The Most Dangerous Game, page 9
The first gunshot echoed through the valley, throwing up sand a few feet in front of him. Kowalski stopped, searching for the gunman. Another gunshot rang out, the large bullet striking closer to his feet. He turned and ran, but as soon as he reached some cover he darted to his left, towards where he was certain the bullet had come from. Kowalski was not a fit man, and he staggered and broke through the cover, tripping and managing to stop himself from falling. He was panting and heaving for breath, but he broke cover after what he estimated to be two-hundred metres and when he ran out into the open ground, he was barely thirty feet from the unsuspecting black man holding the large African game rifle.
Didi did not hide his surprise and he raised the rifle but failed to level it in time as Kowalski cannoned into him, the considerable weight difference between the two men evident as Didi fell backwards and the big American landed heavily on top of him. Kowalski punched the man in the side of his head, then followed up with three more haymakers and the fight was all out of the South African, and he didn’t even grip the rifle as Kowalski snatched it up and struggled to his feet.
“Where’s… your… vehicle?” Kowalski panted, heaving for breath. He pointed the heavy .416 calibre rifle at him and said, “I’ll count to three!” he shouted quickly, still heaving for breath. Didi thumbed behind him. “Keys?” he asked impatiently. Didi reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, holding them up for the American. Kowalski reached for them and Didi dropped them and caught hold of the man’s arm but froze as Kowalski moved the rifle with just his right hand, the muzzle pointing up at his face. The American just caught sight of the inflated whites of the man’s eyes as he squeezed the trigger and the top half of the man’s head disappeared in a puff of crimson mist. The heavy recoil of the rifle was simply too much for Kowalski’s wrist and he dropped it, cursing, and clamping his left hand around his right wrist. “God dammit!” he shouted, already knowing that his right wrist was broken.
Kowalski positioned the rifle between his legs and worked the bolt, ejecting the smoking cartridge case and chambering another round. The rifle had three rounds remaining. He checked his wrist but could barely move it. Didi had nothing of use on him, so the big American trudged onwards in the direction the dead man had indicated. After four hundred metres, there was still no sign of a vehicle, and he cursed his own stupidity. He searched for the man’s tracks, but there were no human signs at all. The man had tricked him. To return the way he had come would waste precious time, so he checked the direction of the sun and headed southwards, hoping to come back on the vehicle and save the best part of a thousand metres. It was merely a case of simply cutting a corner. After another five-hundred metres, he started to wish he had returned by his own tracks. He was injured and exhausted and thirsty and like most people in that condition he was making poor decisions. Pushing through a thick area of brush, he stepped out into a clearing and stopped in his tracks. Ahead of him, a pride of lions sprawled and sunned themselves on a flat rock. The large male looked up, and as he did, three lionesses all turned their heads in unison.
Kowalski stared at them, but they were unperturbed and already, the male was getting to his feet and the three lionesses got up and peeled off to each side. They were soon joined by two more and the male walked unhurriedly, and unafraid across the open ground. The American weighed his options. He could turn and run, but to do so would mean a short chase and a certain death. The big cats would be in their element – as indeed they were everywhere out here – but the thick brush would make the whole attack difficult to defend against. Instead, Kowalski stepped out further into the open and readied the rifle on his left shoulder. He would now have to close his right eye to align the sights, but he almost chuckled at the thought that he was such a poor shot that it would barely make any difference. How he wished he had his beloved compound bow and some arrows with spring loaded razor heads. The male lion was now just forty metres from him, and the five lionesses were sixty metres, but flanking him. Six lions; three bullets. Kowalski thought about how his father had died, and he simply said, “Fuck it…” and fired. The male lion went down, shuddered for a moment, and rested still. He worked the bolt, noticing that two of the lions had fled, and for a second, thought that he may just do this. He found his aim and fired, the bullet skimming one of the lions along its spine. The lioness leapt high in the air - letting out a cry surprisingly like a domestic cat that had just had its tail trapped in a door - and started to run but lost all control of its limbs and crashed into the dirt, its rear legs scrambling wildly as it wailed and growled and failed to get up. Kowalski started to work the bolt but was taken off his feet by an attack from the rear. He did not know it, but the juvenile lion, still a considerable three-hundred pounds in weight, had silently and invisibly flanked him just moments after he had stepped into the open.
