Shoot the Bastards Read online

  She decided to give him his space and, for want of something to do, went to the kitchen and made coffee for both of them. As she waited for the water to boil, she leaned against the table and thought. Everything that had happened these past few days now began to make sense—it was a tangle of threads, and at the center was a poor man trying to make money for his family. She wondered how Michael fit into it.

  When she got back to the fire, Bongani was sitting down again.

  “So, what happened with the plane?” she asked as she joined him.

  He took the mug from her. “I was waiting there and saw the plane hit that elephant. I thought it was the end of them, but the plane didn’t turn over or catch fire. Then it just sat there; there was no sign of anyone. The elephants were going mad. I was scared. So, I decided to come back to camp as though nothing had happened, but on the way, I realized the people in the plane might be badly injured. I had to go back, but I couldn’t do it by myself. That’s when I woke you.”

  “You know, that elephant probably saved your life, Bongani. I don’t think Ho wanted a ride; I think he wanted a vehicle. You would’ve had a bullet in your head too—as well as the pilot…”

  Bongani got up and threw another log onto the fire.

  “Did you tell the colonel any of this?”

  He shook his head. “No. Too dangerous.”

  “Good,” she said. “Let’s leave it that way.”

  Crys sipped at her coffee and watched the flames begin to curl round the new log. She couldn’t condone what Bongani had done. But now she could understand it. She felt for him and his family and wondered what she would do in his situation. She knew she should tell the Malans about what he’d done—he’d betrayed them, betrayed their trust. But if she did, he’d lose his job at Tshukudu, and maybe worse. And then there’d be no money at all for any of the people he was supporting. And now his cousin’s family had lost someone who might have brought in some money. She couldn’t make their situation worse. She wouldn’t say anything.

  Crys closed her eyes. It was one thing to be a reporter—rooting out the real stories, the real reasons for the poaching. It was another to be right in the middle of what was happening.

  “Bongani, I have to ask you some more questions.”

  He shrugged and said nothing.

  “I asked you before about Michael Davidson, and you said you saw him at Tshukudu and that was all. But you did speak to him about the poaching, didn’t you?”

  He nodded. Crys said nothing, waiting.

  “He asked me about poaching, and if I knew who the main people were around Phalaborwa or Giyani.”

  Crys leaned forward, expectant.

  “I said I knew a man in my village. But he worked with some other people that I didn’t know. White people. They collected the horns from him and paid him. Mr. Davidson was very excited. He said they were the people he wanted to know about.” He stopped as though that was all he was going to say.

  Crys couldn’t contain her impatience. “And?”

  “He said he would give me a hundred dollars if I could find out any information that would help him meet them.”

  “He wanted to meet them?” Crys felt a tingle of excitement. Maybe this was the link she was looking for.

  “Yes.”

  “And did you help him? Did you find out anything?” Crys wanted to shake the information out of him.

  “I told him it was very dangerous, that it was better not to mess with these people. But he said he just wanted to talk to them for his article—that it would be okay, that he wouldn’t upset them. Or tell them where he got the information.

  “When I went home that weekend, I talked to the man at my village—about my cousin…” His voice cracked, and it took a few moments before he continued. “I had to be very careful, but I asked this man and he said these people—he called them ‘the Portuguese’—would be driving in a white bakkie between Phalaborwa and Giyani on a particular day.”

  Crys gasped. Had Bongani sent Michael to his death?

  She took a deep breath to calm herself.

  “A bakkie? That’s a pickup, right?”

  Bongani nodded.

  “And what happened?”

  “I told Mr. Davidson, and he gave me the money. He said he would follow it up. Then I went on a safari the next day, and I never heard from him again.”

  “Did you hear what happened to him?”

  He shook his head. “But when I went back to the village, the man told me I had to help him with something now. That I owed him a favor because he’d given my cousin a job. And I could make some money as well. I had to meet a plane when I was in the bush…”

  Crys was stunned. It all fit together.

  “Can you tell me how I can meet these people?”

  He turned and stared at her as though she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Crys didn’t know what to think. He could tell her, but he wasn’t going to.

  Dammit, she thought. She was so close, yet so far.

  They said nothing for a few minutes while they drank their coffee. As they sat there, she began to realize how arrogant people were in the West. How out of touch they were with the reality on the ground in Africa. All they talked about was the extinction of the rhino—not the abject poverty and desperation of the people. Again, she wondered what she would do if she was in Bongani’s boots. She didn’t want to answer that question.

  She was exhausted, and her eyelids were getting heavy, but there was one more thing she had to do.

  “We’ve got to dig up the cash we took,” she said. “We won’t be able to in the morning with Ngweni around.”

  Bongani nodded, and they walked over to the Land Rover. Parking it with the wheel exactly on top of the money didn’t seem so clever anymore. There was no way they could start the vehicle—Ngweni would wake up for sure. They would have to push it. Crys climbed in and released the handbrake, then they set to work.

