by Louise Dawn
Garlic Boy uncuffed a panting Max, who envisioned ripping Roman’s head off, but the prick’s finger rested on the trigger. With little choice, Max hopped out and took the quickest leak of his life as a guard stood watch. Glancing around, Max only saw African bushveld. Acacia trees everywhere. They were traveling in a northeasterly direction. His location would be pinged but had it been worth letting that slime-ball’s hands touch Abby?
Max clambered back into the hot box. Once he was secure, Roman holstered his gun and jumped off the truck to make a phone call, too far away to make out what he was saying. Convulsive crying told Max that something had gone down during the brief time he had left Abby. Refusing to make eye contact, she rolled towards the wall.
“What did he do to you?”
Abby shook her head, choking on a sob.
“Honey, talk to me. What did that son of a bitch do?”
Abby remained silent. Explosive fury ate away at his sanity. Any semblance of control he’d achieved over the years was washed away in the eruption. Roman wrapped up his call, climbed in and the truck rolled onwards. Max hadn’t known true hate until that moment, vowing that Petrovich would be a vaporized memory in the red mist of the rising sun.
◊ ◊ ◊
The thirty-eight-second transmission indicated Max’s position as being near Makopane in the Limpopo region, just off of the R101 freeway. A drone combed the area, along with a contingent of Mandla’s men accompanying Slater and Donnie. Their ETA to the transmission site was ten minutes. Searches for properties registered to Muller came up empty. MIT HQ looked at aliases and offshore bank accounts possibly linked to Kris Muller. They were closing in on the fucker. Johnny only hoped that it wasn’t too late.
Two of Mandla’s best analysts sat with Johnny as they combed through the intel while running through the feeds. Johnny now had the dossier on the poaching ambush and subsequent interrogation.
Noleen Keller was a ghost. The only property listed under her name was thoroughly searched and they’d come up empty. MIT would keep looking.
Slater checked in. “Max’s transmission pinged at a pitstop. Tire tracks indicate that they are being transported via a truck. I’m assuming it’s a container truck, reinforced to block any outgoing signals. Footprints in the sand tell me that Max found a way to exit by taking a piss. Looks like his boot pattern and approximate size. Two other sets of footprints are visible.”
“Which direction is the truck heading?” Johnny said.
“Still northwards. Trouble is that the road forks up ahead. They could travel west towards Botswana or eastwards to the Kruger. Muller’s worked in this area. If we find Muller, we’ll find Khalid.”
Johnny stared at the map, melding Kris Muller’s profile with the best tactical shuffle that Johnny would make if he were in the man’s shoes. The targets would want someplace remote, away from prying eyes. That crossed the main roads and small towns off the list.
Kris Muller loved the African bush; aside from killing rhino for selfish gain. Kris was also a braggart. Combine those two traits and Johnny guessed that they were looking for a decently sized game lodge with all the trimmings.
“Look for private game lodges in the area. Mid-sized and run by a small contingent of foreigners. Spread out and ask questions. The locals will know who’s new to the area.”
Johnny circled the territory they’d concentrate on. “Hold on, brother,” he muttered. “We’re coming for you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
When they reached their destination, five guerrillas pulled Abby out and held her separately, boxing her in with AK47s being waved about. Roman stroked a gun across her temple and Max had no choice but to comply. The container was backed into an open door of a large structure, enclosed in thick concrete walls and a solid concrete roof with no windows. Of all his fucking luck, any signal would be blocked by the solid structure.
If it were just him, Max would have already made a move. With Abby in the mix, saying it was complicated was a gross understatement.
Max made his play. “I know where her son is.”
Abby gasped, and Max deliberately avoided eye contact. He had no idea where Gabe was but Roman didn’t know that. Abby probably wondered if Max had intel on Gabe’s whereabouts.
Roman regarded Max warily before handing Abby off. “If he makes any moves, break her arm.”
