Predator

by Wilbur Smith

  On the TV screens, the overhead images of the convoy were giving way to shots of the crowds gathering outside the Walls Unit. There were human rights campaigners protesting against the death penalty, and victims’ groups and law-and-order hardliners shouting, “Die, Johnny, die!”

  Network reporters flown in from New York and LA were checking their hair and make-up before they went onscreen, and that was just the men. The women remained virtually shrink-wrapped to preserve their doll-like appearance right up to the moment they went live on camera and pretended that they’d been reporting the story for the past several hours. Traders had set up food trucks selling gourmet ribs and chilli. And for every individual who had a professional reason to be standing outside the walls of a state penitentiary in Texas, there were a hundred more who were just rubbernecking, waiting for the chance to say they’d been there, the night they stuck the needle into big, bad Johnny Congo.

  In the command center, Tad Bridgeman, boss of the Offender Transportation Office, was talking to one of his officers, who was riding shotgun in the passenger seat of Johnny Congo’s minivan.

  “How’s the prisoner? Any trouble?” Bridgeman asked.

  “No, sir,” came the reply, “good as gold. Last I heard, he “n” Frank were having a conversation about sandwiches, if you can believe that.”

  “Won’t be no sandwiches where that boy’s going,” said Bridgeman. “Except grilled ones, maybe. They’ll grill Johnny Congo too.”

  “Ain’t that the truth!”

  “Well, you keep me posted, son. Anything happens, I want to be the first to know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Major Bobby Malinga of the Texas Rangers was growling at the television screens. “Jesus H. Christ, can we just get away from all the nonsense outside the gates? I want to see where the convoy’s at.”

  Chantelle Dixon Pomeroy laughed sweetly. “Why, Major, that wasn’t what you were saying a few minutes ago when you were begging me to take that helicopter right out of the sky.”

  “Yeah, well, if it’s gotta be up there, I want to see what it’s seeing.”

  There was a knock on the door and a uniformed police officer came in. His eyes darted around the command center till he saw Chantelle. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but there’s a heap of reporters’d like to speak to you, get the Governor’s opinion on what’s going on here today. What do you want me to tell them?”

  “That I’ll be right out.” She picked up her phone and had a thirty-second conference with the Chief of Staff in Austin, hardly saying a word beyond, “’K, ’K, I hear you, got it,” before a final, definitive, “Ooh-Kay.” Then she put the phone back in her handbag and took a small folding mirror out. She checked her face, checked for any stray auburn hairs and then snapped the mirror shut again. As she slipped it back in her bag, she looked at Bobby Malinga and gave a little shrug. “Girl’s gotta look her best,” she said. Then she headed out of the command room to spread the word from the Governor of Texas.

  Just as she was about to say her piece, the media sped away, like a flock of starlings suddenly flying up from a telephone wire. D’Shonn Brown had just arrived at the Walls Unit. He was the only friend or relative of the condemned man who’d be witnessing the execution. Everyone wanted to hear what he had to say about it, even in preference to the Governor of Texas.

  About eight miles out of Huntsville, at the junction with Farm to Market 405, Route 190 bends right, and on that bend there’s a big open parking lot with a Valero gas station and an eatery called Bubba’s, catering for local folk and anyone who needs a break from the road. Janoris Hall, in the passenger seat of the Merc ML63, led four of the SUVs and all three trucks into the lot. Just like Bobby Malinga, Janoris had been frustrated by the lack of overhead TV pictures from the helicopter cam, but in the last couple of minutes the news show’s director had evidently tired of the scenes outside the Walls Unit and cut back to the Congo convoy. Janoris had been cursing and banging his hand in frustration against the black leather trim around the satnav as his vehicles were stuck behind one slow-moving truck or RV after another. Though they’d blazed along the highway whenever the road was clear, the obstructions kept coming and he was terrified that they’d see the patrol car, the minivan and the BearCat cruising by them on the other side of the road with nothing they could do to stop them. But the moment he saw the pictures, and the map the TV news station kindly provided in the corner of the screen, he realized that they were going to make it. But it was going to be close.

