The Turn Series Box Set

by Andrew Clawson

  The hell with this. These cops didn’t want to talk. He needed to get out of here, grab Leda and escape to the new life he’d promised both of them.

  “I’ll give you covering fire,” Juma said. “Go first.” Without giving Zaramo a chance to argue, Juma reached over the door and blasted away. Zaramo ran, making it into the alley unscathed before turning his gun on the cops. Juma took off as bullets whizzed past him, diving into the alley without being hit. Both men scrambled to the bikes. There were no keys in either ignition.

  “I got this,” Zaramo said. He bent over one bike, popped a piece off and began fiddling with the wiring. Juma leaned out, a bullet pinged off the wall, and he ducked back just as fast. “Come on,” Zaramo said. “Do not do this now.” A loud curse, and then the engine whined to life. “That is more like it,” Zaramo said as he bent over the second bike and repeated the process, bringing the engine alive quickly.

  “Nice work,” Juma said as he hopped on the first bike, turned and strapped his suitcase to the bike’s rear rack. Then he touched the throttle, sending his ass forward without bothering to tell his chest as the bike leapt ahead like an unleashed tiger. Juma had barely righted himself when a garbage can appeared ahead, forcing him to swerve and slide past the metal can with no room to spare. Glancing back, he found Zaramo close behind, bent low over the handlebars as they gained speed.

  Getting back to safety at their headquarters meant making it to the highway, where his bike could outrun anything the cops had. A left turn appeared, and he took it, broken chain-link fences and dirt yards whizzing past on either side. The alley grew tighter the further he went, and when it finally intersected with a main road, he darted right, weaving between early-morning traffic waiting at a stop sign.

  The highway lay ahead. A pothole nearly sent him tumbling as he darted through another intersection, now following the street through desolate suburbs, most of the dingy homes on either side closer to falling down than standing up. A rusting car on cinderblocks sat halfway on the road; sparks flew as Juma curved around it and lost his side mirror. A green stoplight stood guard over the next intersection, and a few blocks beyond that, the highway ramp that would set them free.

  A lifetime of flirting with danger had given Juma an extra, innate sense, honed through years on the streets. You either acquired it or death soon found you. And as he barreled toward the upcoming intersection, that finely honed edge in Juma’s body screeched for attention. He pulled his hand off the throttle, just enough that the scenery went from a blurry streak to actual shapes and objects.

  A car was running toward the red light with no sign of stopping. Rubber screamed as Juma jammed on the brakes. The rear tire wobbled, but he fought the bike, forcing it to stay upright. The tang of burning rubber punched his nose as he regained control, righting his bike as the oncoming car moved into the intersection.

  He exhaled with relief and then the air left him again in a rush as a pothole jumped up and grabbed him. A jagged scar in the asphalt, nearly a foot deep, it pulled his bike nose-downward and sent him flailing beneath the traffic signal, sky and ground flipping back and forth in a jumbled mess. He couldn’t avoid the car, couldn’t stop rolling, and the last thing he heard before the car came on him and his eyes slammed shut was a muffler rattling on the ground, bouncing along just like he was.

  A rush of air. Metal scraping on asphalt. No horn, no brakes, just three thousand pounds of metal going past his head with an inch to spare. Long after the car’s rattle vanished, Juma lay still, immobile on the street, eyes closed to the world.

  “Boss, are you okay?” An engine whizzed, footsteps pounded the asphalt, and Zaramo reached out to shake him back to life.

  Both arms seemed to work. Same with his legs. “I think so.” Zaramo helped him up; the traffic light overhead clicked from red to green. Ignoring the ache that shot down one leg like a lightning bolt, he looked back to the fallen motorcycle. The gold.

  “It’s still here,” he said, almost weeping with relief. The briefcase was still attached to the bike’s rear carrier, scratched, battered, but unbroken. The same couldn’t be said for the motorcycle itself, which lay on its side, sporting scrapes and dents and gouges. “I think it will still go.” He limped over, righted the bike and tested it: the engine roared gamely as he twisted the throttle. “Stay with me,” Juma said to Zaramo, throwing a leg over the seat. “But if the police find us, we split up. Do not return to our building if they are following you.”

