Foreign Hostage

by Aiden L Bailey

  He scanned both directions of the river, finding the last poacher running upstream with an M16 slung under one arm. The man wasn’t looking back to see if he was being followed.

  Simon gave chase, his feet splashing through the muddy river's edge to avoid the thorn trees that grew right to the water’s edge. The noise of the flowing waters over the rocks would cover any sounds Simon made.

  They ran for several minutes before the poacher noticed Simon gaining on him. He stopped, raised his M16 and fired.

  Simon dove into the water, the only available cover. The bullets erupted around him. He froze, expecting the intense pain of a bullet to rip through him at any second, but none did.

  When the firing ended, Simon raised his head and gun above the waterline and released two warning shots.

  The poacher dropped his weapon and ran.

  A sudden force knocked Simon sideways. A shape moved through the muddy waters next to him. As he scrambled towards dry land, a hippo emerged from the muddy surface. The creature that had nudged him. Its mouth widened, snapping in his direction.

  Simon scrambled to his feet and ran backwards.

  It groaned, but didn’t bother coming after him. Instead, it slinked back into the river.

  Simon looked around him. During his scramble from the hippo, his AK-47 had disappeared beneath the murky waters.

  He heard laughing. The poacher had stopped to watch. When he saw Simon stand, withdraw and ready his Glock pistol, the smirk vanished from the man’s face and he turned to run again.

  Simon gave chase. The man was weaponless and Simon felt he had the stamina to win this race. There was no way he would let this man slip through his grasp.

  They ran, pounding the muddy banks in pursuit. Simon gained ground, despite his heavy, saturated clothes. When he was close he fired a warning shot.

  The man kept running.

  A hippo startled out of the undergrowth, as if from nowhere. Within seconds it barreled over the poacher, thick stumpy legs flattening the thin man into the earth, crushing him without thought as it entered the water.

  Simon froze.

  He looked towards the flat muddy waters for more of the aquatic herbivores. He’d thought they only came out onto dry land at night to feed on grasses.

  The situation was getting out of hand. He was intruding on the hippos’ territory. The hippo had almost killed him and the poacher was dead.

  Simon moved to the trampled body, dragged the corpse as far as he could onto dry land. The head and chest were a flattened mess of crushed flesh, bone and organs. Identification without cross-referencing DNA or fingerprint records would be impossible. Simon didn’t expect the poacher to be carrying any identification, but he had. A battered wallet contained cash, a bank card and a Tanzanian driver’s license.

  Bakari Isengwe.

  Simon shuddered at the name.

  For a long moment he just sat with the knowledge, letting it sink in. Was this the man he feared it was? The date of birth placed the poacher around the same age as Mpenzi Isengwe. The facial features in the photo identification were similar. Well-defined bone structure, a thinness to his cast, and eyes that seemed to stare right through him.

  Was this Mpenzi’s brother?

  He pocketed the identification, then dragged the body further from the water. He looked again for hippos and other threats, but could see none.

  Throwing the body over his shoulder, Simon began the long walk back to Orszak and the killing grounds.

  The American had laid the dead poachers out in a row. Simon dropped the last body into the line.

  “You killed him after all?”

  Angry, Simon shook his head. “Not me.”

  “Fuck, what happened?” Orszak exclaimed when he saw the injuries. “What happened to you?” he said noticing the muddy water saturating Simon’s clothes.

  “Hippos.”

  The American nodded. That was all the explanation he required. “Bud, you’ve got to fucking respect Africa, because if you don’t, you end up like him.”

  “How many dead elephants?”

  “Five. Two adults and three children. The rest got away unharmed.”

  “I guess that’s something.”

  He nodded. For the first time he didn’t bother to argue against Simon’s point of view. “I’ve spoken to Isengwe. She says if we leave now, the Kenyan Wildlife Authority will take the credit and kept us out of it.”

  “That simple, hey?”

  The same grin that had been irking Simon these last twenty-four hours etched itself again across Orszak’s face. “Of course. Did you ID your man?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. I’ve got photos, blood samples and fingerprints of the others, and IDs where they had them. Just give me a minute.”

  Orszak set about collecting the samples from Bakari Isengwe’s corpse while Simon paced. He kept staring out across the horizon, looking for meaning in what they had accomplished today. He was angry but also upset. Enraged, but powerless. He had not felt this conflicted in a long time. Nothing was simple here. Perhaps it never had been, and likely never would be.

  “All done bud. Time to make ourselves scarce.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Simon waited until they completed customs and were across the border before he confronted Jack Orszak.

  Mount Kilimanjaro loomed ahead on the horizon, the sun falling towards its snow-capped peaks. The landscape was lush again. Orszak was busy watching the road, a grin on his face because — despite the five elephant deaths — they had prevented a far worse massacre. Preoccupied with success he didn’t notice Simon’s readiness, hand on his Glock 19 pistol, just out of sight beside his thigh.

  Simon broke the happy mood, “Your plan, from the onset, was to kill them all. Wasn’t it?”

