Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers

by Wilbur Smith

  Only the nearside wheels of the Landcruiser had purchase on the tarmac surface, the off-side wheels were on the verge of the highway, throwing up a spray of loose gravel, dangerously close to the edge that fell away steeply into the Zambezi valley below them.

  “Danny, you mad bastard,” Jock yelled angrily. “You’ll get us both killed. I’ve had enough of this bullshit, man.”

  The Landcruiser hit one of the concrete road-markers with its reflective cat’s-eye that warned of the dangerous drop. With a crash they snapped off the road sign, and swayed dangerously, but Daniel held grimly to the outside berth and inched up alongside the cab of the lumbering truck.

  Gomo stared down at the Landcruiser from the vantage point of the high cab. Daniel leant forward to see him, lifted one hand from, the wheel and made a peremptory hand signal for him to pull over and stop. Gomo nodded and obeyed, swinging the truck back to the left, giving way to the Landcruiser.

  “That’s more like it,” Daniel grated, and edged back into the space alongside the truck that Gomo had opened for him. He had fallen into the trap and let down his guard. The two vehicles were still grinding along side by side, and Gomo suddenly spun the driving-wheel hard back in the opposite direction. Before Daniel could react, the truck crashed into the side of the Landcruiser and a shower of sparks blazed from the violent contact of steel against steel. The weight and momentum of the huge truck flung the smaller vehicle back over the verge.

  Daniel fought the wheel to try and resist the thrust but the struts flew through his fingers and he thought for a moment that his left thumb was dislocated. The pain numbed him to the elbow. He hit the brakes hard and the Landcruiser slowed and allowed the truck to pull ahead, with a shriek of metal between the two vehicles as they disengaged. The Landcruiser came to rest, half over the embankment with one front wheel hanging over the cliff face.

  Daniel wrung his injured hand, tears of agony welling into his eyes. Gradually he felt strength return, and with it his anger. By now the truck was five hundred yards ahead and pulling away rapidly.

  With the Landcruiser in four-wheel drive, Daniel flung her into reverse. Only three of her wheels had purchase, but she heaved herself gamely back from the drop. Her near side was scraped down to bare gleaming metal where the truck had struck her.

  “Okay,” Daniel snarled at Jock. “Do you want any more proof? That was a deliberate attempt to write us off. That bastard Gomo is guilty as hell.”

  The truck had disappeared from view around the next curve of the highway, and Daniel hurled the Landcruiser in pursuit. “Gomo isn’t going to let us get ahead of him,” Daniel told Jock. “I’m going to get on to that truck and take him out of it.”

  “I want no more part of this business,” Jock muttered. “Leave it to the police now, damn it.”

  Daniel ignored his protest and pushed the Landcruiser to its top speed. As they came through the bend the refrigerator truck was only a few hundred yards ahead. The gap between them closed swiftly.

  Daniel studied the other vehicle. The scrape marks down its side were not as extensive as the damage to the Landcruiser and Gomo was making better speed now as the slope of the hill eased away towards the crest of the escarpment.

  The double rear doors into the cargo hold were locked with a heavy vertical bar. The airtight seals were black rubber around the edge of the doors. On the nearside of the hull a steel ladder gave access to the flat roof where the cooling fans of the refrigeration equipment were housed in fibreglass pods. “I’m going to get on that ladder,” Daniel told Jock. “As soon as I’m gone, you slide over and grab the wheel.”

  “Not me, man. I told you, I’ve had a gutful. Count me out.”

  “Fine.” Daniel did not even glance at him. “Don’t steer! Let her crash and you with her. What’s one stupid prick less in this naughty world?”

  Daniel was judging the speed and distance between the two converging vehicles. He opened his side door. The retaining catch on the door had been removed to allow unimpeded photography through the opening so the door hinged fully open, to lie flat against the side of the bonnet.

  Steering with one hand, Daniel leaned out of the open door. “Take her, she’s yours,” he shouted at Jock.

  Daniel hauled himself up on to the roof, the pain in his thumb forgotten. At that moment Gomo once again swung across to block the Landcruiser. As the two vehicles came together Daniel leaped across the narrow gap. He caught the rung of the side ladder and hauled his lower body out from between the steel sides of the vehicles as they clashed together again.

