Vengeful: A Conspiracy Crime Thriller (The Gabriel Series Book 3)

by David Hickson

  “You didn’t do wild animals either Fat-Boy, but look how that turned out.”

  “Yeah – I got shot, the Afrikaner blew himself up, and I still ain’t got no gold caps on my teeth.”

  Chandler sighed. He was a man who had been born to lead, and I often thought it was one of the tragedies of his life that he had ended up with this small team of misfits.

  “You brought those lions in like a champion circus trainer,” he said. “You’re going to do just fine at sea. Now let’s clear this place up in case BB’s goons come snooping. Let’s get to it.”

  And before Fat-Boy could think of any further complaints, he brought the briefing to a close with another clap of his hands.

  It didn’t take me long to dismantle the steel-frame bed Robyn and I had used. Then Fat-Boy helped me carry the pieces out to a rusted old hull outside the warehouse, which was filled with scrap metal and other junk.

  “Think she can still shoot straight?” asked Fat-Boy with a jerk of his head in Robyn’s direction. She was sitting at the kitchen table, packing her collection of handguns into a tog-bag, ejecting the magazines, and racking the slides of each to check the chambers were empty. “Sex-bomb,” added Fat-Boy, in case I hadn’t realised who he was talking about.

  “Straight enough,” I said. “She’s been doing it since she was just a kid.”

  “’Cos her father raped her,” said Fat-Boy. “The colonel told me about it.”

  “Her step-father,” I said.

  “The colonel says she cannot shoot to kill, though. What good is that? If those Breytenbach men come at her with their guns, she needs to kill them.”

  “No, she doesn’t. The last thing we need is dead bodies.”

  I offered Fat-Boy a cigarette, and he cupped an enormous slab of a hand around the flame as I lit it.

  “It’s only you that thinks she’s sexy,” said Fat-Boy. “You know that?”

  “Nonsense, I’ve seen your lazy eye wake up and get out of bed when it sees her.”

  “Too skinny,” declared Fat-Boy. “I like something to hold on to.”

  “You’re the one that calls her sex-bomb.”

  “That’s to make you jealous. What’s going on with you two, anyways? The colonel says you’re not doing the dirty anymore.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  Fat-Boy gave me a big smile full of white teeth. “Dead giveaway,” he said. “Actually, the colonel didn’t say a thing, but your answer just told me all I need to know.”

  “Put it out,” called Chandler as he emerged from the warehouse. “There’s no smoking in my car.”

  “We going somewhere, Colonel?” Fat-Boy dropped his cigarette and ground it into the wet surface of the quay.

  “We’ve got a ship’s captain to go see, Fat-Boy. Angel, I want you and your girlfriend out of here by sundown, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Colonel,” I said, and dropped my cigarette so that I could stand at attention.

  “Get inside and clear up,” snapped Chandler. “What did you not understand about us needing to clear out of here?”

  “Of course, Colonel,” I said.

  Chandler looked at me sharply, as if he knew that even though I’d said ‘Colonel’, I was thinking ‘Captain’.

  The warehouse seemed empty when I went back inside. I locked the door with the rusty old padlock as the sound of Chandler’s Jaguar faded. Robyn had finished packing her guns and there was no sign of her. The air was thick with the dust Chandler had scattered over the kitchen to make it look unused, and I stood for a moment trying not to sneeze, then heard a metallic clicking noise from above.

  A steel platform was suspended from the top beam at the pitch of the roof. It had a motor in a metal enclosure, and chains which ran through pulleys with heavy iron hooks dangling from them. I glimpsed Robyn’s head between the bars of the cage. I had forgotten that she had used the cage as a storage space for her collection of weapons.

  “You going to give me a hand?” she called. “Or just stand there gaping?”