  As they were pulling into the lot around Bubba’s, the convoy was only two or three miles away, heading toward them at an even seventy miles per hour. Janoris had numbered all the SUVs, calling them Congo 1 to 5. Naturally he was in Congo 1 and now he sent Congo 2, which was one of the Range Rover Sports, up the road, with instructions to radio in whenever they saw the convoy, then to turn around as soon as possible and follow it back toward the rest of the waiting Maalik Angels. “But don’t go past the Peterbilt,” he added.

  Janoris barely got all his remaining vehicles formed up in the correct order when his phone rang and he heard a voice say, “We seen ’em. No more’n a mile away, be with you in less’n a minute. We can see the chopper, too.”

  Janoris looked in the direction from which the convoy would be approaching. The road ran dead straight up to the brow of a low ridge about a quarter of a mile away. The moment the convoy appeared over that ridge, that’s when the action would begin.

  “First two trucks to your starting position. Congo 3 slip in right behind ’em,” Janoris ordered. “Congo 5, Bobby Z, do your thing, my man.”

  The two massive Kenworth T800s rolled up to the exit that led on to the right-hand lane of Route 190 and came to a stop, side by side, their fenders hanging over the edge of the blacktop, with the second Range Rover Sport on their tail. Anyone else who wanted to get out was going to have to wait.

  Congo 5, the Audi Q7, had parked around the back of Bubba’s. Now a man got out of it, carrying a heavy black tube about five feet long. He positioned himself on the far side of the Q7’s bulky nose, went down on one knee and hefted the tube on to his shoulder. Then he pointed it east and raised it up to the sky.

  In Houston a bored director cut away from the overhead shot. There was only so much screen time anyone could give to a shot of three motor vehicles driving along an unexciting stretch of highway. His last instructions to the cameraman were, “Let me know if you see anything interesting.”

  At that moment, Janoris Hall saw the patrol car crest the brow of the hill. Traffic was light and there were no vehicles between him and them. That was perfect. “Wagons roll!” Janoris called into his phone mike and the two dumper trucks eased out of the lot. They started lumbering down Route 190, one in either lane, barely doing thirty and completely blocking the westbound side of the highway. Congo 3, the Range Rover, moved forward and took its slot in the middle of the exit, right by the side of the road.

  Now Janoris leaned down low and peered upward through the windscreen. Yeah, there the helicopter was, hovering over the cars like a mama bird watching over her fledglings. “You see that, Bobby?” he asked.

  “Yeah, man, just lining her up,” came the reply.

  “Don’t go too soon, bro. Gotta let the dumpsters do their thing.” Janoris looked up the road. The convoy was practically opposite him now. “Go Congo 3.” The Range Rover slipped on to Route 190, staying in the outside lane, not going too fast. Behind it, the driver of the police patrol car signaled left and led the convoy into the inside lane. Congo 3 sped up to maintain position right next to the patrol car.

  “Go Congo 4, go Peterbilt,” said Janoris, and the Porsche led the truck out on to the highway.

  The helicopter was right above them now.

  The patrol car driver had realized that the trucks up ahead were blocking his way. He turned on the flashing lights on his roof and hit the siren. The trucks didn’t budge. He was going to be right up their rear ends any second, so he slowed a li
ttle, forcing the minivan and the BearCat to lose momen-tum, too.

  Up above, the cameraman’s eyes had been caught by the flashing light. He patched a message through to the TV news studio. “We got something happening here, coupla dump trucks blocking the way. The state troopers must be pissed, ’cause they’ve turned on the lights.”

  “OK, keep tabs on it, we’ll cut to you if anything happens.”

  Then something happened. The cameraman muttered, “What the hell . . . ?” as the two trucks veered left, one behind the other. Then he shouted, “Are you getting this?” as the lead Kenworth crossed the yellow center line and stopped right across the oncoming, eastbound lanes. The second Kenworth curved around the far side of the lead truck, stopped, then began reversing back the way it had come to block the westbound carriageway on which the prison convoy was travelling.