  It was hard to move it in the sandy ground. But with a lot of effort, and rocking it back and forth, they rolled it back about eighteen inches. She jumped back into the driver’s seat and pulled the brake on again. Then, keeping as quiet as they could, they dug up the cash, shook the sand off it, and hid the bills under the old maps and junk in the glove compartment. The police had searched the Land Rover once. Crys was betting they wouldn’t do it again.

  After that they headed for bed.

  Before she could go to sleep, bad thoughts and images were whirling through her brain. It seemed certain that Michael was dead. And Bongani was involved in helping the poachers and may have sent Michael to his death. But did he have a choice?

  And there was the tortured man on the ground in Kruger.

  And dead rhinos.

  Crys knew she had to calm herself. So, she spent fifteen minutes in a half lotus on the groundsheet, repeating her mantra.

  When she eventually lay down, she was sure of one thing: she was going to find out who killed Michael and what had happened to his body.

  Chapter 17

  Crys woke to the sound of a shot. She sat up on the stretcher with a jerk. It must have been just before dawn because there was a glow coming through the tent’s mesh window.

  There was an urgent yell. It was Bongani: “Crys! Run!”

  Then there was another shout, followed by another report, much louder this time.

  She pulled on her jeans and T-shirt as quickly as she could and scrambled out of the tent.

  But Bongani’s warning was too late. There was a man waiting for her, aiming a sawn-off shotgun at her chest. She froze, half crouching. Then she saw Bongani lying facedown in the sand next to her tent. She stared at his body, then threw herself next to him.

  “Bongani!” she cried. “Bongani!

  There was no response, no movement.

  “Talk to me, dammit, Bongani!”
>
  “Get up or I shoot you!” Crys felt the barrel of the shotgun in her side.

  She shook Bongani’s arm. Still no movement. She felt for his pulse. It was strong. She looked for blood but found none. They must have knocked him out, not shot him.

  “Get up!” The shotgun was against her head now.

  The man leaned over, grabbed her by the hair, and yanked her to her feet. Her scalp screamed with pain. He shoved her away.

  She looked around. Where was Constable Ngweni? Shouldn’t he have been protecting them? Or had he let this man into the camp? Then she remembered the shots that had woken her. They were in really bad trouble.

  And it was their own fault for taking Ho’s briefcase.

  Another man appeared, carrying what she thought was an assault rifle. “Where the money?” he shouted. She didn’t recognize the accent.

  Part of her head told her she should just tell him where the briefcase was buried. But another part quickly told her no. That would end with a shot to the head. She had to play dumb. That way these men would have to keep them alive.

  “What money?” she gasped.

  “Where the money?” he asked again. “We make this easy. Give me the money. Then you go.”

  Crys shook her head, her brain accelerating through excuses to keep him talking. To keep them alive. “We don’t have any money. The tourists pay by credit card. We have hardly any cash. Maybe a hundred dollars. You can have it.”

  He frowned. “Okay,” he said slowly.

  He took a switchblade from his pocket and opened it. Then he walked right up to her, rifle in his left hand, and leaned over so his face was close to hers. It was covered in pockmarks. She could smell his breath. His eyes were black. Then he looked down at her breasts and used the blade to slice open the front of her T-shirt. She felt a warm line of blood running down her front.

  She screamed.

  He brought the knife up again.

  “Help!” she yelled.

  “Nobody hear you.”

  She knew he was right.

  “Please. No, no. Wait!”

  He stopped, but he didn’t lower the knife.

  “Maybe Mr. Ho had money—the man who was killed. He said something about a lot of money…before he died. But he was delirious by then, so we didn’t take any notice. He was badly injured. We…we tried to save him.”

  “What did he say about money?” Pockface demanded.

  She had to think quickly. To survive. “Something about the plane. Money in the plane, I think. We didn’t believe him.”

  The man moved the point of the blade to her left nipple and pushed hard enough she could feel the sting.

  Playing for time, she blurted out the story of the plane crash and finding Ho. She stammered and repeated herself. Trying to keep him listening. Trying to think what to do.

  “Maybe the police took it,” she said. “That could be it. They searched the plane. Or maybe they missed it. Maybe it’s still there.”

  Pockface shook his head. “Not there. We look.”

  Crys heard a groan and looked down. Bongani had come around and was trying to sit up, one hand pressed against his head.

  “Bongani,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  He groaned again and staggered to his feet, standing unsteadily. The man with the shotgun kept him covered.

  “Are you okay?” she asked again. She prayed he wouldn’t say anything to contradict her.

  He nodded. “Didn’t hear them coming. Only when I heard the shot”

  “Take it easy. Sit down. I was just telling them that we didn’t find any money…”

  She felt the blade push harder into her nipple.

  “But maybe Ho hid it where we found him.” She looked from Bongani back to the pockmarked man. “Maybe he didn’t want to leave it in the plane. He was trying to get away. That could be it. There were thick bushes there. He could’ve hidden a packet or something there easily.”

  “Where you find him?”

  She started to describe a route, making it as complicated as possible.

  “You show us.”

  “Bongani, can you find the way back to where Ho was hiding?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  It was something. They’d bought a bit of time and maybe a chance to improve the odds—if they were really lucky.