  I climbed the steel ladder encased with hoops that led to a gantry fifteen metres above the floor. As I clattered along the wobbly gantry, I saw Robyn was dismantling her McMillan TAC-50, a sniper’s weapon that she had bought on the black market as a gift for Brian when they announced their engagement. She looked up at me as I approached, but her hands kept busy with her routine. A finger confirmed the chamber was empty, shifted the safety into fire position, then she pulled on the trigger to within a hair of the release. Her eyes smiled at me as she gave the final squeeze, so subtle that if I’d been watching her finger, I wouldn’t have seen it move. The trigger hammer gave a tiny, well-oiled click, and Robyn looked down to move the safety back into the safe position.

  “Brian teach you that?” I asked. The McMillan had been his gun of choice.

  Robyn laughed. It was an absurd suggestion, because by the time she met Brian she had known enough about weapons to teach him a thing or two. In fact when Brian had told me in his thick Yorkshire accent that he had found himself a “witch of a felon” I hadn’t realised that he really did mean that she was a felon. But she was: she had spent three years locked away in a medium-security jail for her part in a botched bank robbery. Brian enjoyed telling that story because of the mild sense of shock that it caused, but he would immediately follow up with the explanation that she had been young and had fallen in with a bad crowd. He rarely explained that Robyn had been carrying three handguns, one of which was the Glock she had stolen from her step-father when she ran away from home. And he skipped the bit about her having learnt to use the Glock by shooting at photocopied print-outs of that same step-father pinned to the target. And he didn’t explain that the step-father had sexually abused her from when she had been only eleven years old. He shared those details with me only when he started trying to find reasons for the difficulties that had appeared in their relationship, and the two of us had settled down with a bottle of Jack Daniels in an effort to figure it out.

  “I told the colonel about the curse on the gold,” said Robyn as she packed the pieces of the gun into her tog-bag.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said I shouldn’t drink so much.” She looked up and smiled. “And he said the gold had nothing to do with Brian’s death.”

  “He’s right about that.”

  “But that’s the thing about the Midas curse. It all seems unrelated, but it’s not.”

  “Midas curse?”

  “You don’t know the story of King Midas?”

  “I thought he had the gift of turning anything to gold. Not a curse.”

  “It was a gift that became a curse. He turned his own daughter into gold and then turned his food to gold. He almost starved because of it, and he lost his only child.”

  “Almost starved?”

  “He was granted the gift of washing himself of the curse. So he washed away the ability to turn things into gold.”

  “And you’re saying our pile of gold is a gift that will become a curse?”

  “No, I’m saying it has always been a curse.”

  “So we’re thieves with the Midas touch?”

  “Yes,” said Robyn, but she was not joking – her eyes were serious. “Everything we touch turns to gold, but we’ll end up starving to death.”

  Robyn lifted the heavy tog-bag, and the movement caused our suspended platform to swing and the chain to the motor produced a series of musical clinks which echoed about the vast space. Then suddenly they were overwhelmed by a loud banging of metal on the corrugated iron door of our warehouse. Robyn looked up at me, but before she could say anything, the banging repeated with increased urgency.

  Chandler had been right to be in a rush to clear out – and we had taken too long. Breytenbach’s men had arrived.

  Twelve

  The sound of the banging echoed about the warehouse like a spirit playing chase in the vast space. There was another silence for a few seconds, and then the banging came again. Roby
n laid the tog-bag down gently and I heard some metallic clicks as she reassembled the McMillan. It was an overly powerful gun for the small space of the warehouse. But Robyn was not one for subtlety, and she might not have been wrong: Breytenbach’s men would bring their Vektor R5s. Nevertheless, I drew my Glock from its holster – less powerful but easier and quicker to use. I preferred to be nimble, particularly when trapped on a small metal platform fifteen metres above the ground.

  As the third round of bangs faded away, we heard the single sharp blow of something heavy against the door: they were trying to break open the rusted padlock. It took five blows, the last followed by the clinking of bits of the lock as they fell to the ground.

