejectors and freed himself.

  Before the chute could collapse at his back, LB skidded to a knee, the Beretta in two hands and trained at the drone.

  “Wally, down!”

  The man on the ground didn’t stir.

  In a flash, Wally stopped reeling in his silk and dove to his belly. Over the barrel of the pistol, LB searched for movement in the bush and failing light.

  “What is it?” Wally’s head swiveled.

  “Dead guy next to the drone. Move.”

  LB pivoted a fast circle, covering every direction with the pistol, feeling vulnerable in the open. Wally sprinted for the hedgerow. Once he was out of sight, LB bent low and ran to join him. He dashed through the opening in the brush made by the drone’s crash landing. Beside Wally, he tucked himself in close to the leaves and branches.