by A P Bateman
“I don’t want to go to…” Badenhorst started.
“You’re mine now,” Caroline interrupted. “Or Interpol’s. You’ll do what we say and go where we tell you.”
“For how long?” he asked, dejected, the enormity of his cooperation deal dawning on him.
“Until it’s done,” she said. “And then you will be flown back here for your cooperation with the South African wildlife agencies and their fight against the ivory trade.”
Kruger laughed. “Well, if you want to dance, ‘bro, you’ve got to pay the band!”
“Nicely put,” said Caroline as she got into the front of the vehicle. She discreetly picked up the Sig pistol and slipped it back into her handbag.
“I’ll move this,” Kruger said, picking up the assault rifle from the rear footwell and sliding it alongside Caroline’s leg. She nudged it against the centre console. “Not that you could make it ready with one arm,” he smirked, but seemed to realise it was in poor taste when Caroline pulled a face. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Sorry, bad joke.”
Badenhorst shrugged. “It won’t be so bad when I can get fitted for a prosthesis,” he paused. “Not that I have any money for a good one now. But I’d rather have this,” he paused and held up the stump for Kruger to see in the mirror. “Than the shot that bastard gave my brother.”
“I guess you know what it’s like to be hunted now, eh?” Kruger said. “Like those poor lions and elephants that you got paid to track down. It’s a pretty low thing to take money in return for allowing a wealthy American dentist to kill an innocent, majestic beast.”
“Yeah? Well, fuck you! We employed almost forty people, culled wounded or aggressive animals to keep the rest of the animals safe and healthy and we organised the butchery and distribution of bush meat to over three-hundred people who live below the poverty line. Without operations like ours, there is little employment, no conservation of animals, nobody to scare off poachers who will kill indiscriminately and no extra food for people who are practically starving. So, go sign a Facebook petition and post a sad face with fuck-all clue what we really do. Fucking bleeding heart, city-boy.”
Kruger glared into the rear view mirror, but said nothing as he started the engine.
Caroline turned in her seat. “Okay. Feel better? I don’t buy the whole conservation thing, but that’s my choice as well. You profited extremely well from your hunting activities. And you sold illegal ivory, helped perpetuate the trade, so it’s time to get off your high horse and do what you’ve been released to do.” She had taken out her iPhone and pressed the voice memo function. She propped it in the coin tray beside the armrest. She looked back at him and pointed at his stump. “So, start with the man who did this to you.”
“Oh, come on woman,” Badenhorst said, looking subdued. “Let’s wait until we’re at your hotel. Where are you staying?”
“No, Badenhorst!” Caroline snapped. “We’ll start now. We’ll do it my way, on my schedule and wherever the hell I chose. That will be in the car, the hotel and even on the flight to England. I’ll remind you that I got you out of Pollsmoor and I can send you back anytime. I bet your husband is missing you already.”
“Jeez, lady!” Badenhorst looked taken aback. “You play rough!”
“You haven’t got a clue,” Caroline said. “Now, make a bloody start.”
Badenhorst shrugged. “Okay,” he said as he rubbed his stump subconsciously, turned and looked out of the window as Kruger wound the vehicle through the last of the twisting streets of Tokai and onto a quiet road into wine country. The vineyards were lush and green. New growth sprouting through.
Vigus Badenhorst thought he’d never see such beauty again. He sighed, leaned back in the comfortable leather seat. “Well, the guy was about thirty to thirty-five.”
“Why so specific?” Kruger asked.
“Hair, creases and wrinkles,” Badenhorst shrugged. “He just looked older than a carefree twenty-something. Younger than a world-weary forty-something.”
“So, how old am I?” Kruger asked incredulously. “Just to test your abilities.”
“I’m guessing about forty,” he said. “On the world-weary spectrum. A bit of grey, a few creases. Yeah, at least forty.”
Kruger looked annoyed. Caroline smiled, she could tell he had been hoping for a younger guess. Kruger looked back in the mirror. “I’m thirty-eight,” he replied emphatically.
