Shoot the Bastards

by Michael Stanley

  * * *

  On the dot of four, Crys heard Petrus fiddling with the door bolt.

  She had the cash in her hand, and as he walked in, she held it out. He stepped forward eagerly to take it and, as soon as he was close enough, she did what she’d done to Pockface. She kicked him in the balls as hard as she could. As he doubled over, crying out in pain, she kneed him in the face, and he collapsed to the ground. Crys pulled his gun out of its holster.

  “Roll on your stomach,” she said, holding the gun to his head.

  “Fuck. What you doing? Not the plan!”

  “Do it!” She prodded him with the gun, and at last he obeyed.

  “Put your hands behind your back.”

  She put a foot on his neck, grabbed one arm, and tied the end of a sheet strip to it. She tied the other end to the other arm. It wasn’t very secure, but it would hold him for a while.

  “Tell me where Bongani Chikosi is,” she ordered.

  Petrus didn’t answer.

  She put the gun to his head again. “Where is he?”

  “In the other section,” he whined. “Left from reception. Second cell.”

  She took the second strip and stuffed it in his mouth, keeping it in place by tying the third around his head.

  Finally, she took his keys off their chain and his cell phone from his pocket. She left five hundred dollars on the table—that would take some explaining when they rescued him—and closed and locked the cell door.

  Crys leaned against the door for a moment, her heart racing. She’d just assaulted a police officer—she could hear him struggling and groaning in the cell behind her. She could be putting herself at even more risk than she was already. But elation pulsed through her too. She’d got the better of Petrus, and she was free.

  She ran to reception, stepping as lightly and quietly as she could. Then she took the corridor to the left. Petrus had told the truth—the whole station was deserted at night. After a couple of wrong turns, she found the other cells. She looked through the peephole of the second, but it was too dark to tell who was in it.

  Crys tapped on the door. “Bongani,” she whispered as loud as she dared. She didn’t want any other prisoners to hear. “Wake up. It’s Crys.”

  She heard a movement from the back of the cell. Then footsteps on the floor. “Crys? What are you doing here?”

  Crys fiddled with the keys until she found the right one and opened the door.

  “We’ve got to get out of here. Mabula is working with Pockface. I saw him here in the police station.”

  “Mabula…the Portuguese guy...” Bongani was confused. “How did you escape?”

  “I’ll tell you later. We need to find our stuff.”

  “You go. I have to stay.”

  “Are you mad? Mabula wants that money. He’ll lock you away forever. If he lets you live.”

  “I can’t go. He’s got nothing to hold me on right now. But if I break out, he’ll have the whole country looking for me. He’ll go after my family.”

  “Bongani. What are you thinking? It was you who said that Mabula would kill for the money. Do you think he’s just going to let you sit in jail, safe and sound? Next thing, your wife will be in the next cell. Then your kids. Until you tell him. We’ve got to get away from him.”

  It took a few moments for Bongani to decide. Crys understood that he was torn between the same bad options she had wrestled with.

  “Okay. I pray it’s the right thing to do,” he said at last.

  Crys grabbed his arm and pulled him along. They’d lost too much time already. Petrus might spit out the gag and start shouting any minute.

  Back at reception, they searched around for their ID documents and the Land Rover keys, but had no luck. Then they tried Mabula’s office, but all the drawers were locked.

  “Do you know Mr. Malan’s cell number?” Crys asked.

  Bongani nodded and punched in the number for her on Mabula’s desk phone. She reached Anton’s voicemail—unsurprising at four-thirty in the morning—and left him a message explaining what had happened and that they’d contact him again later.

  “Crys, you’d better dump the gun,” Bongani said when she’d finished. “It’s too dangerous to keep it.”

  Crys hesitated. It could be useful, but Bongani was right—with it, they’d not just be escapees, they’d be armed fugitives. She left the gun along with Petrus’s keys on the desk.

  “Okay. You know this town. Where should we go?”

  “Do you have any money?”

  Crys nodded.

  “The minibus taxi rank. I know where it is. We have to get out of Giyani. Then we can phone Mr. Malan again. He’ll help us.”

  Making sure there was no one outside the main door of the station, they slipped out and headed through the gate onto the street. It was still dark outside, just the odd street lamp and the moon lighting the way.

  Bongani was already on the street, and Crys was closing the gate after herself, when she was grabbed from behind. A rough hand was placed over her mouth.

  “Don’t make noise, or I hurt you bad.” Then the man took his hand away and twisted Crys around roughly so that she was looking into his scarred face.

  He must have seen her shock because he laughed. “Your friend, Petrus. My friend too…”

  Chapter 20

  Keeping his gun thrust hard against her head, Pockface dragged Crys, struggling, toward a white pickup. Even in her desperate state, she made a connection. Bongani had sent Michael to follow a white bakkie. Could it be the same one?

  The thought chilled her to the bone.

  When they reached the vehicle, Bongani was already there, held with a gun to his head too, by the man who’d been with Pockface at the camp.

  Bongani and Crys looked at each other for a moment before pillowcases were pulled over their heads and they were shoved onto the back seat. She felt Pockface climb in next to her.

