The girl addressed Allyn.
“Where is Juma?”
The stout soldier nudged her aside, she did not speak for him. Allyn wanted to laugh; these three were such a curious result of his worries and waiting, drinking and loneliness.
The soldier eyed Allyn head to toe. He did not extend a hand to shake.
“I’m Master Sergeant DiNardo. United States Air Force.”
“An American. Good. Do you have any identification, Sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
Allyn knew little about the military beyond what the movies told him, but it did seem odd that America would send one man with no insignia, no papers, and apparently no gun. If he was, in fact, a killer, he kept strange companions and had been rather easily nabbed in broad daylight.
The sergeant jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.
“These two will vouch for me.”
The large white man, young and flaccid, reached into a pocket. That movement drew the end of the poacher’s rifle into his back. The big boy reacted as if it were a cattle prod, arching away, whirling.
“It’s my wallet. Do you fucking mind?”
He handed a green ID card to Allyn. Donald Karskie, Information Specialist, SANParks. Karskie began to explain that he’d been assigned to accompany the sergeant into the Kruger. The American cut him off, moving him aside less gently than he’d done the girl. He motioned to her.
“This is Promise. She’s a Kruger ranger.”
“I can see that.” Allyn inclined his head. Promise was a striking young thing, muscular and dusky. Her hands were veined and strong, but her features carried the disdain of those beyond reach. Allyn had seen those same wandering eyes, jaws set against cheap talk with a dismissive tilt of the head, on the powerful and wealthy. Allyn said her name, wanting to remember it.
She asked, as if she had a right to, “Who are you?”
“You can call me Lush Life.”
The American looked skeptical.
“Seriously.”
“If you like. However, I find the less I take seriously, the better I tolerate it.”
The American had a bright look to his eye and seemed on the edge of banter. The ranger girl broke ranks and hurried away.
Followed by his four gun-toting guards, Juma ambled up the street.
“Ah. There’s your man.”
Juma motioned for his protectors to let Promise through. He met the girl with open arms. They walked while embracing, talking quietly. But when they reached Allyn, great Juma put the girl back in line beside the sergeant and Karskie under the poacher’s long gun. She seemed confounded. Juma did not explain himself.
“I am Juma.”
The American and Karskie reintroduced themselves. Karskie offered his identification card. Promise nodded as her way of adding validation. Again, no one shook hands.
“Promise says you’ve come to inspect the missile.”
The sergeant flattened his palm in the direction Juma had come.
“Lead the way.”
“Sergeant, forgive me. This is a bit irregular.”
“How so?”
“You ask me to believe that you’ve been sent by the United States with these two to verify that I do, indeed, have your rocket. One sergeant in an unmarked uniform.”
Juma gestured to his small poacher boy carrying the two rifles and asked him a question in a different tongue. Allyn spoke enough Bantu to interpret the question Juma asked: Was the American carrying that rifle when you found him? The boy rattled one of the guns, nodding. Juma returned to English, and the sergeant.
“An American sergeant carrying a Dutch FN, the weapon of the Kruger rangers. That is odd, surely. Why would you be found with that instead of an American weapon? Accompanied by a female ranger, whom I suspect, by now, you know is of dubious character. And a low-level parks employee sent to vouch for you by way of his plastic ID card.”
Juma rubbed his chin.
“Are you a spy, Mr. Karskie?”
“Do I look like a spy?”
The poacher in the leopard pelt spoke up, also in Bantu. The lisp from his missing teeth spoiled several words; Allyn made out only “underpants on a stick.” That had to be a mistake, but Juma’s chuckle jiggled his girth.
“Frankly, Sergeant, this is not the delegation I expected.”
“What did you expect, exactly?”
“Something a bit more, what can I say? Dangerous? A death squad, perhaps. A stealth bomber. Something more impressive. Something American.”
“How’s this for impressive? You called the president of Zimbabwe. He called the president of the United States. He called me.”
Juma made a mistake. He cut his eyes at Allyn.
The sergeant caught it.
“You boys have a midnight deadline for two hundred million dollars. Right?”
