Silent kill, p.28
Silent Kill, page 28
part #1 of Extreme Series
‘OK, OK!’ The President pleaded through gritted teeth. He took his hand away from his ear and waved both hands in surrender. His ear was bright-red and stinging. ‘I’ll tell you – but please don’t kill me.’
Pretorius hardened his expression. ‘You were saying about the money.’
The President pursed his lips. His eyes shifted left and right. Pretorius shoved the Beretta against his face, the end of the muzzle digging hard into the plump folds of his cheek.
‘It’s in my office,’ the President said anxiously. ‘I keep everything in a safe there.’ Noticing the sceptical looks on his captors’ faces, he added quickly, ‘This is the Comoros, not Wall Street. The money is not safe in any bank account. I give you the code. Just let me go, eh?’ He looked desperately from Pretorius to Bald. His eyes lit up. ‘Fifty million US dollars. Cash. All yours.’
Pretorius stared at the President for a moment. Gears grinding inside his head. Then he nodded. ‘OK. In your office. Now.’ He turned to the two support soldiers. ‘Keep watch at the door.’
The President stumbled to his feet and started to climb the steps. Deet hit them ahead of him and swung open the door, his arms like a couple of battering rams. Pretorius nudged the President along with the pistol at his back. Close behind, Bald glanced back and saw Stegman shooting him a look like a Turk at a christening. Anxiety sank like teeth into Bald’s guts just then. He remembered the promise Stegman had made back at the RV. ‘This isn’t over. Once the island is taken, you’re dead.’
Killing Eli had been a necessity. The slave had had dirt on Bald and threatened to expose his identity. But by squashing one problem, Bald had created another for himself. Given the amount of khat chewed and the psychotic rages he was prone to, there was little doubt in Bald’s mind that Stegman would make good on his threat at the first opportunity. Unless Bald killed him first. The idea came out of nowhere, and caught him by surprise. But there it was, all the same. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. A pre-emptive strike, attacking Stegman when he least expected it, double-tapping the junkie fuck in the back of the head. The idea appealed to Bald, to his dark instincts. It was simply a matter of watching his back and waiting for the opportunity to present itself. Meanwhile he refocused on the mission.
The four men swept through the palace while the other remained on guard. Inside, the two-star theme continued. The floor was shiny marble, like something out of a Mr Muscle ad. The lobby was full of tacky decorations and potted plants. Mundane landscape paintings hung from the walls. At the far end glass doors led out to a garden the size of four tennis courts and bordered by exotic plants and marble busts on plinths. At one side of the doors a staircase led to the upper floor.
Bald scanned the lobby. Two doors to the left, two to the right. The President led the way towards the first one on the left. He turned the chunky knob and stepped inside the room. Pretorius and Bald followed.
They found themselves in the President’s office. It looked like the office of a small-claims lawyer. The walls were magnolia and lined with framed photographic portraits. Overhead an ornate ceiling fan whirred loudly. To the right stood a large, glass-fronted case full of leather-bound books. To one side of the window the Comorian flag draped from a pole, more colours on it than a float at a Gay Pride parade. In front of the window there was a large oak desk with a bronze engraved nameplate that said, ‘LE PRÉSIDENT’.
Bald instantly recognized the man sitting behind the desk.
Thirty-six
0922 hours.
Colonel Rashidi sat with his hands folded in front of him, Ray-Bans wrapped around his face. He was flanked by four soldiers, two either side of the desk. Thickset men decked out in woodland camo uniforms and armed with FN FAL automatic battle rifles. The clack-clack of rounds being chambered into rifles filled the air as the four soldiers loaded, then trained their rifles on Bald and Pretorius. Both men stood perfectly still. Nobody said a word for what seemed like a minute but was in fact no more than a few seconds. The rain beat down in a relentless dull hiss. For a long moment it was the only sound in the world, raindrops hitting at the window, tracing veins down the glass like melted gelatine.
Colonel Rashidi rose and strode confidently around to the front of the desk. He flashed a gold-toothed grin at Pretorius. His hefty frame threatened to burst out of his muddied white uniform. He snapped off his shades and looked the PMC chief hard in the eye.
‘Your guns,’ the Colonel said. ‘Lose them.’
