The Devil's Breath (8 page)

He had to find another way. As he scoured the map,
!Koga was on the ground, scuffing the dirt with a stick, then putting down stones and twigs. He crumbled dried leaves, keeping his fingers together so that the bits fell in one place. “Max,” !Koga said quietly, speaking for the first time. Hearing his name spoken gave Max a sudden sense of companionship. He crouched next to the Bushman boy, who was pointing to the model he had created. “Here,” he said, touching the gravel he had sprinkled, and raised a finger. That was to be the first place they must reach. !Koga then indicated the other places in turn—the crumpled leaves, the upright stones, the twisting scratch in the dust. And each time he pointed, he raised another finger. Four fingers, each objective in that order.

Max understood immediately, creased the map back into another fold and searched for the places that !Koga had made on the ground. The foothills of the mountains were boulder-strewn, then the mountains themselves swept down to a grassy plateau. The contours on the map took his eye down to the twisting river. Max smiled and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. They were in this together and !Koga was the best person to have with him. Max felt great. How could he ever get lost out here with his newfound friend? His confidence surged; another three hours to nightfall and they would easily make camp in the foothills.

And then he made the second mistake of the day. He underestimated his opponents, and it nearly killed them both.

Max drove through the tall grass, his eyes fixed on the distant rise of mountains. He would rejoin the track, drive for two or three kilometers and then find an entry
point to the foothills for what looked to be an arduous drive across bumpy terrain. Concentrating hard so as not to have any mishaps before he reached the road, he failed to see the dust drifting in the sky over his shoulder. He was within meters of bursting through the low trees and shrubs, up a small rise in the ground, before joining the track. He pulled the gear lever down, floored the accelerator and the Land Rover surged up and onto the road. Max swung the wheel, shifted a gear and nearly died of fright as a black pickup truck grated alongside, colliding with the Land Rover. Metal screeched and he heard shouts from the men in the truck as they tried to regain their balance.

The pickup had been traveling at some speed and failed to see Max’s camouflaged vehicle as it lurched out of the undergrowth. Just as well. There were three men in the back, all armed, and if they had seen the Land Rover, Max and !Koga’s blood would now be soaking into the dust.

For a second the two vehicles grated metal against metal, jostling side by side. Max glanced desperately across at the gunmen. The driver was wrestling with the steering wheel, just as Max was doing. The men in the back were thrown down. One of them had been standing against the roll bar, clutching a radio handset in his fist, and that wire was broken as the man fell and rolled. The image fed information to Max’s brain. They had lost radio contact!

The vehicles clashed again, and Max felt the Land Rover sliding, being pushed dangerously close to tipping over the rim of the road and back into the tall grass. The steel sand ramps strapped to the side saved them from serious injury. The gunmen’s 4×4 had ripped the ramps away;
now they slid under its wheels and for a few vital seconds took control out of the driver’s hands. The pickup was riding a two-meter skateboard. Max heaved the steering wheel over and the bull-bars on the Land Rover’s nose clipped the rear of the pickup, spinning it around. However, the driver did an amazing job of turning into each successive spinning skid, giving the men in the back a chance to clamber to their feet.

There was a gap between the pickup and the edge of the road, and Max headed straight for it. The pickup truck was parallel again; snarling faces in the billowing dust; shouts above the noise of the tortured engines. One of the men steadied himself with one hand and leveled an AK-47 straight at them. Sweat stung Max’s eyes, the windshield glare blinded him momentarily, the Land Rover’s engine was screaming and he could not get another ounce of power from it. The gunman couldn’t miss. They were dead. Why hadn’t he fired? The man screamed. Blood smothered his chest as he fell into the other men. Confused, Max turned to see !Koga holding his meter-long hunting bow, now free of its lightweight shaft. It was a killing shot, taking the gunman in the heart.

The Land Rover got past the pickup, whose driver was trying to respond to one of his men screaming and shouts of panic from the others. !Koga’s face was expressionless. Kallie had told him enough about the Bushmen for him to know that they did not relish killing; that there was no anger in a kill. Life was taken only when it meant survival. The Bushmen did not kill for sport. No matter how harsh their life in the desert, no matter how many times !Koga had killed to
eat, Max felt sure he had never harmed another human being before.

