The Exile

by Andrew Britton

  Just as he acquired his target, the man flung open his door and started to climb out of the Land Rover. Since the steering wheel was on the right side, the officer was perfectly framed against his vehicle, and Kealey squeezed the trigger twice, both rounds striking the man in the center of his chest. A look of shock came over the driver’s face. He reached out to grab for the door, but his legs were already giving way. The police officer dropped to his knees, then fell face-first to the cement, his handgun clattering a few feet from his body. He did not move again.

  The second Land Rover was already reversing, the light bar flashing blue on top of the vehicle. Kealey ignored the vehicle, though he caught a glimpse of the driver’s terrified face as the SUV hurtled past his position. Instead, he kept his sights fixed on the Ford Fiesta, which was parked 18 feet northwest of his position. The police officer crouched behind the vehicle had brought his weapon down, and Kealey could only assume he was reloading. Kealey had kept careful track of his own spent brass, and he knew that he had fired 23 of the 30 rounds in the FNC’s magazine, including the long burst he had fired to scatter the pedestrians. That left him with more than enough ammunition to finish the work he had started, as long as he used it carefully.

  He was still waiting for the police officer behind the Fiesta to show himself when he spotted movement to his right. He turned to appraise the new threat and saw the driver’s side door on the Land Cruiser swing open. He swore under his breath as Flores climbed out of the vehicle, a Glock 19 in his right hand. The Honduran turned right and began edging carefully along the side of the truck, the Glock extended at arm’s length. His swarthy face was fixed in a strange expression, a combination of restrained fear and intense concentration.

  Kealey watched the ex-Honduran soldier move with mounting rage and disbelief. He was tempted to shout out an order, to tell the man to get back into the vehicle, but some inner sense of self-preservation stopped him from doing so. He shot a glance at the Fiesta, but the police officer was still hidden from view. To Kealey’s left, the second Land Rover was still reversing at a high rate of speed, and he turned in time to see the driver attempt a desperate, near impossible turn. He was clearly trying to swing the SUV back into the alley, but he cut it far too short, and there was a loud bang as the rear end of the vehicle smashed into the corner of the residential building, tearing away part of the redbrick wall. The truck died instantly, and even at a distance Kealey could see the police officer struggling in vain to restart the engine.

  It was an incredibly easy shot, more akin to murder than a fair exchange of gunfire, but Kealey hadn’t started this fight, and he wasn’t about to hesitate now. Standing up, he moved to the back of the Mercedes SUV and leaned around the corner. Bending his knees slightly, he braced his right shoulder against the Mercedes and fired a three-round burst into the front windshield of the incapacitated Land Rover. He saw the driver jerk in his seat, then slump to the right. It was clear that his rounds had hit their target, but he fired another short burst, anyway, just to be sure. As the echo died away, he heard Flores calling his name. He did not respond, not wanting to give away his position, although he realized his last shots had probably done just that. Instead, he continued moving around the back of the M-Class Mercedes, the retractable stock of his FNC tucked in tight to his right shoulder.

  One round left, he thought. One round and a single target. So much for conserving ammunition. Leaning around the rear passenger-side fender, he quickly appraised the situation. Flores had already moved into the open and was walking slowly forward, his gun up as he searched for targets. Kealey immediately adjusted his aim to the left, searching for the last surviving police officer, but the man was way ahead of him. He had already straightened behind the red Fiesta and was rapidly bringing his R5 up to a firing position, the muzzle level with Flores’s chest. The Blackwater driver saw the threat and tried to swing his Glock to the right, his eyes opening wide, but he had already been caught out of position. Kealey, with a clear view of the whole scene, fired his last round as the SAPS officer pulled the trigger once. Kealey’s bullet hit the man in the right side of the head, killing him instantly, but not before the officer’s single round found its target. Flores jerked once with the impact, took a few stumbling steps forward, and dropped to the ground.