Allyn wanted to walk away, right now. Or drool and stutter, play Lush Life the drunken fool, distance himself from this plot. But it was too late. The American shot him a piercing glance, the kind that records. The sergeant didn’t know Allyn’s name, but he unraveled instantly that Juma, the giant poacher king of this village of shambles, was not the one who called the president of Zimbabwe.
The sun hammered on the earthen street. Juma’s bodyguards fidgeted, wanting out of the light, waiting for someone to speak. Allyn dropped all pretense.
“Juma. A word.”
On his bare feet, Allyn turned away. Juma followed far enough for them to speak privately. Juma was so large Allyn could not see around him to the American, the South African, and the girl ranger.
“Who is the girl?”
“My sister’s granddaughter.”
“Was she your contact inside the park?”
“Yes.”
“We can assume, then, that she’s told them who you are and what you do here.”
“Yes.”
“She doesn’t know who I am, does she?”
“No.”
“How did they find her?”
Juma looked over his meaty shoulder. Allyn gazed up into the fat bottom of his chin, the brown folds of Juma’s prosperity.
“I think it more likely she found them. I will get the truth, shamwari. It is difficult to believe anything they say. But she brought them here. That I know.”
Allyn curled a small hand over Juma’s forearm. The big man’s skin felt cool against the heat of the day. The fire, the burning will of their youth in the mines to become men of stature, had become banked in Juma. Juma had done the easy things since those years, stolen, bullied, and murdered his way to wealth. Though they’d sworn loyalty to each other and had kept it, Allyn read much that scared him in Juma’s glare at the girl.
“Listen to me. It doesn’t matter how they found her, or who they are. What matters is who sent them. Only that.”
Allyn tugged on his old friend.
“Juma.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Leave your men around the village tonight.”
“This should not have happened. The Americans weren’t supposed to know where the missile is.”
“They know now. Let’s focus on that.”
“What will it mean?”
Funny that Juma, the criminal, asked Allyn what the likely outcome of their crime would be. In the end, everything was business.
Juma prodded.
“Do you think an attack? A bomb, another drone?”
“I don’t think so. We left them very little time. Besides, two hundred million isn’t much to America. It makes sense for them to pay. It’s cheaper than coming after us. Much cheaper than explaining themselves tomorrow. They’ve been caught playing nasty. They’ll take their medicine. I would.”
“I believe you.” Juma’s belief appeared to buck him up. “Look who they sent us. A soft boy, an unarmed soldier.”
“We’re alright for now. Listen to me. We’ll take the sergeant to see the missile. That’s all we can do. We’ll wait until midnight. Then . . .”
“The
n what, shamwari?”
“Then you and I are done, my friend. We can never talk, never see each other again. You have to leave this place. Leave Mozambique. I may disappear myself for a while. They may pay us, but they will not forgive us.”
“What if the money does not come?”
“That changes nothing. We took a chance. But it will come.”
Juma took a moment before nodding. Again, Juma’s gaze fixed on the girl.
“Juma. She’s your family.”
“She’s a traitor before anything else.”
Allyn did nothing to halt Juma’s pivot away from him. A fuse that burned beyond his reach had been lit in his old friend.
Chapter 30
Juma kept his back to Promise as they moved up the street. He left her to walk with LB and Karskie, surrounded by four guards and Good Luck. The little boy Hard Life was sent ahead, dragging two rifles in the road. Old, white Lush Life strode without shoes beside Juma. The man was short, hard used, and mismatched to Juma and Macandezulo. Promise asked LB who he was.
Good Luck hissed at her to be quiet.
Promise whipped toward the shooter, but LB dug a hand inside the band of her shorts, hauling her backward down the street until she spun to face forward.
“Easy, girl. Eyes open. Mouth shut.”
Karskie stepped up to bracket Promise, with LB on the other side. She walked like this, blocked in by men. She thought of Wophule. If he were here, would he be so angry, would he want killer Good Luck’s throat in his hands? Perhaps not. Wophule had been gentler. The animals saw this. Treasure would have seen it, too, given time. Promise had stolen that time from her and Wophule, left his body lost, his spirit closed in by rocks. Promise did as LB demanded, shut her mouth, walked on, and watched. She sensed the spoor of judgment and payment in the dust of this road, in the unstinting light of the day, in the broad backside of Juma in front of her.