Max didn’t plan on making a move. Hopefully, the fake intel would get them on a plane to Cape Town and his team would be on them like white on rice.
“I’m guessing you’re some kind of covert operative who knows the value of her son, both to Khalid as well as your country. Why would you give up the location so easily?”
“I’m tired of working for a government who doesn’t give a damn about me and I know how you’ll extract information from us. The danger pay isn’t worth it.”
“What are you looking to get out of this revelation?”
“Whatever is on offer. I’d like to walk away with my ass intact.”
Roman’s body language and lack of interest were worrying. The mercenary ambled over. The designer bush shirt and tailored linen pants he wore looked magazine worthy. Despite baking in a metal container for the past few hours, the puffed-up dickhead looked like he could pose in a Safari photo shoot.
“Give me the address.”
A retired SAS colleague lived in the Cape. Two years ago, Johnny and Max flew in for a quick visit. If he led Khalid into his friend’s neighborhood, Johnny would catch on and give their British buddy a heads-up. MIT2 could roll out the infidel welcome mat.
“Do you think I’m foolish enough to give you the exact location? You get that when we arrive. He’s in the Parklands area on the Western Seaboard.” Max was spouting bull-crap, but Abby played along, struggling, calling him a traitor and a bastard. He met Roman’s unblinking stare, refusing to look away.
Roman slipped his hands into his pockets. “Playing games will get her killed. For every lie that comes from your Yankee mouth, I’ll remove one of her limbs.” He turned to his men. “Secure him.”
The intel was dismissed out of hand, which made no sense. The terrorists should at least try to verify it. Max sensed a sudden void as he tried to work out Roman’s game. More shackles lay welded to the floor. They secured his ankle. Abby wasn’t restrained and that bothered Max. It meant they planned to take her from him at some point. Max slid down the wall and Abby backed up against him. No words were said, none were needed. They’d stripped her of her jacket. Her ponytail was a saggy mess; Max pulled out the elastic, burying his nose in her hair, her warm body reassuring him that she was still alive and in one piece.
Two guards stood at the far end, near the rolling shutter doors. The empty concrete cell was devoid of furniture. Max visually scanned the room carefully for bugs and couldn’t spot any in the hollow space. There was a possibility that he’d missed one and Max pulled her head to his ear, telling her so.
“Why did he outright ignore the location you gave him?” Abby whispered.
“I don’t know, it doesn’t make any sense, maybe he sensed it was a play.” Max mentally ran over all the angles as he carefully braided her hair.
“You’re good at that.”
“I have a couple of nieces. I had to learn when I got them ready for school.”
“You don’t have to tie it up. It’s a dusty mess anyway.”
“Don’t let the bastards see you looking disheveled. We present a strong front together.”
“For psychological reasons? Never let them think they’ve broken you?”
“Exactly,” Max said.
“I’m sorry that I got you mixed up in this.”
“None of this is your fault.” Max placed his lips on her ear. “It’s going to be okay. This is what I do, I’m trained to get us out of this.”
“You’re shackled to the floor by a medieval-looking device.”
“True. It’s a problem. If only you had a bobby pin tucked away in those beautiful tresses.”
“Sadly not. I’m guessing the next step is torture.”
“They’ll use me to get you to break. I’m trained to take it; don’t you dare say a thing.”
“Oh God. I won’t let you do this.”
“You have no choice. We can’t let them get to Gabriel,” Max whispered.
Abby turned and clung to him; quiet sobs echoed through the cavernous space as he ran soothing hands down her back. Max waited until she’d calmed to break the news, squeezing her tightly up against him and talking quietly.
“Kris is involved, he’s working with Khalid.”
“That’s impossible, he would never—”
“He would, and he did. I received the intel at the café. He set up the ambush on the anti-poaching team. Kris got his own men killed.”
“You’re saying that my Kris was responsible for the death of his friends.”
Max stiffened. “Your Kris?”
“You know what I mean.”
