Shoot the Bastards Page 11

  “Anton said we shouldn’t go back there, and I think he’s right.”

  “I have to do this, Crys. I’ll drop you off at camp first.”

  Then it dawned on Crys that Bongani may have a different reason for going back to the plane—one he wasn’t willing to share. Perhaps he knew something about the cargo. Perhaps that was what he was after.

  Now her curiosity got the better of her fear. She made a quick decision.

  “It’s too dangerous for you to go alone,” she said. “Okay, let’s take a look. We’ll go together. But we need to be super careful.”

  “I’m fine by myself.”

  Did he not want her with him? This made her even more determined. “No, Bongani. I’m coming—it’s always better with two.”

  Bongani hesitated, but then nodded. “Thank you, Crys.”

  Crys realized that she’d just have to follow Bongani’s lead and hope that he knew what he was doing. And hope she didn’t become an obstacle to what he wanted to find.

  Chapter 12

  They drove back down the hill and headed to the airstrip. When they got close and could take a good look around, Bongani stopped, and Crys scanned the area with her binoculars. The dead elephant lay like a gray mound where it had fallen. The rest of the herd wasn’t in sight.

  There was no sign of any second man.

  She focused on the plane and saw the dead pilot’s head through the cracked windshield. The passenger seats still seemed empty.

  “I can’t see a second guy,” she whispered to Bongani and passed him the binoculars.

  He studied the veld for far longer than she had, pausing occasionally and adjusting the focus wheel.

  “Okay,” he said eventually. “I’ll drive past the plane and stop behind it. It will be hard for him to surprise us if he’s inside. If there’s no one there, we’ll follow the trail.”

  Crys could feel the adrenalin building up again. Following a murderer through the bush sounded mad.

  Bongani put the Land Rover into gear, and they set off through the bushes, keeping well away from the plane. Then he swung the vehicle round behind it, leaving a clear area ahead of them in case they had to make a quick getaway.

  They stopped and Bongani took the rifle, gave Crys the tiniest of nods, and climbed out. Crys watched as he walked slowly up to the plane.

  “Be careful…” she murmured, even though he couldn’t hear her.

  When he reached the plane, he stretched his neck and peered through the back window for a moment. Then he waved Crys to come. She slipped out of the Land Rover and covered the ground to the plane in seconds.

  Nothing had changed since the previous night, except that now there was a buzz of black flies around the pilot’s head, settling and taking off, their hum almost as sickening as the smell of dried blood. They also noticed the distinct smell of decay. Bodies decomposed quickly in the heat of the veld. Crys closed her eyes for a moment.

  Opening them, she looked around. “Well, this is all we have to go on,” she said, pointing out the footprints and blood trail they’d seen the previous night.

  Bongani nodded. “I’ll go ahead.”

  They moved forward slowly. The trail led up toward a stand of trees. Crys examined each one with her binoculars, but saw nobody. Then she hurried after Bongani, not wanting to be separated from him.

  When they reached the edge of the strip, the trail turned to the right. They followed it for another couple of hundred yards.

  “He’s badly hurt,” Bongani said, pausing to point at the blood trail. The spots seemed to be more frequent and the footprints dragged.

  He raised his eyes. Up ahead there was a rocky outcrop, thrusting up from the surrounding plain.

  “Yes, I bet he’s there,” Crys said. “Maybe there’s a cave or something.” She looked through her binoculars and scanned the rocks systematically, making sure not to miss anything, but still she saw nothing.

  They moved on again slowly, making frequent halts to check ahead.

  Suddenly a shot rang out, a POP-pop echoing off the rocks.

  Bongani dropped to the ground and Crys followed, planting her face in the soil. She spat out sand and grass. Her heart was racing. She couldn’t quite get her head around what had happened—she’d never been shot at before.

  She crawled on elbows and knees, twigs and sharp grass blades scratching her face, until she was next to Bongani. “I think that’s a handgun,” she whispered. “That’s what it sounded like to me. He’ll be lucky to hit us at this distance.”