Bald glanced at Pretorius. The guy looked like he was chewing gravel. The skin was pulled tight on his face, the air hissing through his flared nostrils. His jaw was visibly clenched. If Bald cupped his hand to his ear, he could probably hear the grating of his teeth. Footsteps sounded at his back. He turned to see two more soldiers nudging Stegman and Deet into the office at gunpoint. They stopped behind Bald and Pretorius, with the two support soldiers alongside them. The Colonel’s men had obviously been lying in wait inside the palace and had quickly rounded up the militiamen as soon as they were trapped. At least that explained why they hadn’t met any resistance once they’d breached the palace compound, Bald thought.
‘So good of you to join us,’ the Colonel said. He flicked his gaze back to Bald and Pretorius. ‘Now, don’t make me ask twice. Drop your weapons, or my men will kill you all.’
In a rapid motion Pretorius pulled the President close to him, the Beretta pressed tight against his cheek. ‘Anyone takes a shot, I blow his fucking brains out.’
The Colonel grinned. His cool, relaxed demeanour suggested a man totally in control of the situation. ‘Rashidi is taking over the country now. And he is glad that you bring brother President back to his loving embrace. He was hiding from me. We feared we had lost him. Now you have returned him, truly this is a sign from Allah. He means for Rashidi to be king.’
The President shook his head. Not an easy thing to do when a pistol muzzle is digging into your cheek. ‘But, brother Rashidi – you must spare me. Look, I brought these men to you. At the very least, I deserve your mercy.’
It was then that Bald understood what had happened. In a last desperate throw of the dice, the President had led Pretorius and his gang to Rashidi. Hoping that the Colonel would express his gratitude by sparing his life. Judging from the mean look on Rashidi’s face, the plan had backfired.
‘We will discuss your – ah, future – later, brother Khalifa. First Rashidi must take care of these dogs.’
Pushing the Beretta harder against the President’s face, Pretorius rasped, ‘You’re shit without me, Rashidi. I control the islands. I’m the one in charge – I run this ship.’
The Colonel appeared nonplussed. He calmly tucked the Ray-Bans into his top pocket and smiled faintly. ‘There are five hundred armed men on their way to the palace who would disagree with you.’
Pretorius went as white as a chalk cliff.
‘That’s right,’ the Colonel continued. He perched himself on the edge of the desk, rolling the palm of his hand over the contents of a gold-trimmed cigar box. ‘The Defence Force is under Rashidi’s command now. You do as Rashidi says. Like the game Simon Says. I tell you jump, you jump.’ The smile on his lips spread up to his ears. ‘I tell you die – you die.’
‘We had a deal.’
‘Had,’ said Rashidi, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Not have. See. Rashidi masters English, and it is not even his first language. I think I will make good President, yes? Now, hand over brother Khalifa and surrender your weapons.’
Pretorius shook his head, less out of disagreement than out of pure disbelief.
‘But my men – they were supposed to accompany you to the barracks.’
‘This is true. Is also true Rashidi had a change of heart.’ He plucked a cigar from the box and rolled it around in his hands. ‘I asked myself: “Rashidi, why you work for these white dogs and help them take over your country? Why you getting this much”’ – he pinched an inch of air between his thumb and forefinger – ‘“when you could be getting all this?”’ He swept his arm broadly across his chest.
Then the Colonel turned back to Pretorius. His smile was like a Rottweiler baring its teeth. If a Rottweiler decided to get its teeth capped with gold. ‘It is a very convincing argument. So I told myself, “I will take it all instead, and cut you and your friends out of the equation.” And here we are.’
‘What happened to my men?’ Pretorius said coldly. ‘The soldiers who escorted you to the barracks, where are they?’
‘Dead,’ the Colonel replied simply. ‘Dead, dead, dead.’ He said this in a cheerful tone of voice. ‘My men, they follow my orders very good. I told them, “Rip these men to pieces.” So, your men died like dogs. Soon your men at the airport will be dead too. Then I came here to install myself as the new leader. Rashidi wants to execute brother Khalifa live on TV, so all the people can see who is the new boss. But the President was hiding, like the coward piece of shit he is.’