“Pretty accurate then,” Caroline said. She smiled. “What’s two-years?” She nodded for Badenhorst to continue.
“Short-cropped, dark-brown hair. Not quite black, but dark. It sort of lightened in bright sunlight.”
“Greying?” she prompted.
“A little at the sides. Just a few flecks.”
“Eyes?”
“Dark.”
“Colour?”
“I don’t make a habit of looking into another man’s eyes.”
“Funny,” Kruger said. “That was the reason you were so desperate to get out of Pollsmoor.”
Vigus Badenhorst flung himself down into the seat like a stroppy teen. “Fuck you!”
“No,” Kruger said. “That’s a prison thing, or so I’ve heard.”
“Okay!” Caroline snapped. “For Christ’s sake, you couldn’t have said he was thirty-two, could you?” She turned to Kruger. “If it makes you feel better, I thought you were thirty-four. Is that better? Can we get down to why we’re here now? At least it proves the man can guess a person’s age.”
Kruger shrugged. He glanced into the mirror, studied the car behind, then nodded. “Okay,” he conceded.
“What else?” Caroline asked.
“He had a scar on his chin,” Badenhorst said. “A thin one, about two-centimetres long. And another at the corner of his eye.”
“Which eye?”
Badenhorst thought for a moment. No doubt he was picturing a conversation, an incident. Maybe they were having a drink at the bar in the hunting lodge, or telling tales around the firepit. “His right,” he said, measuredly. “Yes, his right eye.”
“Height and weight?”
“Just under six-foot, perhaps seventy-five kilos.”
“What’s that, eleven or twelve stone?”
“About twelve, I think,” Kruger said. “He eyed Badenhorst in the mirror. “Around my size?”
“A bit thinner,” he replied. “He had a flatter stomach than you.”
Kruger looked about to rise, but seemed to think better of it. He smoothed a hand over his own trim stomach. He glanced at Caroline, caught her smiling. He turned back to the road, checked his mirrors.
“It’s the shot you have to look at,” Badenhorst said. “You need to check other militaries. Try special forces personnel, rather than regular infantry.”
“You think?” Kruger asked. “What makes you say that?”
Vigus sighed. “I take,” he paused. “Used to take hunters on shoots. Professional marksmen. Some of them were even sponsored by firearms manufacturers, shooting supply companies, ammunition producers. Especially some of the seppos.”
“The what?” Caroline interrupted.
“Seppos,” Badenhorst said. “Septic tanks – yanks. Some of those Americans are on another level. Serious marksmen who can shoot the centre out of a bullseye, consistently. This man trumped them all. He shot a springbok at seven-hundred metres with a varmint rifle.” He looked at Caroline, whose expression seemed to question him. “That’s a deer-like creature with a rifle no more powerful than a military personal weapon system, like five-point-five-six. Good for three-hundred metres on a man. Not meant for a tough hide and over twice the distance. Our head tracker said that the man was testing himself. I believe he was right. He hit me and killed my brother at over six-thousand metres. He is a sniper, I’m certain of it. One of the world’s best. And you only get proficient at that sort of distance in the military. The inquest said it was a point-fifty calibre. That’s why it blew my arm clean off.” He held up his thumb between the seats. “T
hat’s a bullet about this big. Just the head.” He spread his thumb and forefinger as wide as they would go. “With a cartridge casing that size. Full of powder.”
“With a bullet that big, and a range that long, perhaps it’s not such a difficult shot?” Kruger ventured.
“Rubbish!” Vigus chortled. “You’re not a military man, I can see that. No, to make a shot that far, the marksman would have to consider not just ground and air temperature and wind speed, but the actual curvature of the earth. Not only that, but the angle of seasonal tilt in the hemisphere and the direction and speed of the earth’s rotation.”
Kruger frowned. “Really?”
“That’s what I understand of it,” Vigus said resolutely. “I’m only familiar with close-up shots. We go for our client standing a chance of hitting what they’ve paid twenty-thousand dollars to shoot. That, and a guaranteed kill. One-hundred metres is about the most common distance.”
