He had known the man for less than a day, so he was unprepared for the tide of sadness that swept over him. ‘Dear God, when will it end?’
There was nothing he could do for the old Zulu, but his spirit was a different matter. Using his knife, Michael cut a small branch of buffalo thorn acacia and laid it on top of the body. Even if it were never found, Edward’s spirit would have somewhere to call home.
A few moments later, after establishing that the shotgun was missing, Michael found where Jackson had waited to ambush Edward. And then, incredibly, he saw footprints heading off along the road. The man was so cocksure he was still travelling in the open. So he must believe that Edward had been on his own.
‘Think ahead of the bastard.’ Michael’s mind cleared. Jackson thought he was safe. But he’d proved to be cautious. Tracking behind him was dangerous. Michael still believed he knew where Jackson was heading. So he decided to get there first. If the tracks inside the reserve were still as he remembered, he could cut through and be waiting along the back loop road ahead of Jackson. And that was Michael’s first mistake.
Ideally, Jackson would have liked to mine the two loop roads. However, there was a common stretch linking Okhuklo and Ngolotsha loops which lay closer to the western perimeter fence. Whichever loop the tour buses took, they’d still have to use that one section of road. He’d lost time over the poacher, and anyway, three mines close together could cause even more havoc. So Jackson changed his plan. Field flexibility it was called. Instead of exiting the park where he’d come in, he’d cut the fence further north and head across country to Ulundi. He could still make it to Kwa-Mashu the following day.
Michael stopped jogging and wiped sweat from his brow. He was back against the western perimeter but it had taken longer to get there than he’d thought. Mpande could well be on the first of the loop roads by now. He had, by his reckoning, another half-a-kilometre before reaching the common road that linked the two loops. The sun was nothing more than a crimson rim on the horizon. It would be dark in half an hour.
Jackson brushed sand carefully over the last of his mines. Done. Not before time. The dead poacher was playing on his mind. In his experience, the unexpected was often the cause of the unsuccessful. He couldn’t wait to get out of the park and away. He’d heard a lion roaring a few minutes ago. This time of day was not a good one to be on foot. Not particularly superstitious, Jackson nonetheless had a bad feeling about this job.
He had committed the park roads to memory. The western perimeter was a good kilometre from where he stood. He turned to leave, then froze at the sound of a sudden rustle not far off the road. His eyes picked up the bulky shape of a browsing black rhinoceros. Like most people who spend a great deal of time in the African bush, Jackson was not unduly worried about encountering dangerous game. Most animals were more frightened of man than the other way around. Besides, he had his AK-47. There was no wind. The animal probably couldn’t smell him. Slowly, Jackson edged himself closer to a tree. The caution proved unnecessary as the cow lost interest in the bush she was feeding on and wandered further away. If she walked down the road . . . Well, that was a risk he could do little about. He was more concerned at the moment with getting out of the park.
Jackson’s change of plans, Michael’s determination to reach the outer loop before him, put the two men on a direct collision course.
TWENTY
Michael would have sworn he was fit but the last few months had taken their toll. The run through the bush to get ahead of Jackson and the fact that he’d had very little to eat in the past couple of days also sapped his strength. He had but one thought in his mind and that was to reach the back loop before Jackson. The animal tracks he was following would lead to a section common to both the circular drives. It was just ahead of him.
A trained man would have been more cautious. Jackson was trained. Michael was not. He passed within two metres of where Jackson crouched.
Jackson had been moving quickly along the road when he heard a twig snap, then another. Stepping quietly to one side and dropping into the darkness, he knew immediately that the sound had been made by no animal. There was a moment of stunned surprise when Jackson recognised Michael, then he was thinking clearly once more.
Michael stood still for a moment finding his bearings, then turned and made his way swiftly towards Jackson. The light was fading fast and he was concentrating on reaching the loop road. He didn’t immediately notice the sudden presence of footprints. He’d gone eight or nine paces beyond where Jackson hid before realisation sank in. His senses screamed a warning. Diving forward, he rolled, pistol in hand, knowing it might already be too late.