‘At least I’m not a traitor.’ The President shook a fist at the Colonel. He was foaming at the mouth, beside himself with rage as the dark realization sank in that leading Pretorius into this trap wasn’t enough to save his life. ‘How dare you stab me in the back! After all I did for you and the General.’
‘Loyalty has a price, brother Khalifa. Sadly for you, you did not pay enough to buy Rashidi’s. The General’s, yes. But General Ben Said is dead. Gone away. Now there is only Rashidi.’ He turned back to Pretorius. ‘No more games. Put down the gun and give me the President.’
‘Let us go, then,’ Bald cut in. ‘That’s the deal. We give you the President, you get to chop him up or whatever floats your boat, and we’ll be on our merry way.’
The Colonel chuckled easily. He sniffed the cigar, inhaled the aroma deeply. Closed his eyes and sighed. Bald glared at him. In the corner of his eye he could see the President looking anxiously from Pretorius to the Colonel, his breathing shallow and erratic.
Then the Colonel walked back around the desk. ‘Look.’ He nodded at the window. Bald could see across the lawn to the palace gates, and beyond them, Rue de la Corniche running north-south. On the left side of the road a row of Arabic-style buildings were arranged like tombstones. On the west side was the harbour, where dozens of weathered fishing vessels and rust-bucket trawlers were moored between volcanic rock jetties. In the middle of the road a convoy of military trucks was heading directly for the palace. Renault GBC 180s, all-terrain heavy cargo trucks painted in woodland camo colours. Had to be at least fifteen of them, thought Bald. The line of trucks caterpillared all the way down the road. He turned back to the Colonel, face blackening with rage.
‘You’re outnumbered five hundred to six,’ the Colonel went on as he paced back in front of the desk to jab Bald in the chest with the butt end of the cigar. ‘Here there isn’t no fucking negotiation.’ His accent slipped into French as he grew impatient. ‘This is Rashidi telling you what to do.’
‘Fuck that for a bag of dicks,’ Stegman piped up. The Colonel turned to the 2iC as he went on. ‘If we hand you the President, what’s to stop your boys from putting a bunch of holes in our heads?’
For a beat, the Colonel looked at him. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Rashidi has already decided you must die.’
‘This cunt is bluffing,’ said Bald. ‘If he wanted to slot us, he would’ve done it already.’
‘Wrong,’ the Colonel countered. ‘Rashidi prefers to keep you alive. For the time being. Then, tomorrow, we hold a big celebration in the main square. Everyone is invited. People will drink and cheer. Then I will show them what happens to anyone who dares try to fuck with Rashidi. My men will put you on a stage and beat the shit out of you. Then they will stab and burn and shoot you. It will be a big party. After, we tie your feet together and hang your bodies from the lampposts. People will be free to spit on you, piss in your faces, cut off your testicles. Whatever they want. Everyone happy.’ He pushed out his bottom lip and traced a fake tear down his face. ‘Except you. All of you. Very sad.’
Bald fought an urge to smash the Colonel in the face. At his side the President began to rock back and forth, his eyes glued shut as he quietly intoned prayers.
‘Hand over the President,’ said the Colonel.
Pretorius simmered. The knuckles on his gun hand were white, Bald noticed. ‘You won’t get away with this.’
As he spoke he kept the Beretta trained on the President, drawing him closer by clasping his left hand around his shoulder. Pretorius glanced at Bald. There was a cold glint in his eyes, like a crescent moon on a chilly night. Bald understood instantly what Pretorius was planning to do. A hot feeling pulsed in his veins and he steeled his muscles as he looked back to Rashidi, the survival part of his mind working the angles. The Colonel was standing in front of the desk with the four soldiers two metres behind him at either end of it. Throw in the two soldiers in the doorway and there was no margin for error. They had one chance to get this right.
The Colonel tightened his face like a screw going into a hole. ‘Now, please. The President.’
Stegman stepped forward. ‘Don’t do it, Mr Pretorius. Don’t let him win.’
‘It is too late,’ the Colonel grunted. ‘Already too late the moment you met Rashidi.’
All eyes turned to Pretorius. He paused, readying himself. One last draw of breath. And then he said, ‘You want the President? Here!’
Pretorius shoved the President at the Colonel.