Caroline hated the idea of wealthy dentists or brokers killing elephants and lions, but she wasn’t about to launch into a debate. She’d already let her feelings be known. “What else?” she prompted him. “Where was he from? Accents, colloquialisms, the way he talked?”
“Watch out!” Kruger screamed. He struggled to control the vehicle, the impact from behind shaking them in their seats and shunting the vehicle forwards.
Caroline turned around in her seat, just caught sight of the front grille of a large, black SUV, but was then thrown forwards as it struck them hard. It looked like an American truck, oversized and towering over even the considerable size of the Toyota’s rear window. The truck rammed them again, but this time there was a surge of speed as the pursuing vehicle accelerated. It was far more powerful than the Land Cruiser and the engine and exhaust note were clearly audible. Kruger dropped a gear and rammed the accelerator to the floor, but they were under the power of the truck. Kruger changed tack and slammed on the brakes. The rear of the Land Cruiser rose off the road and then slammed down, the tyres struggling for traction on the tarmac.
“If he hits us on an angle, towards the edge of our bumpers, we’ll spin!” Kruger yelled. “Better brace yourselves!”
Caroline knew this. She had trained in evasive and defensive driving, knew how to force a car off the road. The guy in the American SUV did not, but he might well get lucky. Even so, he had the size and speed advantage. She was about to turn around again, but saw the pickup pulling across the road in front of them. It was another oversized American make and it filled the road. A double cab and a double bed. More than twice the length of the Land Cruiser.
“Look out!” she hollered.
Kruger hit the brakes and the pursuing truck rammed into them again. He held the steering straight for as long as he could, but the Toyota started to slew sideways, and like a pendulum, once it started it was inevitable. The vehicle swung wide, the tyres smoking as they fought for grip travelling sideways against their tread. They must have been travelling more than forty-miles-per-hour, and with the big SUV being top-heavy and still propelled by the truck, the tyres gripped the road too much and centrifugal force came into the equation. The body rolled away from the spin and inertia did the rest. Caroline screamed as the Toyota toppled onto its side and rolled a complete rotation, coming to rest on the driver’s side. Kruger grunted as his door hit the road and the window smashed. Caroline was propelled out of her seat, but her belt stopped her falling onto Kruger. The Toyota became airborne for a moment again, as the truck hit them on the underside, then smashed back down.
Kruger screamed in pain.
The sound of metal and glass on the tarmac was overwhelming. The Land Cruiser was hit again. This time, the truck struck the underside of the vehicle with more force than before.
Caroline tensed as she realised there was a stench of fuel. It was all around them, enveloping them, the smell getting to their nostrils and the vapour burning the back of their throats. She could feel the sting of the fuel vapour in her eyes.
The big SUV slowed, and the sound of the scraping metal ceased as the vehicle rocked to a halt. The silence was ominous, but short lived. Rapid gunshots followed. Caroline could not tell from which direction. She searched for her handbag and the comfort of the Sig 9mm pistol. She could not see it.
Bullets impacted against the roof of the vehicle. Caroline looked in time to see holes punching through the headlining of the roof. She fumbled with the seatbelt release and dropped unceremoniously on top of Kruger. He grunted, was trying to get his weapon clear of his hip holster. He wasn’t managing it, and as Caroline stared down in horror, she could see why. The man’s arm was caught outside the vehicle and was taking the entire weight of the wreckage. He was dazed, operating on auto-pilot. There was a distance in his eyes, perhaps a realisation that he had been beaten. That he wasn’t getting out of this situation. It did not look as if he was registering any pain. Adrenaline would be coursing through his veins and numbing his senses.
Vigus Badenhorst grunted and was trying to get himself out of the rear foot-well, where he had been thrown during the impact. He looked at Caroline, his expression one of resignation. “I’m hit…” he said. “I’ve been shot!”