  Bongani didn’t reply. He lifted his head a few inches…then a few more.

  “Do you see him?”

  “No.”

  “He must be behind those thick bushes to the right of the rocks.”

  Another shot—POP-pop—and a sharp thwack nearby that made Crys jerk sideways. The bullet had hit a tree just to her right.

  Crys raised her head too. “You’ll never hit us at this distance,” she shouted. “You’ve got no chance. Throw out your gun. We can help you.”

  Silence. Just the whizz and whir of insects.

  Bongani looked at her sideways and tipped his chin up. He wanted her to shout again.

  “Come out with your hands up or we’ll start shooting,” she yelled.

  Bongani waited a few seconds, then aimed at the rocks close to the bushes and fired. A small puff of dust flew up as it hit the rock. Three bullets left in the magazine.

  “Is anyone else with you?” Crys shouted.

  Still no reply.

  “You’ve got no chance. Come on out.”

  Still nothing from the bush.

  “The police are on their way. We called them on our way here. They have our co-ordinates. You know what they’ll do if you don’t come out. They’ll pump a million bullets into the bush. There’ll be nothing of you left to bury…” She nodded to Bongani, and he fired again. Two bullets left.

  Still nothing.

  Crys simply couldn’t believe she was crouching in South African scrub, trying to negotiate with a murderer. A murderer who had a gun and clearly wanted to kill her. Despite what she’d said, there was every possibility they were in range. Particularly if he was silently creeping up on them. The fatal shot could come at any moment. She was sweating from more than the heat now.

  “If you come out now, the police will take you back alive.”

  They still had bullets, but Crys was worried about another possibility: what if the killer wasn’t alone? What if there had been other passengers in the plane, and he was holding one hostage? What if Bongani killed them by mistake?

  This had to end, and soon. But Crys had no idea how to break the standoff.

  Bongani let off another round into the rock above the bush—another puff of dust sprang into the air. He reloaded—quick, efficient. Back to four bullets.

  “Okay…I come.” It was a weak voice, not a shout, more a whine. And it was not South African. Crys let out a sigh of relief and glanced across at Bongani. He was stock still, the rifle still ready.

  They heard stuttering footsteps approaching, and a crack as the man stood on a dead branch. Then the bush parted, and he hobbled out, his hands raised, one holding the handgun. There was blood on his trousers and in his hair and down the left side of his face.

  Crys stood up now, amazed. He was Vietnamese—unmistakably so, from the shape of his face to the tone of his skin. It was the same as hers.

  “Throw down the gun,” she ordered in Vietnamese. “Now!”

  The man dropped it.

  “What did you say to him?” Bongani asked.

  “He’s Vietnamese. I told him to drop the gun.”

  Bongani looked puzzled by this development. “Oh…” he said. “Get his gun. Be careful.”

  While Bongani covered her, she cautiously went up to the man, picked up the g
un, then backed away to a safe distance.

  “Turn around,” she said, still keeping her distance.

  When he was facing in the other direction, Bongani came to stand beside her. “Search him,” he said.

  Crys took a breath and approached the man. How did you pat someone down? She’d only seen it done in movies and at the airport. She squared her shoulders, stepped forward and began patting the man’s arms, armpits, chest, back, groin. All she found was keys and a wallet in his trousers, and some papers in his shirt pocket.

  “Here’s something,” she said over her shoulder.

  She pulled the papers out. There was a passport too. She flipped through it.

  “He’s from Vietnam. His name is Ho Van Tan.” She examined the stamps. “Looks as though he’s in and out of Mozambique a whole lot. Okay, let’s take him to the plane.” She prodded him with the gun.

  “Wait,” Bongani said.

  She turned to him.

  “I want to look where he was hiding.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  But without answering, Bongani pushed his way through the bushes in the direction from which the man had emerged. She wondered why he was so keen to see where the man had hidden out.