  Then came the scraping of the door, and the gloomy space of the warehouse filled with a golden light that swelled as the setting sun peeked inside. The light dipped for a moment as if someone was fiddling with the fader – it flickered three times – and hard boots beat a syncopated rhythm across the floor. They stopped in unison as they encountered the kitchen. There was a pause filled with surprised murmuring, and then some barked orders in a native language. Robyn and I leaned forward to get a better look. There were three men wearing the black uniform of Breytenbach’s army, and carrying the usual R5s. Two of them were starting to work their way across the warehouse floor, searching haphazardly by lifting tarpaulins, kicking at paint cans and poking warily at the shelves of shipbuilding tools. The third focused his attention on the kitchen and started using the butt of his Vektor to break the glass hood of the cooking island.

  A moment later the warehouse darkened as something large filled the door frame.

  “You’ll not find it like that,” announced a bellowing, slightly familiar voice. “What are you? A bunch of monkeys?”

  “You said they hid it here,” protested the man who had been attacking the cooking island.

  “I said they were hiding here, not hiding the gold here – didn’t the white man teach you English?”

  I realised then why the voice sounded familiar. He spoke with the same accent as Fat-Boy – the musical lilt of the Xhosa people. Most of Breytenbach’s private army had been recruited in the north, and they spoke either Zulu or Sotho. Presumably they were speaking English because it was the only language they had in common. There was a sulky silence into which soft footsteps padded. I leaned slowly to the side until I could see the shadow of the new arrival in the golden light spread across the floor. It was not the thin shadow of an able-bodied member of a private army. It appeared almost circular. I leaned a little further, and for a split second I wondered why Fat-Boy was standing there. The body shape was similar, the skin colour matched, but the scowl and the heavy jowls were not those of Fat-Boy. He was also not dressed in Fat-Boy’s baggy jeans and stretched T-shirt, but looked as if he had just wrapped up a meeting of the board – a dark suit hanging open and a white cotton shirt with the collar still twisted from when he’d removed the tie. The platform Robyn and I were on swayed as our centre of gravity shifted. A chain hanging from the motor gave a small clank. Robyn grabbed at it and held it as I pulled back. The big man glanced up as I ducked out of sight.

  “Where are your friends?” asked Breytenbach’s man.

  I could still see the shadow of the man with Fat-Boy’s build and I saw the hand he held up as if to silence his companion.

  “We must wait for them to come back,” he said, but the shadow figure was gesturing urgently in contrast to the calm voice, pointing up to the roof.

  “How do we know you’ve not been lying to us?” demanded Breytenbach’s man in a voice that was developing a nasal whine as his anxiety mounted. He clearly didn’t speak the same sign language as the big man in the suit.

  “Get your men to fix that lock,” said the big man, “and we wait for my friends to return.” His deep voice was still calm, but his shadow gestured more urgently.

  “I give the orders here – why don’t you tell us where the gold is?”

  “I told your boss – they’ve kept the location of the gold a secret from me. We need to wait for them to return. Get your men ready.”

  There was a silence, and then the other two members of the Breytenbach squad stepped out of the shadows and lifted their R5s to their shoulders. I guessed the big man’s gestures had finally penetrated. A moment later, a burst of gunfire deafened us in the echoing space. Several bullets ricocheted off our metal platform and their impetus caused us to swing a little. The chain clanked and holes opened up in the corrugated roof above us, pencils of light piercing the dark space. The leader of Breytenbach’s squad issued orders in their language, and from the shifting of the shadows on the floor it was clear he was sending his men to investigate.

  “Raise your arms,” he said in a pinched voice.

  The circular shadow of the man in the suit raised his arms.

  “You’ve got it wrong,” said the big man, in a soothing voice which emphasised the mounting tension.

  The leader gave no response. I turned to watch the ladder that provided access to the gantry and our suspended platform. A moment later, the black cap of a soldier appeared. He had his R5 slung over his shoulder, and it caught on a steel hoop and blocked his ascent. I felt Robyn’s weight shift as she brought the McMillan around to point at him.

  “You said it was here,” said the leader, his voice rising to a shout.

  “I said they were hiding here,” said the big man slowly, as if he was speaking to a child.