  He had a glimpse of Jock at the driver’s wheel, pale-faced and sweating in the reflected headlights. Then the Landcruiser swerved away and fell behind the white truck, Jock steering it erratically, letting the slope slow it, finally bringing it to a halt on the side of the road.

  Daniel clambered upwards, hand over hand, agile as an ape on the narrow steel rungs, and reached the flat roof of the truck. The fan housing was in the centre of the roof and a low grab-rail ran the length of the hull, fore and aft. On hands and knees Daniel worked his way forward, falling flat on his belly and clinging grimly to the rail when the centrifugal force of the truck through the bends threatened to throw him from the roof.

  It took him fully five minutes to get forward above the articulated driver’s cab. He was pretty certain that Gomo had not seen him come aboard. The bulk of the cargo hold would have blocked his rear view. By now he must be fairly confident that he had discouraged the driver of the Landcruiser, for its headlights were no longer visible on the empty road behind the truck.

  Daniel worked his way gingerly across to the passenger side of the cab and peered over. There was a running-board below the passenger door, and the sturdy wing mirror standing out from the side of the cab would give him a secure handhold. It only remained to find out if Gomo had taken the precaution of locking the passenger door. There was no reason why he should, Daniel comforted himself, as he looked ahead down the beams of the truck’s powerful headlights.

  He waited until the road turned left. The pull would hold him against the side of the cab, rather than throwing him clear. He slid over the side and clutched at the wing mirror. For a moment his feet were kicking in air, then they hit the wide steel running-board andfound a hold. He was facing inwards, hanging on to the mirror and peering in through the side window of the cab.

  Gomo turned a startled face towards him and shouted something. He tried to reach across to the locking handle of the door, but the full width of the passenger seat separated him from it and the truck slewed wildly and nearly left the road, for Gomo to grab the wheel again.

  Daniel jerked open the side door and threw himself into the cab, sprawling half across the seat. Gomo punched at his face. The fist caught Daniel under the left eye and stunned him for only a moment, then Daniel seized the handle of the vacuum brake control and heaved it full on.

  All the gigantic wheels of the truck locked simultaneously and, in a shrieking billow of blue smoke and scorching rubber, the truck skidded and swayed down the highway. Gomo was hurled forward out of his seat. The steering-wheel caught him in the chest and his forehead cracked against the windshield with enough force to star the glass.

  Then the next wild swing of the vehicle flung him back, only semi-conscious, into his seat. Daniel reached across him and seized the steering-wheel. He held the truck straight until it came to a halt, half off the highway, with its offside wheels in the drainage ditch.

  Daniel switched off the ignition and reached across Gomo to open the driver’s door. He grabbed Gomo’s shoulder and shoved him roughly out of the cab. Gomo fell the six feet to the ground and ended up on his knees. There was a lump the size and colour of a ripe fig in the centre of his forehead where he had hit the windscreen.

  Daniel jumped down and stooped to catch hold of the collar of his uniform tunic. “All right.” He twisted the collar like a garotte. “You killed Johnny Nzou and his family.”

  Gomo’s face was swellin
g and turning purple black in the vague light reflected from the truck’s headlamps. “Please, Doctor, I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?” His voice was a breathless whine as Daniel choked him.

  “You lying bastard, you are as guilty–”

  Gomo reached under the hem of his tunic. He wore a skinning knife in a leather sheath on his belt. Daniel heard the snap of the buckle as he released the retaining strap and caught the glint of the blade as it came free of the sheath. Daniel released his collar and jumped back as Gomo slashed upwards.

  He was only just quick enough, for the blade caught in a loose fold of his shirt and sliced it like a razor. He felt the sting of it as it nicked his skin and left a shallow graze across his lower ribs.

  Gomo came to his feet, holding the knife in a low underhand grip. “I kill you,” he warned, shaking his head to clear it, weaving the glittering blade in the typical knife-fighter’s on-guard stance, aiming the point at Daniel’s belly. “I kill you, you white shit-eater.” He feinted and cut in a sidearm slash and Daniel jumped back as the blade hissed an inch from his stomach.