  Down behind Bubba’s, Bobby Z pulled the trigger on the FIM-92 Stinger anti-aircraft missile launcher that was resting on his right shoulder, launching a 22-pound missile that shot into the sky at more than twice the speed of sound. Its sensors locked into the exhaust pipes placed just above and to the rear of the chopper’s passenger compartment. Impact was less than a second later.

  No one aboard the helicopter even knew that anyone had fired at them. They were all blown to pieces: alive and well one second, dead and gone the next.

  The feed to Houston went dead. So no one in the studio or watching on TV ever saw what happened down on Route 190.

  The patrol car driver figured he could lead the convoy past the trucks by slewing right and going down the grass verge. He assumed that the Range Rover driver was bound to hit the brakes when he saw a cop screaming across his front. But the Range Rover didn’t slow down. It stayed right where it was as the patrol car slammed against it and stayed there as sparks flew, metal ground against metal and the front panels of both vehicles crumpled.

  Now both trucks were lined up diagonally across the highway, parallel with one another, but slightly apart.

  The dumpsters began to lift, the tailgates swung open and rock-hard, abrasive rubble crashed down on to the road, forming an impenetrable roadblock and behind it a killing ground.

  Congo 3’s driver, knowing what was about to happen, timed his move perfectly. He swung right, skimming past the Kenworth blocking his carriageway with inches—and milliseconds—to spare. The patrol car, trying to follow him, was hit by an avalanche of concrete, brick and stone and was sent spinning off the blacktop and smashing into the pine trees that grew just beyond the highway’s edge.

  The driver of the minivan containing Johnny Congo was suddenly faced with a choice. He could crash into the truck, or the rubble. He slammed on the brakes, yanked the wheel to the right and went skidding broadsides into the raised, emptied trailer.

  Inside the back of the minivan, the impact of the crash sent the guard hurtling across the compartment, just missing Johnny Congo as various parts of his anatomy smashed into the bench, the steel sides of the minivan and the metal grating across the windows.

  Congo himself, not knowing what the snatch-plan was, but seeing that whatever was going to happen was happening now, had braced himself for the impact. His hands were gripping the chain that held him to the floor and his huge biceps were tensed. Even so, his arms were nearly ripped from their socket as the crash happened and if his head hadn’t been tucked down by his knees it would have been knocked off by the guard’s flying body.

  When the minivan finally came to rest, the guard was lying like a discarded toy, his limbs all askew on the minivan floor, still just breathing but completely helpless. As for Johnny Congo, he felt bruised, battered and almost torn in two. But that aside, he was fine.

  Then he smelled gas vapors seeping into the back of the van and suddenly he was screaming, “Get me outta here!” and shuffling across the compartment, away from the side that had hit the dumper truck. He was planning to holler as loud as he could and batter against the side of the van. But as he got to the side window and peered through it, his shouts stopped dead in his throat as he saw what was happening outside.

  Burning debris from the helicopter had fallen to the earth like fiery boulders from a volcano. The main rotor assembly had cut a swathe through the pines. A severed head was bouncing along the road like a bowling ball. Small fires had broken out in half a dozen places and something big and very heavy had pretty well flattened the cabin of a massive truck that was blocking the highway behind the convoy, just like the two in front had done.

  The BearCat had come to a halt with its flat, black fender and armor-plated nose almost touching the minivan. Behind it Congo could see a fancy white Porsche SUV. Someone was getting out of it carrying what looked like about eight inches of gray plastic piping, attached to four short, skinny legs. Behind the first guy, two more brothers were emerging from the Porsche. They were carrying mean-looking guns, with rotating drum magazines slung beneath them like old-fashioned Tommy guns. Yeah! thought Johnny Congo, that is more like it.

  The Krakatoa is a very simple but brutally effective weapon. It consists of a short length of tubing, closed at one end by a plastic disc, held by a locking ring and filled with high-explosive RDX powder. A fuse wire runs through the plastic disc into the explosive powder.

  At the other end of the tube, another locking ring holds a shallow copper cone, shaped like a Chinese coolie’s hat, whose point faces inwards, toward the RDX powder.