Bald knew what was coming next. Knew from the mad light in Pretorius’s eyes. And knew because, if he’d been the one holding a gun to the President’s head, he would have done the same thing. Pretorius was one step ahead of the Colonel and his soldiers. Everything happened very fast. The President staggered forwards, arms waving frantically as he lost his balance. The Colonel jumped back in surprise. But he couldn’t get out of the way in time. The President crashed into the Colonel and sent him flying backwards onto the desk. The Colonel instinctively grabbed the President by both arms to stop himself landing flat on his back. Still on the balls of his toes, Pretorius shot forward, raising the Beretta and training it on the two soldiers to the left of the desk. One of them discharged a round in a panic. There was a strangely soft thud and the Colonel grunted as the bullet hit him in the back on his way down, piercing his vitals. He jerked like someone had attached a pair of jumper cables to his balls. Pretorius shot twice at the two soldiers. The bullets thumped into the midriff of one of them. His arms dropped like hammers. The rest of him quickly followed. His lifeless body hit the floor with a wet slap, like a sack of wet cement dumped out of a window. Pretorius swivelled his aim towards the second soldier.
Bald reacted in the same instant. Years of hard living and drinking had dulled his reactions, but the old sharpness was still there, buried deep in his bones, engraved into his fast-twitch muscle fibres. A good operator was like a professional sportsman; the sharpness might dull in injury or retirement, but the innate ability was still there. Now Bald harnessed it, sinking to a crouch as the two soldiers to the right of the desk fired at him. One round whizzed over his head and thwacked into the wall. The echo of the shot was still ringing in Bald’s ears as he raised the Colt Commando, sighted the nearest of the two soldiers and let rip. The guy spasmed as three bullets punched into him in a pleasing rhythm. Whump-whump-whump. Immediately he swung the rifle across and brassed the last soldier, his body pirouetting violently on the spot as the rounds corkscrewed through his vitals. The four guards lay sprawled in two piles at either end of the desk.
Then Bald remembered the two guards in the doorway. He spun around just in time to see Deet almost single-handedly overpowering them, with a little help from Stegman and the two support soldiers. Deet had a giant arm wrapped around the throat of one of the men, while Stegman tried to wrestle the FN FAL rifle free from his desperate grip. The second guy had already been taken care of. He was on his back, his face bloody. Then Bald noticed that he was still alive and reaching for his holstered pistol. Bald set his weapon sights on the prone guard and pulled the trigger. Sent him the same way as his muckers had gone: south. Six rounds left in the clip now.
In the next instant Stegman finally tore the rifle from the other guard. Now Deet shoved him back into the doorway, allowing Stegman to unleash a volley of hot lead that almost cut the guy clean in half. His arms flailed this way and that as his rifle fell from his grasp. He slumped against the door, clutching his belly, his head hanging low, as if he was bowing his head in prayer. The polished wood glistened with fresh blood. Then everything went very still.
The firefight had lasted six or seven seconds. The air was suddenly thick with the smell of blood and gunpowder. Bald loved that smell. It told him that he’d survived. A steely determination gripped him then. He wasn’t going to die. Not here. Not today.
He swung back to see Pretorius towering over the Colonel as he lay sprawled on his back on the President’s desk.
‘Cross me, you fucking animal!’
The Colonel was in rag order. Blood leaked from a rough hole in his chest the size of a coat button, soaking his jacket. His eyes danced in their sockets. Bald detected a flopping sound in his chest. He was grasping at life the way a drowning man clings to a piece of wood, making a wheezing sound in his throat with each strained in-breath.
‘Look at me,’ Pretorius said.
Ignoring him, the Colonel reached with a trembling hand down to his breast pocket. He pulled out the Ray-Bans and went to slip them on his face. Pretorius intervened, snatching the shades from him and tossing them aside.
He said again, ‘Look at me, you dead fuck.’
The Colonel swallowed painfully, sweat flowing down his face and pain racking his body. Slowly he lifted his eyes to Pretorius, the muscles of his face twitching, blood sloshing around his mouth, dribbling out of the corners. Then he did a strange thing. He began laughing. It wasn’t recognisably a laugh, but a gurgled, almost inhuman cackle.
‘What’s so funny?’ Pretorius snarled. He was spitting mad and this only seemed to make the Colonel laugh harder despite his injuries.