  “Yah!” Gomo chuckled thickly. “Jump, you white baboon. Run, you little white monkey.” He cut again, forcing Daniel to give ground, and then rushed at him in a furious prolonged attack that forced Daniel to scramble and dance to keep clear of the darting blade.

  Gomo changed the angle of his thrusts, going lower, trying to cut Daniel’s thighs and cripple him, but always keeping the knife well covered so that Daniel could not grab at his wrist. Moving backwards, Daniel pretended to stumble on the rough footing. He dropped on one knee and put his left hand to the ground to regain his balance.

  “Yah”Gomo thought he saw his opportunity and came in to finish it, but Daniel had snatched up a handful of gravel and now he pushed off and used his momentum to hurl the handful into Gomo’s face. It was an old knife-fighter’s trick, but Gomo fell for it. The gravel slashed his eyes, and deflected his thrust. Instinctively he threw up his hands to cover his face, and Daniel seized his knife-hand and wrenched it over.

  They were chest to chest now, the knife held above their heads at the full stretch of their arms. Daniel snapped his head forward, butting for Gomo’s face, and caught him with the top of his forehead across the bridge of his nose. Gomo gasped and reeled backwards; and Daniel brought up his right knee into Gomo’s crotch, catching him squarely, crushing his genitals.

  This time Gomo screamed and his right arm lost its force.

  Daniel swung it down and slammed the knuckles of the clenched knife-hand against the steel side of the truck. The knife spun from Gomo’s nerveless fingers, and Daniel hooked him behind the heels with one foot, and heaved him backwards so that he tripped and went sprawling into the drainage ditch beside the highway.

  Before Gomo could recover his balance and rise, Daniel had snatched up the knife and was standing over him. He placed the point of the blade under Gomo’s chin and pricked the soft skin of his throat so that a single droplet of blood welled out on to the silver steel like a bright cabochon ruby.

  “Keep still,” he grated, “or I’ll cut your gizzard out, you murdering bastard.” It took a few seconds for him to recover his breath. “All right. Now get up, slowly.”

  Gomo came to his feet, clutching his injured genitals. Daniel forced him back against the side of the truck, the knife still pressed to his throat. “You’ve got the ivory in the truck,” he accused. “Let’s have a look at it, my friend.”

  “No,” Gomo whispered. “No ivory. I don’t know what you want. You are mad, man.”

  “Where are the keys to the hold?” Daniel demanded, and Gomo swivelled his eyes without moving his head.

  “In my pocket.”

  “Turn around, slowly,” Daniel ordered. “Face the side of the truck.” Gomo obeyed Daniel whipped his arm around his throat in a stranglehold from behind and shoved him forward so that his lumped forehead cracked against the steel hull. Gomo cried out with the pain. “Give me an excuse to do that again,” Daniel whispered in his ear. “The sound of your pig squeals is sweet music.”

  He pressed the knife into Gomo’s back at the level of his kidneys, just hard enough to let him feel the point of it through the cloth of his tunic. “Get the keys.” He pricked him a little harder and Gomo reached into his pocket. The keys tinkled as he brought them out.

  Still holding him in a strangler’s grip, Daniel frog-marched him to the rear of the truck.

  “The lock,” he snapped. Gomo fitted the key and the open mechanism turned easily. “Okay, now get the handcuffs off your belt,” he ordered. The steel manacles were regulation issue for all rangers on anti-poaching duty. “Snap one link over your right wrist,” Daniel told him. “And give me the key.”

  The cuffs dangling from his wrist, Gomo passed the key over his shoulder. Daniel slipped it into his pocket, then snapped the second link of the handcuffs over the steel bracing of the hull. Now Gomo was securely chained to the bodywork of the truck and Daniel released his grip on him and turned the locking handle of the rear double doors.

  He swung them open. A gust of icy air flowed out of the refrigerated interior and the smell of elephant meat was gamey and rank. The inside of the hold was in darkness, but Daniel jumped up onto the tailgate and groped for the lightswitch. The striplight on the roof flickered and then lit up the refrigerated compartment with a cold blue glow. Hunks of butchered carcass streaked and marbled with white fat hung from the rows of meat-hooks along the roof rails. There were tons of flesh, packed in so closely that Daniel could see only the first rank of carcasses. He dropped on his knees and peered into the narrow space below them. The steel floor was puddled with dripping blood, but that was all.