Caroline ignored him, worked on getting hold of Kruger’s pistol. She almost had it clear of the holster, but the gunfire resonated again, and the vehicle was peppered by bullets. Vigus yelped, then groaned. Caroline struggled with the pistol. It was a plastic holster with a thumb press locking the pistol securely in place. A safety feature making the wearer of the rig about the only person who could get the pistol out. She had not come across a holster like this before, but her military days were far behind her, and she didn’t officially carry a weapon for her duties with MI5. She risked a glance and saw that Vigus was bleeding from his left shoulder. As she watched, a crimson dot appeared directly opposite the wound and he flinched again. The crimson swelled, resembled a flower, blooming in front of her eyes. She caught his eye, there was a knowledge behind his stare. The man had organised hunts all his adult life. He knew enough about gunshot wounds to know he was in trouble. The flower was now the size of a cabbage. His breathing rasped. Most of his torso was now red. Either a shard of bone or part of the bullet had clipped the aorta.
Kruger could feel his injury now and had started to moan, gradually becoming louder and more desperate. He muttered something, but Caroline missed it as Badenhorst leaned forward and spoke into her ear. Caroline caught most of what he said over Kruger’s moans, but there was an intense sound, an all-encompassing thud and whoosh and she knew before she saw it, that the fuel had ignited. The heat was intense, like opening an oven door and bending prematurely, getting caught in the steam. Her only thought was in getting out of the vehicle. She spun around, tried to get some purchase and to her horror, realised she was standing on Kruger. He gasped, but to her shame, she knew she had only seconds to get clear. Kruger was trapped. Badenhorst was bleeding out. She had a chance, but it was slim. The gunmen made it all but impossible.
Fuel had engulfed the underside of the vehicle and the interior was heating up at an astonishing rate. Badenhorst had a glazed look, but even still, he tried to move forwards away from the heat.
Caroline eyed the assault rifle. It was wedged between her seat and the centre console. She could see out of the windscreen. There was a man reloading a pistol. He was changing over the magazine, shouting something to someone, but she could not see who, nor hear what he was shouting. She heard a burst of rapid fire and the underside of the vehicle popped and pinged. Badenhorst moaned and she could tell he had been hit again.
“The bastard is going to step over the rear door and finish us off,” Kruger said through gritted teeth. He sucked in air, swallowed and stared at Caroline. It was all he could do to breathe, let alone talk. “Get the rifle and be ready to fire. You’ve got about five seconds. Make it count.”
Caroline stared at Kruger, then snapped to. She stepped up onto the edge of Kruger’s seat and caught hold of the assault rifle. She charged th
e cocking lever and chambered a round, but remembered what Kruger had told her about the weapon when a live 5.56mm round spun out of the breach and dropped into Kruger’s face. She studied the frame, looked for the safety and selective fire switch. She had used the SA80 weapon system in her army days, and remembered Alex once telling her that assault rifles were all pretty much all the same.
Load, cock, select, aim, fire.
Alex, she thought. What would he do?
She heard a scrape of metal. A slight movement of the vehicle. The muzzle of a large pistol edged over the broken rear window. Caroline answered her own question and fired half a dozen rounds approximately a foot lower. They tore cleanly through the door, letting in shafts of light. She could hear a man grunt and she followed it up with another six.
“Get out now!” Kruger yelled. “Over your door! I’ll keep this prick busy! Go!” He opened fire through the windscreen, punching holes in the already shattered glass. He had a 9mm Glock with seventeen rounds and he fired single, carefully aimed shots through the glass using his left hand. But his hand was shaking badly.
Caroline fired three bullets through the window above her head, then jabbed at the spider-webbed glass with the muzzle. The window gave and showered her with thousands of pieces of glass, each the size of half-carat diamonds. She pushed her way out, thankful for the fresh air and relief from the fumes, but the heat from the fire was intense. She prayed the fumes inside the vehicle would not ignite, now that she had dramatically increased air flow into the car. She knew that petrol fumes were more volatile than diesel, but had no idea what the Toyota had been running on. The rear and underside of the vehicle were in flames and the heat from the fire was so all-consuming that she forgot about the gunmen as she slid over the window frame and fell onto the tarmac. She rolled clear, the rifle clattering and scraping on the road surface. She took a deep breath, knew she had to keep going.