They moved into the village through sour human smells, past haphazard huts and peeling buildings. The bush was not patient with Macandezulo, blistering, choking, swallowing the place. Juma was not the power here, he was just rubbish and the sputter of one generator.
They stopped before the largest structure in the village, a two-story house of gray block. Hard Life waited in one of two lawn chairs outside. Juma told Hard Life to go inside and head upstairs. Somewhat automatically and emotionlessly, the little boy left his guns behind and disappeared through the door, up the flight of stairs. Juma ordered his guards and Good Luck to stay outside. He pointed to the emptied lawn chair.
“Mr. Karskie. Wait here with Good Luck and my men.”
Karskie’s reluctance to stay behind was met by a raised finger from LB. The big boy collapsed into the lawn chair. Good Luck folded into the chair opposite him, the long rifle across his lap. Juma’s four guards backed into the street. They slung their weapons and reached for dagga cigarettes. Juma hefted the two rifles Hard Life had lugged into the village, a Kalashnikov and the ranger rifle taken from LB. Juma headed for the door. Promise called to his back.
“Juma.”
Her great-uncle acted as if he’d not heard. Lush Life touched Juma to make him turn. Who was this white man that he could do this? Coming around, Juma sighed.
“What, child?”
“I want to come, too.”
Juma filled the doorway, owlish and slow. He slumped, saddened, and Promise saw how old Juma was. Older than Gogo, older than Lush Life beside him.
“Why?”
Because she had slaughtered a rhino. She’d called Juma to the missile. She’d betrayed the Kruger rangers, her partner, and the animals. She’d brought the American here. She was betraying Juma even now. She was as bad as him.
And what if LB, with his fingers on his radio, were to explode the missile while he stood over it? She didn’t think him crazy or a zealot, but he had said nothing was to get in the way of his mission. Not her. Not him. He might do it. Would she want to survive that? Be left to Juma’s guards, to Good Luck?
“I’ve earned it.”
Only the corner of Juma’s mouth moved, a tiny twitch on a giant’s face.
“Yes, you have. Come, then.”
Chapter 31
Juma took none of his guards into the blockhouse. He led the way, carrying the little poacher boy’s Kalashnikov and LB’s FN rifle. Juma ducked under the door frame, followed by Lush Life, LB, and Promise.
They descended a stairwell to a metal door. Juma undid the padlock. LB didn’t need to see the missile to know Wally couldn’t have detonated it from a half mile away, maybe not even from the edge of town. The air-to-air freq and his weak radio couldn’t have reached the missile down here behind concrete walls. Juma pushed open the door and, without looking back, entered an armory.
Juma was clearly a significant dealer in illicit arms. LB could barely step into the room for the stacks of rifles in uncountable calibers and international makes and the handguns spilling out of crates, a thousand guns to fuel poachers, militants, bad guys of every stripe. Juma yanked the magazines out of the FN and the AK, then tossed the rifles onto a pile. He left himself unarmed. Was this trust or contempt? Juma was a mountain of a man, maybe he figured he was in no danger. LB took this as a small insult.
Juma’s cache of guns was big but sloppy, as if he’d shoveled them in the basement door. Every hard bit of it seemed humbled, bowing before the battered table in the center of the room where the Hellfire lay.
Now that he’d seen the rocket, LB could blow it. He wasn’t sure from how far away. He inched closer until he stood between massive Juma and the secretive, little white man. Promise crept up, too. Juma and Lush Life looked at the missile like it was a pile of money, with lip-licking avarice and a tinge of worry that they might not collect. Promise stared in openmouthed awe, which alarmed LB.
Then she nodded to him.
LB clapped loudly, just to fuck with them all. They jumped.
“We’re good. Let’s go.”