  Kealey immediately left the cover of the Mercedes and started over to where the man had fallen. With a sense of relief, he decided that the Honduran had not suffered a serious wound, as he was already trying to sit up. His face was twisted in pain, and his left hand was pressed to his right shoulder. His unfired Glock was lying a few feet away.

  Arriving on the run, Kealey crouched and pulled Flores’s hand away from the wound, ignoring the man’s halfhearted attempts to push him away. The powerful 5.56mm round had pierced the right side of his chest, just above the first rib and below the outer edge of the clavicle. Judging by the absence of blood, the round had missed the major arteries in the region, as well as all the internal organs, none of which were situated in that immediate area. Moving around to check the man’s back, Kealey found the exit wound, which was considerably larger than the hole in his chest. From the position alone, Kealey could tell that the round had driven through the center of Flores’s right scapula before it left his body. It wasn’t a fatal injury, but his earlier assumption had been wrong, as it was serious. The pain would be intense, and it would only get worse as the minutes passed. Flores had to get to a hospital immediately.

  As the shock of the initial impact passed, the Honduran started to groan in pain. Kealey was already thinking about his next move. He looked around quickly, ignoring the distant wail of approaching sirens. Normally, the police backup would have arrived already, but the bulk of the city’s force seemed to be focused on the courthouse at Von Brandis and Kerk, as well as the surrounding streets. Given the ongoing riot outside the Johannesburg High Court, it wasn’t surprising that it had taken this long for backup to arrive on scene, and this realization led Kealey to another. If the SAPS officers who had ambushed them were originally assigned to stand post outside the courthouse, it would explain the ease with which they had obtained automatic weapons. And if they had drawn their R5s for the supposed purpose of crowd control, they had probably signed out some nonlethal deterrents as well—the same deterrents the policemen on Kerk Street should have been using the moment Whysall’s vehicle was hit outside the parking garage.

  He looked over at the first police Land Rover, which was still idling directly behind the Land Cruiser. The door nearest to him was hanging open, and the driver’s corpse was lying facedown a few feet away. Rivulets of dark red blood were running out from under his chest, trickling down the gentle slope of the street. Looking the dead man over, Kealey took note of his outfit. It was standard SAPS winter attire: black tactical boots, gray field trousers, and a navy jacket over a gray short-sleeve shirt, the collar pulled outside of the jacket. A navy baseball cap bearing the SAPS gold star was lying next to the man’s head, and his weapon—a standard-issue USP-9—was resting a few inches from his still right hand. There was nothing to suggest that he was anything other than a regular officer in the South African Police Service, except…

  Except the handgun, Kealey realized. The USP-9 isn’t standard issue. So if these men aren’t regular SAPS officers, who are they?

  The moment this question entered his mind, Kealey jogged over to take a closer look. Picking up the weapon, he saw that he had been right; it was a Heckler & Koch USP-9. The powerful 9mm handgun had been adopted by the SAPS Special Task Force a few years earlier, and that told him all he needed to know. The STF was an elite division within the South African Police Service. It was roughly equivalent to the SWAT team in a major U.S. city, such as New York or Los Angeles, only the STF was far more selective. In a police force numbering 130,000 officers across the country, less than 100 were active members of the venerable “Task Mag” units. For this reason alone, Kealey doubted that all six officers were assigned to the STF, but either w
ay, the link would account for the heavy firepower the would-be assassins had brought to bear.

  The police sirens were drawing closer. Turning his head to his right, Kealey saw flashing lights in the near distance. Over the sound of the two-tone sirens, he heard doors slamming shut and men shouting, and he realized the arriving officers had decided to proceed on foot, as the road to the north was blocked by abandoned cars. He assumed the occupants had fled when the shooting started, but unfortunately, the accidental roadblock—as convenient as it was—wouldn’t do much to slow the new arrivals down. Even on foot, Kealey knew it wouldn’t take them long to get to the Land Cruiser, which was parked no more than 200 meters from the officers’ current location. Accounting for the cars blocking the way, he decided that he and the others had about fifty seconds to leave the scene. Checking his watch, he marked the time and started to move.

