The Turn Series Box Set

by Andrew Clawson

  Paul’s been in tougher spots than this. He’s a natural-born hunter, better than I’ll ever be. He’ll be fine.

  Renewed gunfire pounded the Land Rover as Reed raised himself up on one knee and sighted along the trees for movement. The forest was lousy with shapes darting everywhere. The closest man to him stepped into the sunlight holding a rifle. Reed’s finger found the trigger, and in the barrage of shooting, loosed a round.

  One man down, and four to go. Scurrying ahead, he popped up and took another assailant down with two shots then dropped back to the dirt before anyone responded. The enemy gunfire fell silent. Shouting replaced it, indistinct words behind the buzzing in his ears. Crawling closer to the tree line, his battered ears focused on the enemy chatter like a radio station coming into tune.

  “Where is he?” A man said in thickly accented Swahili straight from Mwanza’s streets.

  “I do not know,” another whispered, and then, “Over here.” Frantic questions followed.

  In this confusion, Reed gained the trees and darted behind a thick trunk. Gunfire sounded across the way, undoubtedly Paul evening the odds. Stay silent over there, buddy. We’ll get through this.

  Men shouted, not fifty feet from Reed, their voices growing louder as one unloaded on the battered Land Rover.

  “Go check it,” a voice said. “We must bring Pinda the bodies.”

  So Jakaya Pinda had sent a welcoming committee. How the hell did he know I’d be going to Wallace’s? It could be a spy following his moves, an invisible tail watching his camp. No time for that now. The arguing ratcheted up when no one wanted to move out from cover.

  Reed stalked deeper into the trees, coming out in a thick patch of brush. Now he could circle around the men trying to kill him.

  Three of the gangsters near him remained upright, and one even fired toward his mates across the road, aiming in the general direction of Paul’s mayhem.

  With the rifle butt tucked against his shoulder, Reed waited for the wild gunman on this side to fire again.

  Reed and the gangster’s shots rang out simultaneously, and the gangster in his sights vanished.

  “Over there!” one of them shouted. Reed hit the dirt and crawled to the nearest tree as bullets whizzed overhead. They’re walking this way. Tossing the .270 Browning over a shoulder, Reed drew his 9mm. He was probably making enough noise for Paul to hear him, but after all the gunfire, he couldn’t shake the ringing in his ears. It was small comfort that if he couldn’t hear, the bad guys couldn’t either, which may have been why they walked within ten feet of him. He raised his gun, and the man in his sights tripped.

  The man vanished as Reed pulled the trigger to send a bullet flying through empty air. He adjusted his aim and fired again, this time striking home. Sweat dripped in Reed’s eyes as he turned to see the lone remaining assailant pointing a revolver his way. Reed jumped behind a tree as the big gun boomed twice.

  Time to get out of here. Poking his head out, Reed ducked back when a bullet hit the tree trunk protecting him. Wooden shrapnel filled the air, and as he fell back his 9mm flew to the dirt ten feet away. Nothing but open ground and death waited for him if he went after it. No way to get to his rifle either. As his back pressed against bark, the last attacker fired at Reed, rattling his skull.

  With sweaty blood dripping into Reed’s eyes and incessant ringing inside his head still, an idea bloomed. Why hadn’t he brought his revolver today? Simple. It held only six shots. Sticking his foot out from behind the tree and shouting, he was rewarded when another bullet sent bark flying while missing its target. Four shots down. A deep breath, and he leaned out again.

  Blinding sunlight pierced his eyes. Reed cringed in the painful glare as the revolver roared, the sound bouncing off the trees, but nothing could block out the supersonic whine as the bullet whizzed by, missing Reed by a hair. Stumbling as he instinctively dodged the bullet, pain burst through his side as though the ground had punched him. He’d landed on a baseball-sized rock.

  Maybe I can knock him out. The idea brought with it a sardonic grin. Fat chance of getting off an accurate throw before the guy blasted him. Even with one shot left, Reed wouldn’t take those odds. The glimpse he had was of a young man, younger than Godfrey, but still, the kid would have to be an awful shot to miss from here even with jangling nerves.