Jackson watched Michael go past and realised that he only had a few seconds before his footprints were seen. Stepping onto the road, the Kalashnikov held waist high, he squeezed the trigger, holding low, braced for the burst of automatic fire. A single shot tore into the sand and Jackson swore viciously. The selector was still set for the ambush on that bloody old poacher. It gave Michael the few precious seconds he needed but, because he was still rolling, his shot missed too.
Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Michael saw Jackson flick the selector and take aim again, mocking evil in his eyes. He steadied his own aim. It was all taking so long. One agonising split second was taking forever. His finger tightened on the trigger.
The blast came. Not from Michael’s Browning, he was still squeezing. Not from Jackson who, in that strangely dreamlike speed, was clutching his upper arm, turning, eyes wide, weapon spinning away in a lazy arc, as he started to run. Two more shots. From behind!
The bush came alive with shadowy shapes and shouted words.
‘Got him.’
‘Bastard’s gapping it.’
‘Van Schalkwyk, Pienaar, Macmillan, get after him.’
Michael was trying to make sense of it all. His world, his nightmare, suddenly in overdrive. Men. Shots. Voices. Jackson. Mines. ‘Mines,’ he roared suddenly, his brain miraculously crystallising. ‘There are mines on the road.’
‘What the fuck do you think we’re here for, a picnic? We’ve got the mines. Right men, let’s get that little Commie, I want to wrap this one up.’
A chorus of ‘yes sirs’ came from the darkness.
Michael picked himself up from the road, dusting off his shorts.
‘You hit Englesman?’
‘No. Thank . . .’
‘You are Michael King I take it?’
‘Devilliers?’
A heavily set man planted himself in front of Michael. ‘Who the fuck you expecting? Nelson Mandela?’ He was furious and making no attempt to hide it.
‘No, I . . .’
‘We had him. We had the bastard. Then you blunder on to the road like some demented knight on a mission of mercy. I told you, King. Don’t fuck up.’
‘Me! Me fuck up. What about you? Your lot only winged him.’ Michael was suddenly as furious as Devilliers. ‘You’re not even supposed to be here. I had him in my sights. What are you doing here anyway?’
‘Saving your arse.’
‘Bullshit!’
‘If I had any brains I’d have let him take you out.’
‘If you had any brains you’d have let me know you were coming. What am I, a fucking mindreader?’
‘Shut up, King. Go and sit down before you fall down.’
‘To hell with this,’ Michael snapped.
‘You fucking little boy scout. We had him, don’t you understand? And now, thanks to you, we’ve lost him again.’
A shape materialised next to Devilliers. ‘Sir.’
‘What?’ Devilliers bellowed.
The man cleared his throat. ‘Ah, you might like to have this conversation later, sir.’
‘Why?’ Devilliers roared. ‘What else have I got to do?’ He lowered his voice and grated. ‘This clown here nearly gets killed and we save his arse. You’d think he’d be grateful wouldn’t you? But no. All he can do is tell me what to do with my orders.�
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‘Yes, sir.’
Michael thought he heard a grin in the man’s voice.
‘Now, thanks to Mr Bloody King, I’ve got three good men out there chasing around after that whacko terrorist. What kind of an idiot blunders into an ambush? We had him, Bob. We bloody had him.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Jesus!’ Devilliers exploded in frustration. ‘I don’t fucking believe it.’
‘What are you doing here? You said . . .’
‘I know what I said. Bob, go and pick up that little shit’s toys. At least we know he’s not armed.’ Devilliers squared up to Michael. ‘Things change. Lucky for you, hey?’
Michael realised it was true. If Devilliers and his men hadn’t come along who would have fired first, him or Jackson? Which of them would now be lying dead on the road? It was something he’d never know.
Bob returned carrying the Kalashnikov and Michael’s Remington. Devilliers jerked his head angrily towards Michael and Bob handed him the shotgun.
‘Let’s go. I don’t want to be out here all night.’ He turned to Michael. ‘By the way, I assume you don’t know anything about the body back there?’