  She had no option but to keep Ho covered and wait for him to return.

  And while she did, she was more certain than ever that Bongani was thinking about the plane’s cargo.

  After what seemed like an age, but could only have been minutes, Bongani reappeared carrying an aluminum briefcase.

  “There was no one else there. But I found this.”

  So, there was cargo—and Bongani knew it. He had to be involved in this in some way. She was sure there would be rhino horn in the case.

  “He has keys,” Crys said, nodding at Ho. “I felt them in his pocket.”

  Ho angrily shook his head. “No. No keys.”

  “He’s lying. They’re in his right trouser pocket.”

  To her surprise, Bongani grabbed Ho and jerked his arm behind his back, so violently the man gave a yell of pain. He struggled weakly, and Bongani got the keys from his pocket with little trouble. Crys was shocked—Bongani had previously seemed quite gentle. Perhaps he was showing his true colors. But something puzzled her—if he was working with Ho, wouldn’t he have known him? There had been no sign of recognition between them. And why would Ho have shot at them if he’d expected Bongani to rescue him?

  When Bongani let go, Ho sank to the ground. He was clearly in bad shape.

  Bongani just stood, holding the keys and the briefcase as though that was that.

  “We should go back now,” he said.

  “Don’t you want to know what’s inside?” she asked, suspicious he didn’t want her to know. “Maybe drugs? Or rhino horn?”

  Bongani hesitated.

  “Open the damn thing,” she said. There was no way she was leaving before she knew what was inside.

  Bongani looked unwilling. But at last he fiddled with the locks. Crys watched his face carefully to assess his reaction. As he pulled open the lid of the case, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Crys followed his eyes to the contents and gasped.

  “Oh, my God.”

  It was full of money. U.S. greenbacks, all one-hundreds. It was a fortune.

  Chapter 13

  Half an hour later, Crys was behind the wheel of the Land Rover, driving them back to the camp. Ho was slumped in the seat next to her, apparently exhausted by the walk back to the vehicle. Bongani sat behind him, covering him with the handgun. As they went, Crys tried to get information out of the man, asking questions in Vietnamese about where he’d come from and who the dead pilot was. Ho said nothing. Every now and again, he shook his head. It was as if he were drunk.

  Half a million dollars in a briefcase, she thought. It had to be for something big. It could be the connection to Michael she’d been looking for.

  “Do you know a Michael Davidson—a reporter from America?” she asked him in Vietnamese. “Tell me now!”

  “Don’t know any Americans,” he replied, shaking his head again, and he refused to say anything else.

  Crys felt her frustration building. Every time she felt she was getting closer to finding out something useful about Michael, the rug was pulled from under her. But he could be lying. She would question him again when they reached the camp.

  After about ten minutes of rough bumping and bouncing, Ho let out a groan and leaned forward. He put his head on his knees and let his arms hang down. It was clear now he was in a lot of pain. After another minute or so, he let out another weird, strangled groan and seemed to collapse further.

  “I hope he doesn’t die,” Bongani said, leaning forward a little. “The police will want him to talk.”

  Crys shuddered at the thought of what Ho was in for if the police were anything like the anti-poaching team.

  “What were you asking—?” Bongani began, but suddenly Ho sat up. Crys glanced at him…right into the barrel of a gun. She froze, cursing herself for missing a second gun when she’d searched him. It must have been in an ankle holster. She gripped the wheel harder, looked forward at the road.

  “Don’t move!” Ho yelled at her. Then turned back to Bongani. “Drop gun, or I kill her.”

  “If you shoot her, I’ll kill you,” Bongani shouted back, but there was uncertainty in his voice. Crys hoped Ho wouldn’t pick it up.

  “No problem. I die if police get me anyway. Drop gun. Now!”