Moving for the door, LB played out tactics in his head. Before leaving the village, he’d assure Juma that all was in good order. Yes, that was his country’s missing Hellfire on that table; he’d report it that way. He’d walk Karskie and Promise straight down the dirt road. At fifty yards, just far enough to endure the blast, hopefully close enough to activate the tritonol charge, LB would punch in the five numbers, and the three of them would hit the ground.
Boom. Under the shock and surprise of the explosion, they’d run like hell.
If there was no blast, LB would send Karskie and the girl on. He’d turn around. Act like he’d forgotten something. Wave to Juma. Hey, buddy, one more thing. Keep dialing.
Five-four-three-one-zero.
Then boom. Maybe.
Maybe not. Keep walking. Dialing.
At some point, the damn thing would go off. The question remained: At what point? The Hellfire’s warhead was going to blow this building to smithereens; the shock and flying concrete were going to crush anything within twenty, thirty yards. The heaps of ammo would cook off, too. Juma had complained he wanted something impressive: too bad he wouldn’t get to see the crater. Bye-bye, Juma, his guards, his illegal weapons. And mysterious little Lush Life, who had a bigger hand in all this than he let on. They’d be collateral damage to LB’s mission. But no one in South Africa, Mozambique, or the United States was going to weep for poachers, arms dealers, and blackmailers.
Assuming LB wasn’t in small pieces himself, he’d catch up to Promise and Karskie. The girl knew the bush like the alphabet. She could hide them, move them until they made it back to the ravine, Wally, and Neels. Then they’d scurry over the border. A debrief would be next, some beers with the team in Jo’burg, then home.
That was what was going to happen: simple, straightforward, and the only plan LB had come up with.
Outside in the sun, Juma’s guards squatted on their haunches, puffing. Karskie stood from the lawn chair, expectant. Mean-looking Good Luck and his rifle stayed seated.
&n
bsp; Lush Life rubbed his hands like a man finished with a meal.
“Well, Sergeant?”
“I’ll radio it in.”
Lush Life seemed satisfied. Juma asserted his immense hand for a shake. LB left it hanging.
“Sergeant?”
“No thanks.”
“Where are your manners? This is business. Nothing else.”
LB’s immediate thought was at this moment it would have been better to send Wally.
“I said no thanks. We’ll be leaving.”
“On an insult?”
“I got a few better ones, if you want to push it.”
Lush Life raised hands, refereeing, but Juma did not lower his own mitt. No blood dripped off it, so LB splashed some on him.
“Pal, I know who you are. You killed this girl’s partner right in front of her. I saw a rhino today, and my heart almost jumped out of my mouth. You would’ve cut it into pieces. You’re blackmailing my country. And, by the way, you think you got enough guns down there? How many more people and animals you plan on wiping out for business? You’re a piece of shit.”
LB turned on Lush Life.
“And I don’t know who the fuck you are. Let’s leave it that way.”
Before he could turn, Juma pressed his great hand over LB’s shoulder. The weight of the man’s touch, the strength, was powerful and woeful. LB would’ve had to fight hard to knock it off. He pitied Promise for being under it. He stood still while Juma leaned in. In the street, Juma’s guards straightened up and rattled their weapons into their hands.
“Those are angry words from an unarmed man.”
“A man who needs to walk out of here for you to get your money.”
Lush Life agreed and tried again to soften Juma, telling him the sergeant needed to go about his business. Juma nodded, withdrawing his paw.
“True, shamwari.”
Wordlessly, LB gave Juma one last grave digger’s glance. LB had killed men before. Years ago as a Ranger captain, he’d spent a decade doing it in jungles and dunes. After that, as a pararescueman, he’d killed only to accomplish his rescue missions. They were never his choice, the killings, but the choices of others. While a Ranger, he’d followed orders. In the Guardian Angels, he sometimes had to battle his way in, or out, to rescue downed and isolated warriors. Not once in twenty years had LB looked forward to a killing, and never did he fail to remember every taken life. He had a memory full of bodies; he thought of them as his cemetery. When LB had run out of room, when the graves crowded his sleep, he’d become a PJ, so he could put himself on the line to preserve lives instead of end them. To make some space in his graveyard.
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