Kowalski kicked and kneed and punched and grappled out from underneath the beast and tried to use the rifle as a club, but one of the lionesses pounced and took him down, biting his shoulder and missing his throat by no more than an inch. Kowalski punched and pushed and got to onto all fours, but the juvenile lion leapt and landed on top of him and bit down on his neck. Two more lionesses pounced and bit into his limbs, keeping him pressed to the ground while two more joined and bit deeply into his back. The lions all started to rip and pull, pressing firmly with their front paws for purchase, their claws inches long and as sharp as woodworking screws. Kowalski bellowed an agonising cry, then fell silent as the pride fed on him and ripped him apart, piece by bloody piece.
Chapter Eighteen
Amber Byrne had watched the screen until it was evident that Kowalski wasn’t going to make it. Jon Black had laid back down on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, while John Smith had watched until the bitter end. When the screen finally faded to black, he drank some bottled water and checked on his wounds. When he looked back at Amber, he appeared flushed.
“Are you OK?” she asked curiously.
“I think I have a fever,” he replied. “There’s too many germs in the dirt. Antibiotics are the only thing that’s going to help me now…” He paused. “But I imagine it will all be over fairly soon.”
“Why do you think that?”
He shrugged. “It was a weekend invite,” he said. “It wouldn’t be polite to keep us all waiting…” He smirked, then drank down some more water. “Seriously, if this is all being filmed, then Grainger’s whole operation is at risk the longer people are online. We’re six to three, it only makes sense that he winds the operation up soon…”
“Mr Black, you will join us now…” Grainger’s voice echoed over the audio system, right on queue.
Jon Black got up, but he made sure to get off the bed on the side closest to Amber Byrne’s bed. “Now we shall see…” He whispered and gave her a wink.
She got up too, and for reasons she couldn’t fathom, she leaned closely into him and said, “Good luck…” and gave him a peck on the cheek.
Black smiled, quite taken by surprise, but he said somewhat earnestly, “Whatever happens, whichever way this goes for you, don’t trust him…” He flashed his eyes towards Smith and said, “That man may act like a gentleman, but he’s a born survivor. Through and through…”
She did not reply, but she still could not stop thinking about John Smith’s – for that was how she now thought of him - battle with Kowalski, and how the Englishman had repaid the American after he had saved him from the clutches of the leopard.
The door opened and Hans Botha entered with just one of the black workers. They had all watched Didi take a bullet, designed for killing elephants and rhinos, in the face at point blank range and although they had not been saddened by the man’s death, Amber felt a chill run up her spine as she realised why only one worker now remained. Botha said nothing, but he pulled Jon Black away from Amber, and pushed him ahead of him, the electric pig stick at the ready in case he met any resistance.
“You should have left while you could…” Hans Botha said mockingly.
“Not without my hundred grand,” he replied. “Which will be in my hand before this is over…”
“You know something I don’t?” the South African asked mockingly and pushed him harshly ahead of him.
“You had your chance…” Grainger said, standing in the hallway and watching as Botha pushed Jon Black out towards the front doors.
“You had yours…” Black glared at him, then stared blankly ahead, ignoring the man as he stepped out into the sunlight.
“Cocky son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you?” Botha said and as he got Black to the rear of the Land Rover, he couldn’t resist prodding him with the pig stick. Black let out a groan as he fell onto his front and sprawled inside the vehicle, hitting his face and head on the bulkhead as he fell. “That will give you something to think about on the drive, eh?”