  Jogging round to the back of the Land Rover, he popped the rear door and did a quick visual inventory. The cargo area was full of clothes, both civilian and police issue, as well as six boxes of ammunition, four spent magazines, a spare tire, and a fully loaded tactical vest bearing the SAPS departmental seal. Grabbing the vest, he squeezed each of the closed compartments, searching for the cylindrical shape of a CS riot control grenade. The fourth pouch felt right, and he ripped open the Velcro flap to check the contents. Two grenades were inside. He pulled the first one out to read the markings and saw that it was what he was looking for. Shoving one grenade into each of his pockets, he moved around the side of the vehicle and ran up to the rear door of the Land Cruiser. He tried the door and swore when he found it locked. Rather than try to convince the men inside to open it, he ran around the ruined front grille of the SUV to the passenger-side door, which was still hanging ajar. Hitting the automatic locks, he took two steps to his right and lifted the handle.

  The South African president was still lying prone in the backseat, as was his aide, Steve Oliphant. Both men raised their heads cautiously when Kealey opened the door. They seemed stunned to find him standing there.

  Fixing his gaze on the senior man, Kealey said, “Sir, we’ve got to move. It isn’t safe here…. We have to change vehicles right now.”

  The man’s mouth fell open, but nothing came out, and Kealey didn’t have time to argue. Reaching in, he grabbed Jacob Zuma with two hands, then pulled him bodily out of the vehicle. The man seemed too stunned to react, but Oliphant immediately began shouting in protest. He reached out and tried to grab Kealey’s arm, commanding him to release the older man. Ignoring him, Kealey gripped Zuma’s arm and guided him gently but firmly back to the Land Rover. He had just pushed him into the backseat when the aide arrived on the run, his face a mask of indignant rage. Before he could say a word, Kealey gripped the lapels of his jacket, turned to the right, and shoved him up against the side of the SUV.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Oliphant sputtered. He tried to pull Kealey’s hands away, but he didn’t have the strength or leverage. “Get your hands off me! You have no right to—”

  “Shut the fuck up! We have to get out of here. What don’t you understand about that?”

  The aide twisted his head to the right, toward the sound of the sirens. “We don’t have to go anywhere,” he protested angrily. “The police are coming. We should stay here and—”

  “The police did this!” Kealey shouted, sweeping an arm to his right to indicate the surrounding devastation. He tried to remember that the man had been doing his best to keep his head down for the past ten minutes, but it was hard to excuse this level of ignorance.

  Oliphant fell silent and gradually stopped struggling as he took in the scene, his mouth agape.

  “Don’t you get it? It was the police who attacked us!” The African’s mouth worked silently, but he had nothing to say, and Kealey took advantage of the dead air, knowing it wouldn’t last for long. “Look, you were right about one thing,” he conceded quickly. “More are coming, but we can’t wait to see if they’re on our side or not, so stop arguing and get in the vehicle. We’re leaving. Now.”

  Kealey released his grasp on the man’s suit jacket, and this time Oliphant did as he was told. Without another word, he slid into the backseat next to his boss. Shutting the door after them, Kealey turned and sprinted the short distance back to Flores. The Honduran was still lying where he had fallen, blood streaming out from under his injured shoulder. At first, Kealey was afraid the man had lost consciousness. If he had, it would make his next task all but impossible. As he crossed the last few feet, though, he saw that Flores was still awake, if only just.

  “Come on,” Kealey urged, crouching next to him.

  The man’s eyes cracked open, but he didn’t respond.

  “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here.” Kealey slid his right arm under Flores’s left, then gripped the man’s limp left hand with his, lifting him into a sitting position. “Ready?”

  The Honduran nodded weakly. The slight movement caused sweat to drip from his face to his long-sleeved shirt, which was already soaked in blood and perspiration.

  “Okay,” Kealey said. “One, two…”

  On three, he straightened his legs and heaved the man to his feet. It took all his strength; Flores had six inches and nearly 80 pounds on him. To complicate matters, the Honduran was already weak from shock incurred by blood loss. He made an effort to stumble forward without assistance, but even so, Kealey was forced to bear much of his weight for the short walk back to the Land Rover.