  One of these weapons was placed on the ground, directly opposite the rear of the BearCat. The man who’d put it there stepped back a couple of paces, taking care not to stand directly behind the Krakatoa. He was holding a switch attached to the other end of the fuse wire. He pressed the switch. The Krakatoa erupted and the heat and force of the explosion turned the copper disc into a molten projectile that rocketed forward and smashed into the BearCat with the force of an anti-tank missile. The rear end of the armored personnel carrier disintegrated. It was impossible to believe that anyone, even if they were wearing body armor, could possibly be left alive inside it, but just to make sure the gunmen opened up.

  They were holding the Atchisson Assault Shotguns, otherwise known in their present-day form as AA-12s, which may just be the deadliest, most destructive infantry weapon on earth. The AA-12 holds up to thirty-two rounds of 12-gauge ammunition, which it fires at a rate of 300 rounds a minute. Emptying two magazines into a confined space filled with human beings has the same effect on them as throwing them into a gigantic Magimix. They aren’t just killed. They’re obliterated.

  The gunmen slammed new drums into their weapons and strode toward the minivan. The man who’d operated the Krakatoa ran back toward the Porsche and caught a long set of bolt cutters someone threw to him from the car.

  The leading gunman was right up alongside the van now. He slammed the palm of his hand on the door panel. “You in there, Johnny?” he shouted.

  “Damn straight, now get me out!”

  “You all right?”

  “I won’t be, you keep jabbering on like that.”

  “You’d better get away from the door, bro.”

  A second later the entire lock assembly was smashed to pieces by a single burst of fire from the AA-12. The doors flew open and a great, predatory grin spread across Johnny’s face as he saw the bolt cutters in the hands of the Maalik Angel who was climbing up into the minivan. It took just seconds for the cutters to break apart the leg irons hobbling Johnny’s feet, the chain attaching him to the floor of the van, the belly chain around his waist and the links from that to his wrists. Johnny stretched his arms wide, both hands touching the sides of the minivan. He rolled his head to loosen up his neck and shoulder muscles. Then he called out through the door of the van, “Now gimme that gun.”

  Johnny caught the AA-12 with one hand as it was thrown to him. Then he turned to confront the agony-racked and whimpering Offender Transportation Office guard who lay huddled on the floor behind him. “How d’ya like this sandwich, you motherf—”

 
The rest of the word was lost as the shotgun blast echoed around the confined space of the minivan. Johnny took a look at the smashed red mess that used to be the guard’s face, chuckled to himself, then climbed out of the van and on to the burning highway.

  “Car’s waiting for you up ahead, man,” the chain-cutter Angel said.

  “Gimme a moment,” Johnny replied. He walked around to the front of the van. As he got there, the guard in the passenger seat was trying to get the door open.

  “Here, let me give you a hand with that,” Johnny said.

  He opened the minivan door. The dazed guard fell through it on to the road. Johnny watched him trying to get to his feet for a couple of seconds, then he blew him away: three shots in less than a second that picked up the guard and threw him against the minivan like a doll being hurled aside by a spoiled child.

  Johnny looked into the cabin. He couldn’t decide if the driver was dead or merely unconscious. So he fired another three more rounds into him just to put an end to any doubts.

  Then he let the Angels lead him to the Range Rover that was waiting on the far side of the trucks. It raced a mile back down the road and then veered off into an open field where another helicopter was coming in to land. Johnny was bundled into it and it took off again immediately, swooping low over the highway battle zone, where the Angels had set off the timers attached to the Jerrycans in the truck cabins, so now the trucks were all ablaze, belching flames and smoke.

  Traffic had begun to pile up on either side of the barricades formed by the trucks and the rubble they’d been carrying. Customers were running out of Bubba’s to stare at the mayhem. In the confusion the Angels piled into Congos 1, 2 and 5 and speed away eastwards.

  About five miles out of Beaumont Congo 5 in which Johnny was riding turned into a field where a short field take-off and landing Cessna 172 was waiting for him with its engine ticking over. Johnny transferred into it and the pilot immediately gunned the engine and took off. As soon as they were airborne Johnny made a request of the pilot who gave him a puzzled frown; then he grinned and said, “Sure, why not? I guess you must be real hungry,” and radioed ahead.