  Zaramo nodded before speeding off.

  Juma followed more slowly; he felt like he’d been kicked by a mule. Never mind that. Getting on the highway was priority number one. His bike seemed okay, the engine whining with joy as he gunned it toward the highway on-ramp. Zaramo had gone slightly ahead of him, approaching a final traffic signal before the highway, this one mercifully green. They were going to make it.

  A sudden whining tickled his ears, almost identical to the sound of the motorcycle engine. Was it falling apart? The ululating sound intensified, and a moment later his stomach dropped. Two police cars twisted through the intersection, tires smoking as they cut off Zaramo to send him wheeling away, his rear tire smacking one car as he swerved. Sirens blaring high and low, lights flashing, the two cars blocked any access to the on-ramp.

  Only one choice. “Come on,” he shouted to Zaramo, gunning the engine with the brake locked. His back end skidded around and fired gravel at the cop cars as he raced away, headed back the way they’d come. Around the deadly potholes, through a red light, and then Juma veered down a side street, Zaramo close behind. An instant later the police cars tore around the corner behind them, metal screeching as one banged off a parked car.

  Narrow streets reduced the motorcycles’ inherent advantages, each twist and turn forcing Juma to slow down. The police cruisers behind them veered into the oncoming lane, throaty engines growling as they gained on their prey. New sirens reached his ears from off in the distance, growing louder every second. The sound of a net closing in.

  They both turned down an alley, the path too narrow for the police cars to follow. While one car skidded to a stop at the alley’s mouth, the other raced ahead, likely headed for the far end to cut them off. Juma braked to a stop, Zaramo halting beside him.

  “Time to split up,” Juma said. “They must have backup coming, and we cannot lose them on those side streets. Running separately gives us a better chance.”

  “They will not know who to follow,” Zaramo said. “I will go first and draw them away. You wait until one follows me, and then head back for the highway.”

  “Agreed. See you at headquarters.”

  Zaramo raced away, vanishing down an intersecting side street. When the second police car flew past moments later, Juma hit the gas and skidded onto the same road, headed in the opposite direction. Crawling to the stop sign, he peered both ways before heading on, watching and listening for any sign of pursuit. There should be an on-ramp further down, and as he traversed the crowded streets, he saw only one police car, which ran by several streets ahead without stopping.

  A line of morning cars was backed up at the light in front of him, and beyond that, the off-ramp he sought. The hell with this. A quarter mile to go and he’d be loose on the highway. Then the police would never catch him. Cars honked as he sped between them, riding on the center stripe. Wind tore at his face and burned his cheeks, but despite this, his lips curled into a smile. For the first time in his life, independence waited for him, ready for the taking. A second chance at life with Leda.

  He never heard the police car coming. No lights flashed, no siren blared. Only the screaming tires caught his ear, too late to stop the collision. The cruiser flew out of the side street and slammed headlong into his bike, sweeping it from beneath him. One second he sat atop the bike, racing to freedom, and the next he flew through the air. The rushing wind made his eyes water, and in the blurry millisecond before he slammed into a metal pole, Leda’s face flashed across his mind. She was smiling and
reaching out to him, waiting to start that new life that would never happen.

  Chapter 21

  Outside of Mwanza, Tanzania

  Dust clouds floated skyward as two vehicles cut through the savanna. Though the sun had yet to crest the horizon, dawn’s faint hint of light touched the sky.

  Paul rode in the lead vehicle, watching a group of giraffes they passed, their heads hidden in a tall acacia tree as they enjoyed breakfast. None took much note of the cars bouncing by. Paul glanced at Manny, who drove the car, but Manny didn’t look back.

  Each of the two poaching teams included four men from Wafa and Juma’s forces, and both teams were tasked with following a separate rhino group. Paul and Manny led one, Omar the other. To their surprise, Wafa had joined Paul’s group and was now riding in the car with them.