  “No noise,” he hissed and jammed the gun in her ribs. Crys winced.

  She was struggling to breathe and her heart was racing. Why had she trusted Petrus? She should have guessed he would take bribes from others if he took one from her. She couldn’t see her way out of this. All options were blocked, and she’d dragged Bongani with her as well.

  As they drove, she tried to steady her breathing. If she drew in too deep a breath, the cloth of the pillowcase covered her mouth, and she felt like she was suffocating. She tried to retreat to the calm place she went during her meditation. But the gun in her side and the rocking of the car made it impossible.

  After about ten minutes, they stopped. She guessed it must be on the outskirts of Giyani or maybe a bit further. There was no noise and no light.

  She heard Pockface open the door and get out of the car. Then he grabbed her arm and pulled her after him. She could hear the other man dealing with Bongani. She tripped and fell, wrenching her arm, her chin hitting the ground with a sickening jolt that made her teeth slam together.

  “Get up!” Pockface yanked on her arm. A shaft of pain shot through her shoulder. She staggered to her feet, and he pulled at her again.

  A few moments later, the pillowcase was ripped from her head.

  They were inside now. There was a light bulb that blinded her, preventing her from seeing anything else. She screwed up her eyes against the light. Pockface’s accomplice grabbed her arm and tied a rope to her wrist. Then he pulled it behind her back and grabbed the other one. Again, pain lanced through her shoulder, and she closed her eyes.

  When she opened them, she saw Pockface pull the pillowcase off Bongani’s head. Like an uncaged cat, Bongani burst into action, lashing out and knocking the gun from Pockface’s hand and smashing his fist into his face. Pockface yelled, and his accomplice let Crys go, darting over to Pockface’s aid.

  Crys tried to run, but he was too fast for her.
Instead of helping Pockface, he turned and grabbed her sore shoulder. She screamed in agony. The man stuck the gun to her head.

  “You stop or she dies!” he yelled at Bongani.

  She struggled, but he held her tightly

  At this, Bongani gave up, and Pockface grabbed his gun from the floor. His cheek was bleeding, but he was smiling. Taking his time, he stood square in front of Bongani and punched him in the stomach so hard he doubled over. Then hit him hard on the side of the head with the gun. Bongani collapsed, and Pockface kicked him in the stomach and then in the head.

  “Stop it! Leave him alone!” Crys screamed.

  Bongani wasn’t moving now. Pockface kicked him again, then stepped back and wiped the blood off his face.

  “Fucker! I need him now, but kill later.” He added something in Portuguese to the other man, who yanked Crys’s arms behind her and tied her wrists tightly.

  Pockface approached her, patted her down and pulled Petrus’s cell phone from her pocket. He dropped it onto the floor and stamped on it several times until it was in small pieces.

  Crys looked around. They were in a small room with two wooden chairs and a bed pushed against the wall. The only window had heavy curtains. She guessed it was barred. This wasn’t a bedroom. It was a cell.

  “Sit!” Pockface pushed her toward one of the chairs.

  As she sat down, he pulled her arms back so her hands were behind the back of the chair. Her shoulder throbbed.

  Finally, he tied her feet together and to the chair. She wasn’t going anywhere. This was so much worse than the police cell. She was sure now she was going to be tortured. The pain in her shoulder seemed to travel into her head, and she couldn’t focus on anything else.

  They dragged Bongani to another chair and tied him up too. He slumped forward.

  Was he dead? She couldn’t tell. And she could soon be dead too. The realization helped clear her mind, holding off the agony for a second.

  “Where the money?” Pockface pushed the gun into her forehead.

  She shrank from it. “I don’t know about any money.”

  He slapped her across the face. She was so dazed she almost didn’t feel the pain.

  “Where did you hide money?”

  She shook her head. “The man from Vietnam must have hidden it, like I told you,” Crys said, her words slurred now. “It must be near the plane.”

  He slapped her again. Harder this time. She slumped sideways.

  “Tell me!”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” she shouted hoarsely, bracing for another slap.

  Instead, he took a couple of steps back and aimed his gun at her head. “I kill you if you don’t tell. Then I make the fucker tell anyway.”

  Her head was swimming as she tried to think what she should do. If he really thought she knew, he wouldn’t shoot her. He’d beat her up until she told him. But if she told him and he found the money, he couldn’t afford to let them live.

  Crys knew—as she’d known all along—that they couldn’t tell anyone where the money was.

  She shook her head. “Please…I don’t know…” Her face was wet. She wasn’t sure whether it was tears or blood. She wished more than ever that they’d left the damned briefcase in the bush where it could be found. “Please…please don’t shoot.”

  “I count to three, then shoot.”

  “I don’t know. Please.”

  “One…”

  With an effort Crys focused on his face. All she saw was anger.

  “Two…”

  “I…DON’T…KNOW…” she screamed.

  “Three.”

  And he fired. The sound was deafening in the small room.

  But she was alive. He’d missed.

  She looked at him. All she could see was him laughing, but she couldn’t hear a sound, and there was no humor in his eyes. At last her ears began to clear and she heard him say, “Good joke. No use to me if you dead right now.”