“He must’ve been recruited in Dubai. Poaching ties to terrorism in Africa, it’s a money maker for extremists. Muller has the means and the access.”
“But Kris is one of the good guys.”
“Stop fooling yourself, you need to be prepared.”
Instead of becoming all emotional, Abby stilled. When she finally spoke, Max didn’t like what she had to say. “Back in the truck—when you left to pee—Roman said something.”
“What the fuck did he say?”
“He ground up against me and whispered, ‘Do you like that, sweet thing? I want to ride you so hard.’”
“I’m going to rip that son of a bastard’s skull out.”
“He said that to me once before.”
“Was he in Khalid’s home in Sharjah?”
“I never saw him in the Middle East. It was in Johannesburg… He was the attacker at La Corragio.”
Max wanted to punch walls.
“By the time you climbed back in the truck, I knew who he was and panicked in the moment. When I finally calmed, I thought things over. If that was a kidnapping, why did Roman take his time toying with me and why were there only two of them? Where were the rest of Khalid’s men?”
Max ran over the same conundrum when a small side door slammed open at the far end. Roman along with three guards walked towards them. Max pulled Abby up.
“Khalid will see you now.”
Max shielded her. “Don’t fucking touch her.”
He kicked out, causing Roman to stumble. A follow-up kick to the peacock’s balls had him collapsing to his knees. The rest of the mercenaries laid into Max, landing blows. Roman staggered to his feet, kicking Max for good measure before dragging Abby away.
When the pugilists finally let up, Max was left with nothing more than a bloody nose, sore ribs, and a slight concussion. Amateur hour meant Max had effectively blocked the more lethal blows, leaving him mostly unscathed; nevertheless, he played up his injuries, pretending to cower.
A militant with a deep scar running down his cheek knelt to speak. “Next time we’ll use a blunt machete to pretty up your handsome face.”
All Max focused on was the absence of Abby. That Al Juhani monster now had her and Max was nailed to the floor, as useless as tits on a nun.
“We were trying to be gracious to our guests and offer you food and water, instead, you spit in our faces, but I can be the better man.” Scarface gestured towards someone standing in the shadows.
A slight, compact man wearing a traditional tribal shirt and beige pants carried a tray towards them. His shirt marked him as a local man from the Venda Tribe.
Scarface grabbed a piece of bread from the plate and took a sip of the water. “See, I eat it. No drugs. It’s clean food.”
The men walked away, and the servant placed the tray hesitantly on the ground and unloaded a paper plate topped with bread.
Max spoke softly. “Do you speak any English? I apologize, but I don’t speak Tshivenda.”
The man looked up in surprise. “You are American, how did you know of my tribal language?”
“Africa has been my place of work for many years. I know of many tribes. What is your name?”
The man looked around before answering. “Mutali.”
“Mutali, my name is Max. It’s good to meet you.”
Mutali handed Max a water bottle. “We shouldn’t be talking.”
“You work for these foreigners; do you know what they do? They are bad men who build bombs and blow up schools and hospitals, in the name of God.”
Mutali dusted off his pants as he rose. “I need the money, the work at this lodge supports my family. We need to eat.”
Max pressed on. “The man who owns this lodge will sell out Africa and its people for money.”
“I know this, he has a black soul.” Mutali looked down at Max’s ankle. “I have no key for that.”
A guard yelled out for him to get back to work.
Mutali spoke Tshivenda. “Thakha ndi mulambo, a i lengi u fhalala.”
“What does that mean?”
“Wealth is like a flooding river, it rises but also goes down quickly. The evil waters in this place will not soak our lands.” Mutali moved away.
Max watched the slight man walk out. A possible ally, an angle to be worked. Khalid was going down quickly. That was a promise Max would keep, even if it took his own life to make it happen.