Black could not move, but he bounced almost constantly as Botha seemed to find every bump and rut on the reserve. With his ankles shackled and each wrist held firmly to his side linked by the handcuffs through the leather belt, he simply had to ride it out, craning his neck to avoid taking the bumps to his face. For the most part, he managed, but by the time the Land Rover slowed and turned a long, deliberate circle his face was bruised and swollen.
Chapter Nineteen
Interpol Headquarters
Lyon, France
Phil Bryce squeezed the squash ball continuously as he listened. He had broken two fingers during an arrest six weeks ago and the squash ball was not only aiding his mobility but calming his mind. It helped with concentration, but it also helped with times of craving. He had recently given up smoking and drinking and he was struggling. He had left Australia after his divorce, given up the house and had been left with minimal custody of their two children. Divorce often turned into a game of winning and losing, rather than a healthy and fair process deconstructing a life once entwined, and it had started to affect his work. With twelve years in the New South Wales police force, the last five as a detective sergeant, his boss had tossed him a lifeline of a two-year sabbatical with Interpol. His accommodation would be provided, as would a car and a ten percent raise on his police salary. He received six-weeks paid leave per year and had justified that he would break the time down into four, ten-day holidays where he would hop on a plane to Melbourne and spend the time with his children. However, with a year in he had only managed one trip. The reality of long-haul travel was that it was both extremely time-consuming and extortionately expensive.
“We have to meet,” he said into the receiver.
“I need funds…”
Bryce turned his eyes to the ceiling. “I’ll sort something out.”
“It could be big.”
“Well, give me a clue.”
“It’s better that I show you.”
Bryce glanced at his watch, continuing to squeeze the squash ball. “I’ll have to get the train and the Eurostar.” He paused. “And this involves the little Belgian?”
“Belgian-Congolese,” the man corrected him. “Not him, so much, but certainly the people he has worked with. But when you draw concentric circles, there are a few correlations overlapping. And then there’s random people who have used booking references to activate airline tickets. These tickets were purchased using IP addresses and account numbers that flagged up a few questions.”
“Such as?”
“Have you heard of Carl Grainger?”
“No, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Bruce Corrigan?”
Bryce frowned. He’d worked the case. He’s seen what had been left of the man’s wife and her lover. Part of his career low, apart from the drink and the self-destructive casual affairs, had been Corrigan’s release because of the inept forensic scientist’s subsequent indiscretions. “I know Bruce Corrigan,” he replied tersely. “Where does he fit in?”
“Concentric circles,” the man replied. “He cashed in a flight that Dupont booked. The IP address links to traffic from people on internet watchlists monitored by Interpol. Look, get here as soon as you can. But I want ten-thousand.”
“Ten-thousand!”
“It will be worth it.”
“Give me a clue.”
“Russian oligarchs, Saudi Sheiks, American politicians, British media barons and a whole host of people in between. All linked to Pierre Dupont, all gathering online for an event.”
“What kind of event?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll keep digging. Maybe I’ll have more answers when you get here.”
“For ten-thousand euros I expect it gift wrapped.”
“Pounds, not euros, Mr Bryce.”
“What?” Bryce squeezed the squash ball so hard that it slipped from his grip and shot across the room, landing in another agent’s cubicle.
“Oh, come on, the pound isn’t as strong as it was. You’ll swing ten-g’s…”
“It had better be worth it,” Bryce hung up and picked up another squash ball from his desk and said quietly, “What the hell is going on…?”
Chapter Twenty
Spīn Ghar, Afghanistan
Twelve years ago
“He’s as good as dead,” the US Ranger major said without looking at him. He had a map in his hand and his captain was marking the spot for him with his fingertip. “In thirty-seven minutes three MOABs will be heading this way with the power to change the geography of this whole damned mountain range.” He waved a hand loosely towards the western edge of the plateau. “Shit, there’s an entire village down there that’s going to be under a million tons of rock. Our priority now is to evacuate it before CNN arrive with their cameras…”
“You’re prioritising a village full of insurgents over one of my men?” the Royal Marine staff sergeant asked indignantly.