  Hopefully Wafa knew as little as he claimed about tracking animals. Leading an inexperienced group around in circles was easy. Tricking a skilled hunter into believing the animals truly had given him the slip was another matter entirely. If Wafa suspected Paul was anything other than unlucky, things could get hairy. Pissing off a man like that while out on the savanna was a fast way to a shallow grave.

  Wafa had spent most of their prep time on his phone, scarcely listening to Paul’s instructions, instead conferring with Omar away from the others. Whatever they talked about privately stayed that way, giving Paul and Manny one more potential pitfall to add to the myriad chances of getting killed this evening.

  Do not fail us, Reed Kimble. We are dead men if you do. Paul opened the glove box and checked the map, pointing out their proximity to the river ahead. Not that he needed directions, but demonstrating his knowledge of the geography would help bolster his skill in Wafa’s eyes.

  “Head toward those trees,” he told Manny. “The river is that way. We must split up and go on foot from there.” Manny adjusted course and several minutes later their teams gathered to stand around Paul, the vehicles now hidden in shrubs fronting the riverbank.

  “This is where the rhino groups split off,” Paul said. “We will follow these tracks.” Groups of round rhino prints led in two directions, both disappearing into areas of heavy vegetation. “We must go on foot, because the vehicle noise could scare the rhino.”

  Omar spoke for the first time. “How far do you think the animals are from here?”

  “No more than a few miles.” Omar seemed to accept this. “I will lead one team and you another. There should not be a problem with rangers, but know they are armed and will not hesitate to shoot.”

  The men laughed and smacked their guns, showing little concern. “Rangers travel in groups of eight or more, and are always armed.” Their bravado vanished. “Keep your radios silent. Rhinos move lightly, and you can easily come upon one without realizing it. They will charge when startled. You do not want to be on the wrong end of a rhino horn.

  “Also,” he continued, “it is possible you may see tribal groups in this area. If you see them, leave them alone. Though the tribes are often armed only with spears and knives, I have seen them carry guns as well.”

  One of Wafa’s men spoke up. “We can handle a tribe of dirt-eaters.”

  “It is best to avoid them,” Paul said. Omar barked at the man in a language Paul didn’t understand, and the man’s head dropped. “Check your ammunition, extra radio batteries, and medical kit.” One man from each group held up a pack Paul had prepared. “Remember, these animals are much better at staying alive than we are at killing them. Respect their power.” He let that sink in for a second, looking to the sky. “It is time to go.”

  The groups fell out, but not before Wafa pulled Omar aside for a final chat, passing him a chunky phone as they talked. “Is something the matter?” Paul asked Wafa when he finally walked over.

  “A last-minute present from your boss.” Nicotine-stained fingers patted Paul’s arm. “To be certain we kill these rhinos so I can go home. Let’s make that happen.” And with that, the Egyptian walked away.

  What did that mean? Paul didn’t have time to puzzle it out, because everyone looked to him. “I’ll lead,” he said to his group. “Unless we have no choice, do not walk in a straight line, and keep your safeties on.” The last thing he needed was some trigger-happy newcomer shooting him in the back. Most of Juma’s men knew nothing about the wild, having scarcely set foot outside the city their entire lives. The savanna made them jumpy, and jumpy men did stupid things. “Check that your radio is turned down, and follow me.”

  Each group headed into the underbrush, moving in opposite directions along the river. Within minutes Paul turned and found Omar’s group was out of sight, headed directly where Paul wanted them to go. For although rhinos likely did wait ahead of them, so did an ambush. The anti-poaching team was out today, and the hunting promised to be good.

  Chapter 22

  The river rolled easily through the savanna, twisting and turning as it brought lush green to the brown land. Trees and assorted fauna covered the banks. Here, where water brought life to the dirt, animals foraged and rested, finding shade and food. On this morning, packs of rhino rested and played, oblivious to the dangerous predators lurking nearby.