  She collapsed into her restraints. She’d gambled right. He couldn’t kill them.

  The two men walked to the door. Then one turned.

  She raised her head.

  “Later, not so easy,” Pockface said before they went out and locked the door.

  * * *

  Crys struggled to free her hands, but she only managed to make things worse. The pain in her shoulder had become excruciating and, with her hands tied, she couldn’t find a position that relieved it. And her wrists were burning from the chafing of the rope.

  After a while, she gave up. She was there to stay. She breathed deeply, unable to focus on anything but pain.

  There was a groan, and then a weak call: “Crys?”

  She roused herself. “Bongani… are you okay?”

  “Everything hurts, but I think so.”

  “Bongani, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I should’ve left you at the police station like you wanted.”

  “I decided for myself…” There was a long pause. Then he spoke again. “We have to get out of here somehow.”

  “Our only hope is Mabula, and that’s a long shot. If he’s in cahoots with Pockface, he’ll think he’s been double-crossed. And if he’s not… Either way, he’ll do everything he can to get us back…to get his share of the money.”

  She saw Bongani nodding; his head looked heavy. “I think we’re still in Giyani, but if you’re right, it will take the police time to find us. And I don’t think we have that much time.”

  It was true. They were soon going to find out how far Pockface and his accomplice would be willing to go to get the money, or whether their frustration would get the better of them.

  “We’re going to have to tell them,” Bongani said.

  She sat up now, staring at him in surprise. “They’ll kill us as soon as we do! It’ll be like pulling the trigger ourselves.”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe they’ll take us back to the camp with them—or at least one of us. That buys some time for Mabula to find us. And maybe we’ll get lucky again—like with the ellies.”

  She didn’t think that would work twice. And if they gave them the GPS, they might just kill them at once. She didn’t know what to do. The situation seemed hopeless.

  * * *

  Time passed slowly—Crys guessed it was about an hour, but it could have been less, it could have been more. The pain in her body was almost unbearable. She must have fallen into unconsciousness, because every now and again, she came round, roused by the sound of a phone ringing, followed by muffled, shouted conversations. She couldn’t make out any words, but she could tell that it was Pockface yelling at someone.

  At last the door opened, and he strode in. His face was flushed, and he was waving his gun around as though he didn’t know who to shoot first. But he ignored Bongani and said to Crys, “Boss very angry. Wants me to break every bone till you tell us where money is.”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” she croaked.

  “Doesn’t matter. Must do what he says.”

  “Don’t touch her!” Bongani yelled.

  Pockface smiled. “Maybe the fucker likes you, hey?” He leaned over and ran his hand over her face, making her pull away. “You tell me now, pretty girl.”

  When she didn’t reply, he walked behind her and grabbed one of her wrists. She clenched her fingers as tightly as she could. He pried her little finger open and bent it back. She writhed and struggled but had no leverage. He bent it further.

  Then there was a crack. And agony so intense it erased all the other pain.

  Úm ma ni bát ni hồng. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng.

  This time Crys shouted her mantra. And Bongani was screaming for Pockface to stop. His voice seemed to come from a long way away.

  Then Pockface was in front of her a
gain, slapping her hard across the face, over and over. “You have many bones. I give you five minutes to change your mind. If no answer, I break them one by one. Very painful. I will enjoy.” He headed for the door. “You beautiful woman today. Tomorrow not so beautiful.”

  The door slammed, and Crys heard the key turn in the lock. She clenched her teeth to fight the searing pain. It didn’t help. She realized that tears were streaming down her face. She was sobbing uncontrollably. They weren’t going to make it out of this alive.

  * * *

  “We have to tell him, Crys,” Bongani was saying. “I’ll tell him. I can’t watch him hurt you like that. If we tell him, we may get some more time.”

  She couldn’t think straight. If they told Pockface where the money was, he’d kill them. If they didn’t, he’d break her bones one by one. She let out a big sob. Maybe Bongani was right. They should tell Pockface and hope the end was quick. It was their only choice.

  But another part of her mind fought that idea. She didn’t want to die. Somehow, she had to buy some more time. Somehow, she had to survive.

  The door opened and Pockface walked back in.

  With difficulty she held her head up and said, “I’ll tell you where the money is. I’ll take you to it. But you must promise to let us go. We won’t tell anyone.”

  He looked at her and laughed his loud, mocking laugh. “You funny.”

  She heard a ringtone. Pockface pulled a phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen.

  He put it to his ear. “Good news. She tell me where money is.” He smirked into her face. “I go now to get it.”

  He listened for a few moments, then turned away and walked to the window.

  “Not next Sunday,” he said, looking serious now. “Sunday after. Need eight men.”

  He listened again. She could hear a tinny voice, but she couldn’t make out what it was saying.

  “Three,” said Pockface. “Yes, three. And more money. Same.” He nodded as he listened. “Okay. See you soon.” He disconnected, pocketed the phone, and turned to Crys.

  “Good you decide to tell. So, where is it?”

  “It’s in the bush near the plane. I can’t tell you exactly because all the trees look the same. I have to find the GPS. The coordinates are in there. Then I can take you.”