  Crys was beginning to panic. He was going to kill both of them. They bounced down into a deep rut and up again, Crys almost losing control of the vehicle. She tightened her arms and clenched her hands harder round the wheel.

  Her mind raced through her options—none of them seemed good.

  Think!

  The moment seemed to stretch. The sun seemed suddenly hotter. The air thick and oppressive. She almost couldn’t breathe. And then an idea came to her.

  “Bongani…” she said carefully, “he’s going to kill me. Drop the gun and grab the back of my seat so he can see your hands.”

  “Then he’ll kill both of us!”

  “Drop the gun, dammit, and grab the seat.”

  She hoped he could figure out what she was going to do. She eased her foot onto the accelerator, letting the vehicle speed up, but not too much.

  Bongani dropped the gun and, as soon as Crys saw Ho lean backwards to retrieve it, she slammed hard on the brakes. Ho spun forward, lost his gun, and his head slammed onto the metal over the dashboard. He collapsed, sliding down so he was half on the seat and half on the floor. She grabbed the gun and jumped out of the Land Rover. Bongani followed, his eyes wide. He’d figured it out.

  “Fuck,” he said. “That was clever.”

  Crys took a deep breath. “I thought that was the end of us.”

  He opened the passenger door and grabbed Ho, dragging him onto the ground.

  There was no movement from the man. He fell into the dust like a rag doll. His arms were twisted and his legs bent awkwardly.

  Crys suddenly had an awful feeling. She pushed Bongani aside and felt for Ho’s pulse.

  There wasn’t one.

  A wave of panic hit her. Had she killed him? Had she taken someone’s life…? She stumbled backwards.

  “He’s…he’s dead.” She turned to Bongani. “He’s dead. We killed him… I killed him.”

  Bongani just stared.

  “What are we going to do?” The panic was rising.

  After a moment, Bongani said, “Why don’t we take him back to where he was hiding? If someone finds him, they won’t be able to tell we did anything.”

  Crys put both hands on the side of the Land Rover to support herself, shaking her head, trying to think clearly.

  “No. It was self-defense. We’ll just have to explain it all to the police.
I didn’t mean to kill him. You saw that. He pulled a gun on us! I was looking into the barrel of a gun. I had to do something.”

  “What about the money?”

  She let go of the Land Rover. “The money?” For a moment, she didn’t know what Bongani was talking about. In her confusion, she’d forgotten about the briefcase stuffed with dollars.

  It came back to her. “We’ll give it to the police. It’ll be their problem. We’ll just tell them exactly what happened.”

  Bongani shook his head. “You don’t know the police here. They’ll keep it for themselves. It’s a lot of money.”

  Crys gaped at him. “They can’t do that! We know all about it. I’ll be writing about it in the paper. They’ll have to investigate it properly. And surely they’ll be more concerned that two men have died?”

  Bongani was shaking his head. “They won’t care about the dead men. They’ll just want the money. We’ll just be in their way.”

  “We have to turn it in to them! It’s not ours. We can’t just keep it!”

  He stared at her, still shaking his head, lips slightly pursed.

  Suddenly Crys guessed exactly what he wanted. “That’s it, isn’t it Bongani? You want to keep the money yourself!”

  “We have to. It’s not safe—”

  “Don’t tell me what to do! It’s bad enough I’ve killed someone. And now you want to turn me into a thief?”

  “Crys, I know about this. You don’t. This is my country, not yours. The police—”

  “It’s not right, Bongani. I won’t do it!” She was beginning to shout. “And anyway, as soon as you start flashing the money around, everyone will know it was you who stole it.”

  They stared at each other. A stand-off.

  Bongani broke the silence. “It’s not the money. I don’t want to steal it. I just don’t want to be killed by the police!” His voice was angry too now, and he was clenching his fists.

  Crys bit her tongue. She wanted to scream at Bongani, tell him that he’d wanted the money all along, that whatever was going on he was part of it. But if she was right about him, that could be extremely dangerous.