  The American kept his eyes on the road. He sped up, then maintained his speed. He wasn’t grinning and had lost his relaxed demeanor. “Despite myself, Ashcroft, I’m starting to like you.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  He chuckled. “I do. You make my life interesting.”

  “And you never answer my questions.”

  “That’s how I make your life interesting.”

  “See.”

  Orszak nodded. “If you have a theory, entertain me. We’ve still got a long drive ahead of us.”

  “You only announced the tip-off when you knew the poachers had sufficient time to cross into Kenya. You brought your own car, knowing that the NTSCIU team couldn’t cross in police vehicles, but we could. With just the two of us, there was no one to stop you killing them all, even when Mpenzi—”

  “What did you call her?”

  “What?”

  “Mpenzi. Why are you suddenly referring to Mpenzi Isengwe by her first name?”

  Simon paused, realized that he was doing exactly that. He deflected the question by returning to what bothered him about Orszak. “You’re both in on this somehow. Now I think I know why. But the most important question I have right now is, why you didn’t kill me when you had the chance, in Tsavo?”

  Orszak broke into roaring laughter, amused by everything Simon had said. “You think the poachers have me on their payroll? They bribed me?”

  “Something like that.” Simon’s grip tightened around the pistol held close to his thigh, being careful not to draw attention to it. “A rival syndicate was my first guess.”

  The Sergeant kept laughing. “That’s some imagination you have there.” He showed no signs of guilt. Nothing. “You’ve got it all wrong, bud. Completely fucking off the track or what?”

  Then a realization hit Simon like a punch to the head. “Not another syndicate. This has to do with Bridgette Emery!”

  Orszak was silent.

  Simon reassessed the situation as he remembered his observation yesterday during the elephant massacre. This wasn’t just a job for Jack Orszak, or Mpenzi Isengwe either, it was a calling. But Simon knew from his study, surveillance and interrogation of hundreds of fanatical
terrorists over the years, those who threw themselves into righting a perceived wrong through extreme action did so only because they had lost something close to them.

  “Emery was your girlfriend.”

  Orszak remained silent. For the first time, there was no humor in him.

  “I’m right. I know it. Her death, it’s personal. You loved her—”

  Orszak braked, the abrupt stop burning rubber marks into the tarmac. An action to frighten, or at least shock Simon, but he was ready for it. As the four-wheel drive came to its complete, sudden stop, Orszak was raising his .45 Beretta Px4 Storm, but Simon was faster, pressing the Glock 19 up under his throat. “Drop the weapon, mate!”

  Orszak did as instructed, fury written across every centimeter of his face.

  “Put your hands on the wheel where I can see them.”

  He did so.

  “Move without permission and I blow your brains out. Understand?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. So, you wanted to kill me?”

  Orszak slumped, defeated. “No. Not really. Like I said, I like you.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re killing poachers, to avenge Bridgette? You thought she was your one chance at feeling normal again, that after all the horrible things you did in Iraq, one pretty woman could help you put all that behind you? I’m guessing it was wonderful for a time. Then a brutal and violent act took her from you, and that just didn’t seem fair. So now, you want to kill all those responsible, every last nasty poacher in Africa, to get back at them?”

  “You don’t fucking understand.”

  “Oh, I think I do.” Simon remembered a brief fling he’d had with an Israeli military intelligence officer in Afghanistan not that long ago. In hindsight, he could see it had been a desperate attempt to combat the constant stress of living in a war zone. Netanya Zaken was her name. Fate had taken her from him in a sudden, unexpected and brutal act of war. Afghan insurgents fire missiles into the Australian and U.S. bases every day, and on one particular day they hit too close to home. Zaken had died right in front of him. “I know what it is like.”

  Orszak turned his head despite the gun barrel pressed into him, and looked at Simon, assessing the depths of his emotions. “I guess you do.”

  Netanya’s death had left Simon questioning what he did and why. The stress of living in a war zone, going undercover with terrorists for prolonged periods, knowing he would suffer brutal torture and death should they should ever discover his real identity, was almost too much. There was only so much of life you could endure before it broke you. Simon knew he was close to that point now. He knew he was drifting away from his wife and family, being away from them for too long in environments they couldn’t relate to. Simon had to do something soon himself, or he too might lose everything that he loved, everything special to him. He would end up like Orszak if he wasn’t careful — broken, angry and alone — if he didn’t get out soon.

  Simon pushed the barrel further into Orszak’s neck to remind him it was there. “Mpenzi’s been on your side all along. Not because she agrees with your antics, but because you protect her brother.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You didn’t know? He was one of today’s poachers.”

  “How the fuck did you know that?”

  “Whose corpse did you think I brought back from the river?”

  “Bakari?” Colored drained from his face. “That was him?”

  Simon nodded.

  “Can you stop pointing that thing at me, so we can talk?”

  Simon spoke after a moment of deliberation. “Okay. Step slowly from the car and walk out into the middle of the road. Keep your hands high and where I can see them at all times. Otherwise…”

  Orszak complied.

  When a sufficient distance separated the two, Simon said, “Empty your pockets.”

  “Are you fucking serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious. It’s why I’m still alive, and incidentally, why I think you are too. If circumstances were reversed, you’d make me do the same.”