◊ ◊ ◊
In any other circumstances, Abby would have found the game lodge beautiful; instead, the chilled air was infested with a greedy plague. A slight sound to the side of the dust path had her glancing to her left. A kudu bull sat quietly in the grass. Its twisted horns almost seemed to bow gracefully as the huge buck watched her walk by. Two zebras stood behind, their tails twitching in the dusky light.
Stairs swept up to a wooden deck that led to the luxurious main lodge. An infinity pool draped off the side, the water tinkling in the night. The lodge’s massive framework held up a thatched roof. Contemporary African art and thick rugs were scattered among leather sofas and dark wood trimmings in the spacious living area.
The overall effect seemed inviting until you spotted the basket of elephant tusks and rhino horn tucked to the side of the roaring fireplace, or the soldiers with assault rifles standing in every corner. Abby had so far counted seven men, aside from Roman at her back.
She was made to stand in the center of the room like a naughty child as a grandfather clock in the corner ticked away. A Scops owl’s call echoed across the valley, bringing tears to her eyes. The loneliest sound reserved for her very own pity party.
When a door finally opened, Khalid Al Juhani swept into the room. “Josephine. It’s good to see you again.”
Abby said nothing as she looked at the polished worm. Memories of his brutality threatened to bring her to her knees. She locked her legs in place and inclined her head haughtily, as if she were the royal member in the room. Calm snaked around her, settling her in for battle.
He narrowed his eyes. “You now use your middle name. I think Joey is a much better fit.”
“Joey was exterminated by a yellow-bellied toad who gets his kicks from raping innocent girls. Abigail, however, will twist your testicles off if you dare to lay a hand on her.”
“Brave talk for a whore who was eager to climb in my bed and steal my only son.”
“The only thing I was eager for that night was getting away from your filthy hands.”
“You have the nerve to hide my heir from me?”
Abby narrowed her eyes. “I gather your wives are still popping out daughters?”
Anger flared. “Shut up whore. Where is my child?”
“There is no child, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Movement from a darkened room to the right had Abby swiveling. Kris rose from an armchair. He’d been watching all along.
“Such an artful liar, my little Cricket.” Kris threw a pile of photographs onto the coffee table. Pictures of her and Gabe at a restaurant, sho
pping in a baby store at a mall, all taken before she’d sent Gabe away.
Khalid picked up a photo of her son—her son, not his—running a finger over his face. “He has my mouth. My hair. You’re a hard woman to find. Your antics in Sharjah caused me such headaches. I had to pay off numerous police officials and send out a general missive on your whereabouts, but would never have bothered finding you, until I received a picture of a very pregnant woman at a food market in Johannesburg who looked remarkably like Josephine Evans. I knew that was my child growing in your belly. It took me over two years to find you.”
Khalid stepped behind her and ran his hand across her neck, causing her to flinch. “A month ago, when I finally got a fix on your location, Kris told me about your protective military friends. We knew the CIA was onto us. I pretended there was a coup in my organization, leaked photos and used look-alikes. Forced our American enemies to look elsewhere, while I’ve enjoyed a visit to South Africa’s friendly shores.”
Khalid only found her four weeks ago? The photographs lying on the table were taken six months before. Whoever took them had discovered her whereabouts long before Khalid. Abby frowned as she ran over the quandary.
Kris’s fickle voice cut in. “You sold me out—your best friend in the whole world—for a better life in Paris. Eager to sign away your freedom while whoring yourself out to the wealthiest bidder by sleeping with Khalid. When his seed grew in your belly, you kept it a secret, hiding from the world.”
Kris walked over to the bar and poured himself a glass of lemonade.
“Is that what Khalid told you, that I willingly slept with him? Khalid injected me with a drug and forced himself on me. I have the scars to prove it.”
Kris flicked a glance at Khalid. “You told me she wanted to bed you, that she got cold feet the next morning about working for us.”
Abby beseeched him. “Kris, you know me. I would never do that, I hadn’t been with any man before that night. Why would I give away something so sacred to a worm like Khalid?”