‘That’s . . .’
‘Just as I thought, nothing.’
‘Edward,’ Michael finished in even tones.
‘Not a damned thing.’
‘Nothing,’ Michael agreed.
‘Deluxe.’
Devilliers thought for a moment. ‘You said you were inside that fucker’s head. Where’s he gone?’
There was the sound of Devilliers scratching while Michael tried to work out what Jackson would do now. Finally, he said, ‘The main camp’s no good, too much security right now. He’s got three men after him. He’s wounded, we don’t know how badly but probably needs medical attention. He’s clever. As soon as he starts to think straight I reckon he’ll hide, lose your men then either head for the western boundary or wait and hijack a tourist car when the reserve reopens to the public.’
In the gloom Michael saw Devilliers’ head nodding in agreement. ‘We can secure for a hijack so my money is on the fence. Let’s go. Oh, and King, you so much as step on a twig and I’ll break your fucking neck.’
‘I’d like to see you try, you arrogant bastard.’
There was a long silence in the darkness. Then Devilliers said quite mildly, ‘My parents were married.’
Jackson was getting desperate. On the road, when all hell exploded, his only thought had been to flee. He was good in the bush, sure-footed and keen-eyed, confident he could get away. He was barely aware of the throbbing in his upper right arm as he tore through the undergrowth. But the longer he ran the more it became clear that as good as he was, the men behind were just as competent. The shock of being hit had started to kick in, draining his strength. He had no idea how bad the wound was but he suspected more than a flesh injury. The ache was deep and getting stronger by the minute.
After ten minutes, he realised he’d have to outthink rather than out-run his pursuers. He had to reach the fence, it was the only way. The wire cutters! They were in his pack back on the road. ‘Double back,’ he was thinking. ‘They won’t expect it.’ He slowed, then stopped, listening hard. Yes, they were still there, following his footsteps by torchlight, a couple of hundred metres behind him. Moving swiftly but quietly, Jackson swung west then turned almost due north. There was nothing he could do about his trail but, with luck, he could still retrieve the wire-cutters and get to the fence ahead of them. He had the advantage of knowing where he was going. The men behind were slowed by the need to follow his footprints. At least they didn’t have dogs.
The black rhinoceros was on heat, irritable, and in need of a mate. She had been heading for her favourite waterhole when the sound of shots rang out. She reacted instinctively, charging blindly into the bush, completely unnerved by the loud and unexpected noise. In panic, she was seeking the comfort of familiar territory, crashing through shrubs and low trees as though they weren’t there. She covered a distance of nearly three kilometres before suddenly stopping to stand stock still in the dense undergrowth. Relying on hearing and smell, she would wait there for hours to make sure all was safe.
Michael, Sacha and Bob had fanned out and were carefully moving south-west. On Sacha’s instructions, they were not using torches. The single crack of a twig sounded so out of place. There, a shadow, coming towards them. It crossed a patch of open ground.
Jackson. He must have doubled back to lose the others. He was heading directly towards them. All three crouched, waiting. They could hear the laboured breathing. Suddenly he was there, moving fast, clutching his right arm.
With absolutely no warning the bush erupted and a black rhinoceros burst from cover, snorting with anger. She did not stop. Jackson might have been a bush, a buck or a man, she didn’t care. It was there, in front of her, and her instincts said kill it. Head held high she thundered straight at him. Jackson turned and ran but Michael could see that he wasn’t going to reach the tree. At the last moment, the rhinoceros lowered her head and thrust upwards, scything sixty centimetres of unpowdered, so-called aphrodisiac between Jackson’s legs and tossing him upwards. The horn had penetrated flesh and bone. Jackson remained impaled. Irritated beyond belief, the cow lowered her head and shook it, trying to dislodge him. The wound ripped open. Jackson screamed. With one last violent shake, she was free of him. Snorting with renewed fright at heaven knows what, the rhinoceros blundered away. She’d had a thoroughly disagreeable night.