  “This is bullshit. You think I’m as anal about everything as you.”

  “No. I think you are more so, in fact.”

  With those words, the worry in Jack Orszak’s eyes deepened. He emptied his pockets but there was nothing of note in any of them.

  When satisfied Orszak was weaponless, Simon took a zip tie from his pocket and threw one at his prisoner. “You know what to do.”

  “This is a joke, right?”

  “No. A minute ago you were about to shoot me. I wasn’t laughing then either.”

  The Sergeant shrugged, nodding in agreement, because he could see no flaw in Simon’s argument. He crouched down, looped the zip lock around his wrists and pulled it tight with his teeth.

  Behind him, the sun was setting. Kilimanjaro reflected brilliant reds and purples. Shadows filled in the creases on both the dormant volcanic mountain and on Orszak’s face, making him look older than he was.

  Simon kept his gun steady and focused on the American. “This is your one chance, to tell me the truth.”

  “Okay! Okay!” He nodded. “I’ll tell. It’s not much of a story though. One day, without meaning too Mpenzi and I caught her brother at a massacre site. Red-handed, holding a chainsaw, cutting up an elephant corpse. Until that moment, she’d did not understand Bakari worked for the very people we were hunting. It almost destroyed her. I could see it in her eyes. Her only brother, a criminal who would not only shame her, but cause mistrust of her motives within the NTSCIU and TISS. She might have even lost her job. So, after some harsh deliberations, I let Bakari go. Scared him good first, though. Told him if I ever saw him again, I’d cut him open like a goat and hang him from a hook until he bled out. I did it for her, not him.”

  Simon grimaced, wondered if this was a threat Orszak could follow through with.

  “After that Bakari disappeared. We never heard from him, and I thought we were both in the clear.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Eighteen months, give or take.”

  “And when was Bridgette killed?”

  “About six months before that.”

  It was Simon’s turn to chuckle. Time frames matched the rise of the vigilante’s first murders of the syndicate poachers. His initial theory Jack Orszak had not changed, only his motivation. “That’s why Mpenzi has never voiced what she has always suspected, because she owes you.”

  “Suspected… what are you talking about?”

  “That you’re the vigilante assassin. You’re the one killing poachers.”

  Orszak laughed again, but this time he forced it. When he saw there was no chance of fooling Simon any longer, he said, “How did you work it out?”

  “It was when your Head of Intelligence, Christian Kiwango, commented on how quickly I found the business card for the Mango Express, conveniently scrawled with a telephone number I could easily track. You knew Mutunga and his gang of poachers would be there that night, but you didn’t want to be the one suggest we go. Instead, you got the new guy — me — the one no one trusted, to take us instead. You dropped the card at the scene knowing I’d find it.”

  Simon cleared his throat and continued, “Last night, you pretended to get drunk so no one would suspect you could take out all those men. You later found the house with the ivory, and five more members of the syndicate, by threating the poacher you kidnapped at the club. You killed all but one, then burned the place down. I think it surprised you when I turned up, so you released the last poacher, made him take a tusk, thinking I’d go after him. I must admit, you had me worked up, believing you were an incompetent fool. A bloody brilliant ruse in fact. But all this because poachers killed the woman you loved.”

  Orszak nodded. He was about to respond when a bus drove past at speed, honking its horn for Orszak to get out of the way. The Sergeant considered waving it down, but changed his mind when he knew his action was futile. The bus would never have stop
ped.

  “You have no proof.”

  “I’m an intelligence officer. I don’t need proof.”

  Orszak paced like a caged animal, knowing there was now nowhere to run, fighting his instincts to flee, anyway. “Okay, Ashcroft. You’ve got me. Everything you say is true. But come on, you’ve seen the elephants. You’ve seen how distressed they are. I might have taken some strong liberties with the law, but I did it all for the right reasons.”

  Simon considered the man’s argument. Now that he knew the truth about Orszak, Simon couldn’t help but like the man, even admire him. He had them all fooled, the whole NTSCIU team thinking he was a burned-out drunk, but with enough tactical skills to remain semi-useful for the team. But that was all a lie. He was as calculating and as inventive under pressure as Simon was. They were the same. They were professionals who played the game of spies and assassins across bigger playing fields than most of their allies or enemies could even contemplate.

  “What are you going to do, Ashcroft? Shoot me? Leave my body in the gutter on the side of the road? Easy pickings for the vultures?”

  Simon nodded. “I have been thinking, that’s exactly what I should do.”

  Orszak paced again. He was careful not to get too close to Simon, knowing that Simon would shoot him if he did. His only chance was to talk his way out of this one, but Simon would not let that happen.

  “Well, go on then, get it over with.”

  “But I will not shoot you.”

  “What?”

  Simon should have killed Orszak. That was the smart, safe course of action. Logic said the man was a wild card, unpredictable and volatile. He was a killer, acting under no one’s agenda but his own and consumed with internalized rage. But Simon’s instincts said otherwise. The world needed more men like Jack Orszak, who knew the good guys from the bad, and made it his mission to rid the world of evil people, one bullet at a time.