  Daniel felt a sudden swoop of dismay in his guts. He had expected to see piles of tusks packed beneath the hanging carcasses. He scrambled to his feet and pushed his way into the compartment. The cold took his breath away, and the touch of the raw frozen flesh as he brushed against it was loathsome and disgusting, but he wriggled his way deeper into the hold, determined to find where they had concealed the ivory.

  He gave up after ten minutes. There was no place where they could have hidden such a bulky cargo. He jumped down to ground level. His clothing was stained from contact with the raw meat. On hands and knees he crawled under the chassis of the truck, searching for a secret compartment.

  When he crawled out again, Gomo crowed at him gleefully, “No ivory, truck. I tell you, no ivory. You break government. You beat me. Plenty trouble for you now, white boy.”

  “We haven’t finished yet,” Daniel promised him. “We haven’t finished until you sing me a little song, the song about what you and the Chinaman did with the ivory.”

  “No ivory,” Gomo repeated, but Daniel grabbed his shoulder and swung him around to face the side of the truck.

  With one deft movement he unlocked the link of the cuffs from the bodywork, twisted both Gomo’s wrists up behind his back and locked them there. “Okay, brother,” he muttered grimly. “Let’s go where we have a little light to work in.” He lifted Gomo’s manacled hands up between his shoulderblades and marched him to the front of the truck. He handcuffed him to the front fender between the headlights. Both Gomo’s hands were pinned behind his back. He was helpless. “Johnny Nzou was my friend,” he told Gomo softly. “You raped his wife and his little daughters. You beat his son’s brains out all over the wall. You shot Johnny–”

  “No, not me. I know nothing,” Gomo screamed. “I kill nobody. No ivory, no kill.”

  Daniel went on quietly, as though Gomo had not interjected. “You must believe me when I tell you that I’m going to enjoy doing this. Every time you squeal, I will think of Johnny Nzou, and I’ll be glad.”

  “I know nothing. You mad.”

  Daniel slipped the knife-blade under Gomo’s belt and sliced through the leather. His khaki uniform trousers sagged down around his hips. Daniel pulled the waistband open and thrust the blade into his trouser top. “How many wives hav
e you got, Gomo?” he asked. “Four? Five? How many?” He slit through the waistband and Gomo’s trousers slid down around his ankles. “I think your wives want you to tell me about the ivory, Gomo. They want you to tell me about Johnny Nzou and how he died.”

  Daniel pulled the elasticised top of Gomo’s underpants down around his knees. “Let’s have a look at what you’ve got.” He smiled coldly. “I think your wives are going to be very unhappy, Gomo.” Daniel took the front tails of Gomo’s tunic and ripped them apart so violently that the buttons popped off and flew away into the darkness beyond the headlights. He pulled the separate flaps of the tunic back over Gomo’s shoulders, so that he was naked from the throat to the knees. Gomo’s body hair covered his chest and paunch with tight black balls of wool.

  His genitals were massively bunched at the base of his belly, nestled in their own flocculent pelt.

  “Sing me a little song about the ivory and Mr. Ning,” Daniel invited, and used the flat of the blade to separate Gomo’s dangling penis from the bunch. Gomo gasped and tried to shrink away from the cold metallic touch, but the radiator grill pressed against his back and he could not move.

  “Talk, Gomo, even if it is only to say goodbye to your own matondo.”

  “You are mad,” Gomo gasped. “I don’t know what you want.”

  “What I want,” said Daniel, “is to cut this off at the root.” The thick tube of flesh was draped over the flat of the blade. It looked like the trunk of a new-born elephant, long and dark, knotted with veins and with a wrinkled and hooded tip. “I want to cut this off and force you to kiss it goodbye, Gomo.”

  “I didn’t kill Johnny Nzou.” Gomo’s voice broke. “It wasn’t me.”

  “What about his wife and daughters, Gomo? Did you use this big ugly rod of yours on them?”