  Nerves. Scared people jumped at shadows, and he’d bet his last dollar the person shooting at him was scared to death. Grabbing the rock he had landed on, he cocked an arm and heaved. Branches twisted as it banged off a tree and rattled around like a pinball in the forest, loud enough to break through the ringing in his ears. Loud enough to get the trigger-happy gunman’s attention. He reacted, firing his sixth and final round. To Reed, it was like a starter’s pistol going off. Darting out from cover, he dove toward his waiting gun and rolled up on one knee. Reed fired twice and sent the gangster to the dirt.

  Reed sprang up and raced toward the man, and when he got there he kicked the fallen revolver away. This gunman wouldn’t be getting up, not with two holes in his chest. As the sweat stinging his bleeding face finally demanded attention, more gunfire burst to life across the road. Paul.

  Racing back and grabbing his rifle, he peered through the scope, searching for a target as he sucked air, willing his heartbeat to steady. Movement caught his eye, eighty yards ahead.

  A man he didn’t know strode forward as the grass waved and danced at his waist. At the end of his extended arm, a silver gun flashed in the sunlight, aimed toward the ground.

  Reed’s .270 Browning barked, the butt smacking his shoulder, and the man crumpled from sight. A moment later, a shot sounded and Reed ducked. The noise had come from where the man he’d shot had fallen. Damn.

  With the grass tickling his elbows, Reed slung the rifle over his back and grabbed his 9mm, heading straight for where the man had disappeared moments ago. The grass thinned as he reached the road, and Reed took care to tread softly over the broiling asphalt. A wide boulder stood ahead, the place where their deadly encounter began. Shadows shifted at one edge of the rock, and Reed skidded to a halt, holding his gun in front of him with both hands.

  He heard no shots, so he kept walking. Crouching lower with each step, he froze when the shadows started moving, materializing into a hand holding a pistol. As seconds ticked, the gun didn’t go off, and after a few moments in which every sound came at him as if through a megaphone, he found his voice. “Paul?” Dropping to one knee, he waited for shots to come.

  “It is me,” Paul said, lowering his weapon.

  “Are you okay?” Reed asked as he rushed toward the rock. He found Paul leaning against it with one hand on his wounded shoulder, the other holding a .45 Smith & Wesson. Dark blood covered his shirt. “Are any of them left?”

  “All dead.”

  “How’s your shoulder?”

  His hand fell away to reveal what looked like raw meat underneath. Reed holstered his weapon and dropped to a knee beside Paul. “Do you feel light-headed?” Paul shook his head. “Looks like the bullet hit muscle.” Prodding around the edges of the wound, Reed didn’t find any splintered bones. “That’s what you get for having those big damn shoulders. If you were skinny, it would have missed.”

  “You are jealous,” Paul said, grinning thinly. “But I am glad you are here.” He lifted the .45 to display a locked open slide. “No more bullets. If you were a bad guy, I would have thrown it at you.”

  Reed couldn’t help but laugh. “What about your knife?”

  “In a shooter’s chest.”

  “Here,” he handed Paul his 9mm. “Hold this. I need to bandage your wound.” Racing back to the Land Rover, he grabbed the door handle, which promptly came off in his hand. “So much for that.” With all the windows broken, it didn’t take long to locate the medical kit, which was, miraculously, still intact.

  Once Paul’s shoulder had been disinfected and bandaged, they stood shoulder to bloody shoulder, both men shielding their eyes against the piercing su
nlight.

  “I do not think our car will move,” Paul said.

  “Considering all the tires are shot out, I’m with you. We’re only a mile or two from Wallace’s,” Reed said. “We can borrow a car and get you to the hospital. Can you make it?”

  “I have been through worse.” With that, Paul stood and began walking, leaving Reed shaking his head.

  The guy’s shoulder gets ripped off, and he’s up for a hike. “Drink this,” Reed said, handing a water bottle to Paul. “If I end up carrying you, I’m docking your pay.”