Michael was first to reach Jackson’s writhing body. He shone his torch down. The horn had caught Jackson just beneath his testicles, penetrating upwards into his anus. Trying to shake him loose, the horn had ripped a massive hole in Jackson’s lower body, finally tearing free with Jackson’s penis and testicles. His entire lower torso was one gaping mess of entrails and blood.
‘Erk!’ Sacha’s exclamation was made with no inflection, almost conversational. ‘I’d say your man is done for.’
Michael’s stomach heaved. Jackson stared up at him, his eyes pleading. ‘Help me,’ he whispered.
‘Deluxe,’ Sacha said. ‘A fitting end for the bastard wouldn’t you say?’
Michael thought of Jeremy, Jennifer, and Tessa. He thought of Edward lying beside the track and of Dyson in hospital. He thought of others unknown who might also have died at the hands of this man.
‘Help me,’ Jackson begged. ‘Kill me.’
Kill him! It was all Michael had thought of doing. Now, as he stared down at his enemy, it was the one thing he didn’t want to do. ‘Die in your own time, Jackson Mpande,’ he said harshly.
‘Please,’ Jackson pleaded. ‘Kill me.’
‘You heard the man,’ Sacha said cheerfully. ‘No can do. Drop dead.’
Jackson Mpande did drop dead. But it took him fifty-two minutes.
TWENTY-ONE
Michael was glad the moaning had stopped. He’d never heard a man in so much pain. The sound of it got inside him. The satisfaction he’d expected to feel was missing. Jennifer and Jeremy. Can you hear this? Does it give you any satisfaction? Or are you weeping, as angels do, in the face of such suffering? Tessa. Can you hear him? Does it help you? Dear God! Let it be over soon.
Jackson Mpande’s death was as much of a relief to Michael as it must have been for Jackson. ‘We can’t just leave him,’ Michael protested when it became obvious that Devilliers and his men were planning to go.
‘What do you suggest?’ Devilliers asked with heavy irony. ‘Give him a decent burial?’
‘Cover him with stones at least.’
‘Forget it, man. There’ll be nothing left by morning. Anyway, we’ve got a good fifteen kilometres to walk tonight.’ He glared in Michael’s direction. ‘You’re coming with us.’
‘Where to?’
‘Camp. In the wilderness area.’
Michael was surprised. ‘How’d you manage that? It’s off limits to most people.’
‘Friends in high places,’ Devill
iers said shortly.
Something was worrying Sacha Devilliers. ‘Our sources informed us that Mpande had four mines. We’ve only found three.’
‘Not a problem. It’s up a tree. Near that other body I know nothing about.’
‘Disarmed?’
‘Sorry, didn’t know how.’
Devilliers sighed. ‘We’ll fetch it in the morning. I don’t suppose the bloody thing is going anywhere.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Good result back there. Untidy but good.’
‘Are you going to explain what you’re doing here? For that matter, how the hell did you get here so quickly?’
‘Chopper. It’s at Mpila Camp.’
‘Okay, that’s how. Now, why?’
Devilliers appeared to think about it. ‘Why not?’ he said finally. He inhaled smoke noisily. ‘Remember I told you I’d been approached about Mpande?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, the thing we’ve been working on for months blew apart, big time. The shit hit the fan and I lost two men.’
‘What was it?’
‘You don’t need to know, King. Drugs. That good enough?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t mind taking chances, know what I mean? It’s my job. But when the scum start threatening my family, that’s different. Makes it personal. I got angry and that made me careless.’ He grunted with self-disgust. ‘It cost me two men and the entire operation. We had to pull out and fast. Just when I’m thinking what a fucking waste of time, I get a call from my other . . . the one I told you about. He’s panicking big time. Says he doesn’t want a fucking novice after Mpande. I’d have told him to shove it but for the fact that I didn’t seem to have much else to do. Besides, we all need to get into the bush once in a while.’
‘Lucky for me.’
‘Nice to hear you say it, King.’
Michael grinned ruefully in the darkness.
‘So we’ve set up camp on the river. Nice spot. No neighbours. Do a bit of training for a few days.’
People of Heaven Page 45