  * * *

  The plane had crime-scene tape around it—out of place in the middle of nowhere—and the elephant carcass was starting to smell of rotting meat. A group of hyenas was busy with it. They looked up with bloody faces, but they didn’t leave their meal.

  There was a police Land Rover pulled up nearby, but no sign of the policeman left to guard the plane. Crys was sure he was dead, given that these thugs had already searched it.

  She drove up to the plane, and they all got out, Pockface still with the assault rifle and the other man with the shotgun. Crys poked around the plane pretending to look for tracks, trying all the while to think of a plan. But right at that moment she had nothing, not even a hint of an idea.

  “He went that way,” she said eventually, pointing at the trail of blood.

  “Go,” said Pockface, pointing with the gun.

  Crys led, Pockface behind her, with Bongani and the other thug bringing up the rear.

  Crys moved slowly, head down. She was in no hurry, but she was worried their captors would soon run out of patience. She had no idea what she’d do when that happened.

  But then she saw some tracks—they were fresh and covered the blood trail, then headed into the bush. She stopped, trying to hide her confusion. She wanted to keep this find to herself—stay a step ahead of her captors.

  “Bongani, is that the way he went?” she asked.

  “Yes. Up to the right.”

  She walked on a few paces.

  “He went off somewhere here,” she said. “He was up in that thick brush.” She pointed. “That’s right, isn’t it, Bongani?”

  “You said he was bad hurt?” Pockface said, suspicious.

  She shrugged.

  “Okay. You go.” He waved the rifle toward the trees.

  Just then Crys heard a branch snap, not far away. She was right about the tracks being fresh. The elephants were nearby. But going after them was a huge risk. If this was the same group that had been here when the plane crashed, they might still be pretty spooked.

  She didn’t know how their captors would behave, and she didn’t know how the elephants would react. But what other option did they have?

  Crys looked over her shoulder at Bongani. His face was impassive.

  One of the trees moved slightly. She headed straight for it, thankful they were downwind.

  When they reached the trees, she thought she’d mistaken the distance to the herd. All was quiet. Maybe too quiet.

  “Here?” said Pockface. “Ho was here?”

  His loud voice was all it took. There was trumpeting, and one of the elephants burst out of the bush toward them to investigate. Pockface gave a yell and pointed the rifle in the direction of the elephant. Crys screamed and hurled herself at him. There was a loud chatter right next to her as he let off a short burst. The elephant took off, and Pockface, surprised and winded, stared after it for a moment. That was long enough for Crys to kick him as hard as she could in the balls. So hard, she nearly fell.

  He screamed and bent over, clutching himself, and she kneed him in his face. He collapsed on top of the rifle, and she kicked him in the head. He groaned and writhed on the ground.

  Twisting around, Crys saw Bongani grappling with the second man. He’d reacted the moment she had and was now holding the man’s gun hand away from him with one hand and hitting him in the face with the other. Then he smashed the gun hand against a tree trunk. The guy screamed, and the shotgun flew into the bush. Crys was already running ba
ck toward the path.

  “Run, Bongani!” she yelled. “Run!”

  She didn’t look back but could hear Bongani’s footsteps catching her up. There was shouting from behind him. Pockface and his friend were on their way. Their only chance was to reach the Land Rover before they were caught.

  It seemed to take forever to get there. Crys’s chest was burning, her legs desperate to move faster. But they had a good lead. She jumped in the driver’s side and turned the key. Miraculously, the old vehicle started at once. Bongani was grappling with the door handle on the passenger side.

  “You stop! I kill you!” Pockface was at the edge of the airstrip, about thirty yards away, the assault rifle leveled at Bongani.

  “Get in!” Crys yelled. “Bongani, get in!”

  He didn’t hesitate. He swung himself into the Land Rover just as it started moving.

  “Get down,” Crys said, hunching herself low over the wheel.

  Sure enough, the windscreen shattered and glass flew all over the Land Rover, and she felt a sharp pain in her shoulder. She accelerated and spun the steering wheel. There was another burst of gunfire and the banging of bullets hitting the vehicle’s side.

  The Land Rover hit a log, and they nearly flew out. But she kept going, wrestling with the steering wheel to avoid trees and bushes.

  After a few minutes of frenzied driving, she was sure they were out of range and slowed down a little, breathing heavily.

  “Eish!” Bongani said. “You okay, Crys? There’s blood on your shoulder.”

  “I’m fine.” It was stinging badly, but she could move the arm. It was just a flesh wound.

  “Head up that way,” Bongani said, pointing to a track through the trees.

  “They’ll come after us in the police Land Rover—the one left at the airstrip,” she said, adrenalin pumping through her brain, making her think, drive, and fight the pain, all at the same time. “We have a head start, but it isn’t much.” She put her foot down again and they lurched and bumped along the track.

  “Why didn’t he shoot me?” Bongani shouted over the noise of the engine. “Why didn’t he shoot me when I was getting into the Land Rover? He had the gun right on me.”