  The soldier climbing the ladder had backed down a few rungs in order to free his R5, and he turned to grasp the gun. Although he was entirely focused on his gun, we were in full view, and if he looked up, he would see us. Robyn didn’t hesitate; she squeezed the trigger of the McMillan. There was the sharp crack of the shot, then the metallic clang of the bullet striking the metal of the ladder, and the man dropped from view. A moment later came the thump and cry of pain as he hit the floor six metres below. On his way down he had struck the second man who had been climbing behind him, and had dislodged him, so that he dangled now, one hand clinging to a rung, his legs flailing about. Our platform was swinging because Robyn had turned to find the leader, but I took careful aim and saw the burst of blood as the bullet from my Glock shattered the hand the man was dangling from.

  Robyn was trying to get a line on the leader, who still had his weapon pointed at the big man, but had turned to look with amazement at the fallen figures of his two comrades. Robyn cursed as our platform swung back and hid him from view.

  The leader shouted something, and as our platform swung I glimpsed the big man as he too shouted. No calm in his voice now. The leader turned back to him, and that was when the big man made his mistake. He lowered his right hand suddenly and slipped it into his jacket. The soldier reacted instinctively and squeezed the trigger of his Vektor. A single burst shook the air, followed by a silence which was broken by a shocked gurgling sound from the big man. He dropped to his knees like a noble beast being brought down. He looked at his chest. Blood was already blossoming across his cotton shirt.

  Robyn had her line on the leader. She fired three shots in rapid succession. The first struck him in the arm holding his Vektor. His whole body jumped to the side from the blow and his arm flung out as if he was tossing the gun away, but the strap pulled it back to his side where the other arm instinctively grasped at it. The second shot caught him in the forearm and the Vektor fell to the floor with a loud clatter. The third shot pierced a boot, causing him to jump back and fall with a thump onto the concrete.

  Our platform swung back to reveal the other two soldiers struggling at the foot of the ladder. One of them was sitting against the wall, cradling a shattered hand against his chest. The other was trailing blood from his leg as he crawled to his Vektor, which had fallen a few metres from him. I fired again and hit his other leg. He spun about on the floor like a toy windmill, and the warehouse filled with the sound of his screams.

  We swung back, and the platform kicked under us. The leader had ret
rieved his Vektor and was using his good arm to fire at us like he was spraying water from a hose.

  I put my third bullet into his forehead. His body dropped back onto the concrete floor like a sack of stones. The remaining two soldiers beneath us scampered across to the open doorway. I raised my Glock, but Robyn caught my eye and shook her head. A reflection off the water painted a sudden pattern against the far wall beyond her, and one of the fleeing soldiers fired a burst at it, which opened up more holes in the corrugated metal wall. A moment later we heard the jeep engine accelerating, tyres kicking up loose gravel, and then there was a deathly silence, broken by a gasping cough from the big man below.

  He was still alive when I reached him, but there was nothing I could do to save him. He had lost a lot of blood, which formed a pool around him on the concrete floor, and it filled his lungs. His eyes were wide and confused, pleading for help. He tried to speak when I crouched beside him, so I cupped a hand under his shoulder to turn him so that his lungs could drain. But no words came out, and I knew he had only a few moments – I’ve seen enough death to recognise the signs. I moved my hand to his head, hoping that it might provide some comfort in those last moments. I’m not sure that it did.

  I found the man’s wallet in his jacket pocket, and inside that were some business cards. His name was Vusi Madikwe and his card proclaimed him to be an ‘executive consultant’. He had no weapon inside his jacket, or anywhere else on his body.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him,” said Robyn, who was breathing in quick gasps and looking at the dead body of the leader of Breytenbach’s squad.

  “You didn’t,” I said, pocketing the business card. “I killed him, and I meant to.”

  Robyn closed her mouth and calmed her breathing, staring at me as if I had said something to make her angry. For all her experience with guns, death still shook her. I reached an arm out and turned her away from the bodies.