  Paul chuckled, and their journey under the scorching sun passed without incident. When Wallace Palmer’s facilities appeared before them, there wasn’t a soul in sight, but Reed pointed to a group of parked vehicles and said, “Looks like he’s here. Probably thinks we bailed on him.”

  “Having bullet holes in your phone is a good reason to not call someone,” Paul said.

  “You got that right.” Down the wide driveway Reed walked then stepped onto Wallace’s front porch. He caught the tail end of a one-sided conversation.

  “It should be handled by now.” It was Wallace’s voice. “Get out there and find out. No, we can’t waste time. There’s a schedule to keep.”

  Reed banged on the screen door, rattling the frame. Wallace fell silent, but soon Reed heard quick footsteps filling the void. A moment later, Wallace turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks, the phone still pressed to his ear. “Holy shit.” The phone slipped from his hand and clattered on the floor. “What happened to you?”

  “An ambush,” Reed said, pushing through the door. “I suspect it was the same gangsters who have been giving me trouble. They shot Paul.”

  Wallace mumbled an incoherent reply, his jaw hanging open as he stared with one empty hand still pressed close to an ear without a phone. “How did you survive?”

  “Quick thinking. I need to get Paul to the hospital.” Even his steel-willed employee was showing the effects of a bullet wound and the long walk. Paul had found the closest chair and sunk into it. “Can I use one of your trucks?”

  Wallace still hadn’t blinked. “A truck? Yes, of course.” Wallace shook his head, and a flash of color returned to the man’s face as he reached into a pocket. “Here are the keys. What else do you need?”

  “More water,” Reed said, grabbing the key ring. “I’ll bring the truck back later. My car’s down the road. It’s the one with all the bullet holes.”

  After helping Paul into the vehicle, Reed jumped behind the wheel as Wallace came out with the water. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  Wallace Palmer didn’t respond as Reed sped off and sent a dust cloud washing over the statue-like guide.

  Chapter 12

  Mwanza Hospital

  August 5th

  The wide doors of Mwanza Hospital’s emergency room banged open. Two paramedics rushed through, pushing a stretcher carrying a young boy, blood streaming over his face. Two nurses stepped aside to let them pass without looking up from the charts they consulted. A doctor materialized and grabbed the gurney, barging through another set of doors as an alarm blared. Across the hall, a baby wailed ferociously in his mother’s arms. On a nearby bench, a man with no teeth bounced his head against the wall.

  Several doors down from this madness, Reed glanced into Paul’s room one last time and then walked silently down the hallway, leaving his closest two-legged friend asleep in the bed. The doctor had been less than certain about Paul’s chances of regaining use of his arm. The bullet had nicked a major nerve, and depending on how his recovery progressed, his arm might never be the same. For now, he had to remain in the hospital, far from any safari adventures. If Reed faced Jakaya Pinda’s men again soon, it would be without Paul.

  Sharp antiseptic burned his nostrils when Reed passed the man ceaselessly banging his head on brick, and when he pushed through the front doors, the blue sky never looked so wonderful. Most of the day had passed by now, and Reed’s stomach rumbled when he walked by a street vendor. After downing a veggie burger with hot sauce, he reached for his cell phone only to find an empty pocket. His phone was in pieces back in the Land Rover.

  I need a new phone. With Paul in good hands, the how and why of the ambush stole his thoughts. Perhaps one of Pinda’s men had been staking out his place, but that didn’t account for how they knew he’d be going to Wallace’s camp. He had to take several turns to get to Wallace’s, and the bad guys had known he’d be going that way. An ambush with ten men required preparation, so Pinda must have known about his plans. But who told him? Did the gangster have a tap on his phone? Did Pinda have an inside man with Reed’s employees? Unlikely, given all four of his men had been with him for years. How could Pinda have known?

  “Not Godfrey,” he murmured. “He didn’t know I was going there.” The only logical conclusion was that Pinda had inside access to Reed in some fashion. Which meant he could also know about Godfrey. “I hope you’re still alive, my friend.”

  Jogging back to the hospital’s outside pharmacy, he found a rack of pre-paid phones and walked out minutes later with a new phone pressed to his ear. He dialed Godfrey’s number from memory. Come on. Answer me.