  Fortunately for the rhinos, the six humans watching them from the tree line didn’t want their horns; they only wanted to stop poachers. Reed’s cell phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. Daybreak was still an hour away.

  “Paul just sent the other team our way,” Reed said. “They’re coming here now.” He lifted a hand to shade his eyes, studying the half-dozen rhino along the river’s edge. “Four men, on foot. One of Wafa Khaled’s men is leading them.”

  Sarah lifted her binoculars and looked downriver to where the poaching team should appear. “Nothing yet. Did he say anything else?”

  “Only to watch out,” Reed said. “He said Wafa gave him a bad feeling, something vague about being certain the rhinos die. Not sure what he meant.”

  “All Paul needs to do is keep his group away from these rhinos. We divide and conquer the poachers, Chief Ereng locks up Juma, and the good guys win.” Reed checked his rifle, then stood and started walking. “Let’s get further downriver, away from the rhinos. Try to make yourself invisible.”

  The anti-poaching team moved out and scattered between trees and bushes until Reed could barely see them at all. A spreading wave of light blue sky slowly pushed back the darkness as dawn approached. Stars dimmed, the first bird called, and Reed’s team waited. Half an hour passed before his radio earpiece came to life, their lead lookout, Darius, checking in. “Someone is coming along the bank.”

  Night-vision binoculars offered more than enough power to see. “Four men,” Reed said. “They still have to come around the bend to get a line of sight on the rhinos.”

  “Should we move now?” Darius asked.

  “No. Wait until they’re closer.” Darius acknowledged and everyone fell silent. Reed didn’t voice his concerns about numbers. Six people here, including himself. Add Paul and Manny to that and you had eight. An even match for the poachers. Not ideal, but he was lucky to get this much help.

  Reed’s earpiece crackled to life again. “They’ve stopped moving.” A minute later, Darius came back on. “Now they are turning back.”

  “Away from us?” Reed asked.

  “Yes. I cannot see them any longer.”

  This made no sense. Leaves swiped at his scruffy chin as Reed pushed through the brush, trying to get a better view of the path along the river. Climbing a tree would be perfect, but if the poachers had somehow sensed a trap, they’d be watching and he’d likely get a bullet for his trouble. He stopped and scanned around, but even with the night-vision binoculars at full power he couldn’t see anything. The poachers had disappeared, gone back the way they’d come.

  “Do you want to follow them?” Darius asked.

  “No.” This didn’t add up. Poachers didn’t turn and leave helpless animals behind. Enough rhino horn to make every poacher rich waited by the river, drinking
and grazing. There was something else going on, an angle he didn’t see. He glanced at his cell phone, found no reception. Of course. Coverage was scarce this far from the city. Paul or Manny might be trying to let him know if something had come up, although they all knew there was little chance of getting a message through via cell phone. Radio was out of the question. Which left one option.

  “We wait,” Reed said. “As long as the rhino are here, we stay put. They’ll be back.”

  The first rays of sunlight crept across the horizon as he walked back and found Sarah leaning against a tree. She tilted her head closer to him and whispered. “Why would they leave?” Reed shrugged. “Doesn’t it worry you?” He nodded, and she moved closer. “Do you think they spotted us?”

  “No. If they did, my guess is the poachers would have shot first and investigated later.” He held out a hand. “Look how dark it still is under these trees. It’s hard to see my hand if I keep it still. Even if they had these,” he tapped his binoculars, “I doubt they would spot us.”

  She let out a deep breath. “So why did they turn around?”

  “If we wait here, we might find out.”

  With that she lapsed into silence. More birds called, the sun began a leisurely crawl into view, and the savanna awoke. The rhinos drank from the gently flowing river, with a few venturing into the water to splash around. Another half hour passed with nothing other than wildlife moving about. Reed took a long drink from his canteen. This could be a long day.

  As the sun rose, the first heat waves shimmered off the dry dirt. As the first drops of sweat slid down Reed’s face, Sarah came over.