“Stand down, sergeant…” the major replied.
“Staff sergeant, sir.”
“Noted. But I am prioritising innocent civilians.”
“Bullshit! You’ve taken casualties that you didn’t expect, and a couple of large bombs will finish the job for you!” He paused. “And you know as well as I do, that weapons and bomb-making equipment will be hidden under the floorboards of every damned shack in that shit-pile of a village, just like every other damned village we clear…”
“And I said, stand down, staff sergeant! The United States military have operational command here, as if I have to remind you. I am also four ranks and a dozen paygrades above you! Your damned man got himself captured, and I’ve got a deadline if we’re going to win this god-damned war. Anyway, the Taliban will probably have already skinned him by now…” He looked at his watch and said, “In another thirty-six minutes, staff sergeant, that cave system will cease to exist. Now, stand your men down and withdraw to the designated exfil. Those bombs will be on time and on target, and there’s no calling them off.”
Staff sergeant Hargreaves turned on his heel and double-timed back to his men. He did not know whether the exchanged had gone south because of working with the Americans, or simply because the US major did not respect the British military’s methodology around rank. Officers of the Royal Marines were seldom in the thick of it on the battlefield, the training given to their NCOs enabled them to make all the battlefield decisions with a wealth of experience. The US doctrine was to be top tier heavy, with senior officers in battlefield roles. However, the knowledge and professionalism between a sergeant in the US Marines and a sergeant in the Royal Marines was impossible to compare. The ranks simply bore no resemblance to each other. Where the practice fell down was in joint operations when a staff sergeant had to deal with and be respected by officers who had little experience or knowledge of how the British rank system worked with various units. Royal Marines were not comparable to other British army regiments, and their NCOs were given far more responsibility.
Staff sergeant Hargreaves shouted at his men, who sat bedraggled, dusty, and bloody in a semi-circle, weapons resting butt to the ground and drinking water, and eating from their ration packs. “The fucking yanks won’t see sense,” he announced. “They’ve written him off and large ordinance is already airborne and en route. I want three volunteers to drag Marine Evans out of there and give the good news to the fucking Taliwankers…”
Every man stood, packing away rations and fastening their water bottles. Marine Davis had multiple bullet wounds and his entire left leg was bandaged and he held himself up using his weapon as a staff. His medivac was en route and would take himself, three US army rangers and a soldier from the RAF Regiment to Camp Bastian. But the man’s injuries did not stop him from volunteering. Staff sergeant Hargreaves suppressed a smile. He had been proud of his men for their entire tour, but never so much as now. The Royal Marines had proved themselves – not that they ever needed to – as fearsome fighters, but unlike their British army counterparts, and the American military they now served under, they were collectively smart and had always been dubbed ‘the thinking man’s soldier’. Their basic training lasted thirty-two weeks – the longest and most thorough of any fighting force in the world.
Staff sergeant Hargreaves hesitated as he chose the men. Touched though he was at their loyalty and eagerness, he surveyed the troop and remembered the two men who had just married their partners before their deployment and the two young men who had recently become fathers. Certainly, there were other fathers in the troop, and he could not protect everyone, but he picked two men for their record and the third was always going to go, no matter what. Sergeant Jon Black was already off-loading his kit. He kept only his SA80 bayonet and his Fairburn & Sykes commando dagger, along with the Browning 9mm pistol, but he left the holster and tucked the pistol into his waistband and slipped the spare magazine into his pocket. For what he had planned, he doubted he would have to use it. He unscrewed the cap of his water bottle and drank thirstily, then dropped the bottle onto his pile of kit. Successful practice of camouflage and concealment came down to sound, shine, shape, shadow, silhouette, and smell. Well, the staff sergeant would have to agree that the men smelled like shit but dumping the kit and streamlining equipment would take care of most of the rest, especially in the pitch-black of the cave system.