  “Who is this?”

  Godfrey’s voice filled his ear, and the breath that had been stuck in Reed’s chest escaped. “It’s Reed.”

  “Where are you?” Godfrey asked in hushed tones. “I left you messages.”

  Recounting the ambush, Reed stepped into a building alcove. “How do you think Pinda knew about my trip?”

  “Pinda has ears in many places,” Godfrey said. “Not so many as this morning, however. After today he must recruit a new crew.”

  “What do you mean, a new crew?”

  Godfrey barked a laugh. “You have killed so many of them. He is lucky to have three or four left. You said you took his money earlier, much of it. Without this money, he must still find new bodies for his gang, and somehow pay them. That is why I have been calling you. I know he will be moving soon to make money.”

  Finally, some good news. “Without cash, he can’t get people to follow him. How’s he getting more money?”

  “I do not know. My friends are asking, but it may take time. To ask about Jakaya Pinda is dangerous, even when he is weak.”

  “I see. If you hear anything, call me at once. I’m headed back to my camp.” Godfrey agreed to the request and clicked off.

  An idea struck Reed. If Godfrey came through and they found a way to stop Pinda from disturbing Reed’s business and kidnapping children, some of those children wouldn’t have homes. Nixon had told Reed that families had been murdered and the children were missing. So what would they do then? They couldn’t leave the small children they had rescued on their own. Some were no more than babies.

  Reed opened his phone’s browser and located the number of a well-known orphanage in town, one run by people he knew. It was a far better option than the foster system Godfrey so hated. A minute later he managed to get through to the director.

  “Mr. Kimble,” the director said. “How are you? I hope you are open to another safari for the children soon. They loved the last time you took them out.”

  Reed had taken a group of orphans out on safari several months ago, chauffeuring the youngsters around his hunting grounds to give them a close-up view of giraffes, elephants, and even a pride of lions. “I’d be happy to take another group out,” he said. “However, that’s not why I’m calling. I actually have a favor to ask.”

  “Anything at all,” the director said. “How may I help?”

  “You’re going to have to take my word for this and not ask any questions, but I may know several young children who are in need of your services. Most of them will be a year or less.”

  The director’s voice fell. “I see. Are the police aware of this?”

  “They will be soon. Even I’m not sure if these kids will need your help, but I have a strong feeling they will. I can’t tell you how many or anything else about them. All I kn
ow is these kids may need your help because they have nowhere else to go.”

  “Our doors are always open to those in need,” the director said. “As long as the authorities are involved every step of the way, we will be happy to give them a home.”

  “Figured I could count on you,” Reed said. “And as soon as I’ve handled this, we can take the kids on as many safaris as they want. I’ll also provide funding to cover their care for some time.”

  The director assured Reed it wasn’t necessary, but Reed knew the man operated on a shoestring budget, so he didn’t take no for an answer. He’d just made one hell of an expensive bargain, but in his mind, you couldn’t put a price on doing the right thing.

  Walking into his office with Rico at his heels, Reed found a message slip waiting on his desk.

  Call Wallace Palmer—URGENT.

  Urgent? What could Wallace want? Maybe an update on his broken-down vehicle. Reed had to search for the man’s number, and a minute later connected with his fellow guide. “Wallace, it’s Reed Kimble. I got your message. Is everything okay?”

  “Effie’s gone.”

  The haggard words took a moment to register. “What do you mean, gone?”

  “Kidnapped. She’s been kidnapped.”

  A thunderbolt shot through Reed’s body, rooting him to the ground. “Are you sure?”

  “Certain,” Wallace said. “She went out earlier today and never returned. I received a message saying if I ever wanted to see her again, I have to meet someone tonight on the savanna and bring ransom money. A quarter of a million dollars.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “They said if I call the police, they will kill her. I was told they have a man in the station who will know if I do.”

  “Shit, Wallace.” He wanted to tell him to call the cops, but it wasn’t his wife’s life at stake. “If you don’t call the police, what are you going to do?”