  The rear cargo door was still in the elevated position. Turning to his left, Kealey did what he could to position the man’s right thigh with the rear bumper, then pushed back and up, shoving the injured man into the cluttered cargo area. He would have preferred to put him in the front passenger seat, but it would be difficult to maneuver the large man into the tighter space, and time was no longer a luxury. As Kealey slammed the cargo door shut and moved around to the driver’s side of the vehicle, he was confronted with this fact in the plainest possible terms. The closest police officer was clearly visible to the north, not more than 40 meters from where Kealey was standing, and two more were just a few steps behind. All three had their service weapons drawn. The lead officer was shouting a series of instructions in his direction, but Kealey couldn’t hear what he was saying over the blast of the sirens, not that he particularly cared.

  Realizing they would reach the Land Rover before he could reverse back to the alley, Kealey reached into his right pocket and withdrew one of the CS grenades. Stepping over the body of the Special Task Force officer he had killed a few minutes earlier, he moved behind the driver’s side door. Crouching below the line of the window, he flipped off the grenade’s thumb-clip safety, then pulled out the main cotter pin. Taking a single step back, he heaved the grenade over the door, aiming for a spot approximately 10 feet in front of the approaching police officers. Without waiting to see where it landed, he slid behind the wheel and closed the door.

  Once inside the vehicle, he didn’t waste any time. Oblivious to Flores’s groans of pain in the back, he checked the glove compartment quickly, searching for a street map. As he rifled through the paperwork, he listened with one ear to the Tait digital radio mounted between the seats, which was already set to the appropriate channel. The responding officers were relaying information back and forth in a rapid, convoluted blend of English and Afrikaans. Straining to pick some information out of the frantic four-way exchange, he caught a few key words, but more importantly, he picked up on the anger and frustration in their voices. In his experience, the tension could mean only one thing—the second wave of SAPS officers was still searching for a clear route to the Blackwater Land Cruiser. And if that was the case, the alley behind the Land Rover was probably still empty, which gave them at least one clear route of escape.

  Giving up on the glove compartment, Kealey moved on to the second most likely location. Reaching up, he flipped down the overhead visor, and a folded map fell into his lap, along with a few
torn envelopes and a handful of business cards. Unfolding the map, he spread the thin paper over the steering wheel and slid his finger down to the M2, searching for their last known position. Finding it, he studied the surrounding streets, trying to determine which route they had taken.

  It was hard to be certain, given the speed with which it had all taken place, but he was reasonably sure that the initial ambush had occurred at the intersection of Goud and Main Street. That was six blocks east of the Carlton Center, which marked the eastern edge of Marshalltown. If he was right, and they had traveled three blocks north before swinging into the alley, that placed them…

  Kealey traced the route with his finger and landed on End Street, directly below the M2 overpass. That had to be where they were now, he decided, and a quick glance at the side mirror proved him right; behind them, he could see the sweeping arch of the double-decker highway. The concrete artery was held up by a long row of massive supporting pillars curving gently to the southwest, but while the road was imposing in scale and height, it was dwarfed by the surrounding buildings, most of which were residential in nature and at least ten stories tall.

  Satisfied that he had their current location nailed down, Kealey went back to the map and started searching for the nearest medical facility. He found it quickly enough; the MBS Hospital was located in the urban sprawl of Doornfontein, ten blocks to the north in Region 8. He took a few seconds to memorize the route, his eyes occasionally flicking up to the windshield. Then he mentally checked off a number of possible detours he could use if they happened to run into a police roadblock. The hospital was his first and most important destination. If he could get there, he would feel comfortable leaving not only Flores but also Zuma and Oliphant in the care of the physicians on duty. He knew that Zuma’s welfare was supposed to take precedence over everything, but he was not willing to abandon Whysall and Stiles to their fate outside the parking garage on Kerk Street. Not if there was something he could do to save their lives.