Max nodded at him, hoping that simple gesture would convey everything he felt; knowing it could not.

Max had to get them out of here. The pickup had fallen back, giving him a few vital extra seconds before the expected gunfire found them. The men in this pickup were the second search party; the spotter plane had been working two teams on the ground. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Berating himself served no purpose. !Koga pointed ahead. “Animal path.”

Where? Max could see no sign of anything. Then a slender line that broke the edges of the scrub caught his eye. It was no different from back home, when the Dartmoor ponies moved across the land. Over the years the animals’ nomadic journeys squashed any growing thing underfoot and created a scar through the heather.

Max gripped the steering wheel and yanked hard. The Land Rover took the ground well. They rocked and rolled, their shoulders banging against the door frames, but the old vehicle clambered up the stone-laden slope like a mountain goat. Max looked back. The men in the pickup had sorted themselves out and the 4×4’s defiant wheelspin told Max that they were coming for him again. Max had a good lead, at least four hundred meters, but he was losing sight of the game-path that guided him. !Koga gestured, his hand curving, showing Max the twisting route.

The boulders were small, about the size of three footballs in a carrying net, but their edges were jagged. They could hear them scraping underneath. Then it felt as if someone
was throwing stones at them, a clattering dull thud against the sides, like hailstones on a roof. But microseconds after the imagined pebbles stung the Land Rover, the flat crack of the AK-47s chased the bullets. Canvas ripped, jerrycans spilled their precious cargo and the throat-catching stench of diesel filled the cab. The burlap water bag hanging on the outside of the door exploded as one of the bullets narrowly missed Max.

The gunmen had stopped. The Land Rover had a higher ground clearance, so the pickup could not follow. Those men knew this was not the place to be stranded—without a radio and with one man dead, they were already at a disadvantage. To risk damaging their vehicle beyond repair was a risk too far. All Max had to do now was get across the ridge, so temptingly close, which would put them out of sight and range. And then keep going.

The men were aiming badly, failing to consider the rising ground in front of them, so their shots fell short. With a surge of acceleration Max pushed the Land Rover over the top and out of harm’s way.

Except that in that last, crucial moment, they suddenly jolted to a dead stop. !Koga was off-balance—he was looking back, watching the men. His head whipped forward and cracked against the dashboard and he groaned, slumping forward. Max floored the accelerator, but all he could hear was the screaming engine. They were wedged, straddling a broad, flat boulder, and the wheels could find no purchase.

Max checked !Koga. He was unconscious. Max had to get the Land Rover free. He piled out of the cab, scrambled onto
the canvas roof and started to rock the vehicle backwards—pushing his weight down, trying to give the back wheels some grip. The gunmen were still a long way down the hill, but their firing had stopped—because the 4×4 driver was clambering upwards towards Max, a pistol in one hand and a hunting knife in the other. This was personal. The man stumbled, cursing his clumsiness and the pain as his shoulder slammed into a boulder. But rage powered him on, his eyes fixed on Max. His prey.

Max was defenseless, the man less than ten meters away now, and Max could hear him grunting with exertion and see the sheen of sweat on his face. The man’s gun hand hung limply at his side—he had caught it a punishing blow on the rock—but the knife he wielded would be enough to do the job. The man slashed at Max’s feet and the tough canvas slit as if it were tissue paper.

The driver’s injured arm stopped him from coming aboard, but there was no way Max could keep his own balance on such a flimsy roof. He needed a weapon. The radio aerial! It was in a podlike bracket on the rear bulkhead. The man slashed again and spittle shot from his lips as he snarled in frustration, but Max jumped over the cab, found his footing on the spare wheel that was locked on the bonnet and jinked to the left as his feet hit the ground.

The driver was on the far side of the Land Rover, near the right-hand headlight. He would have to come all the way back to reach Max, who had reached the aerial and had both hands pressing down on its base. He twisted it free from its locked position and held what was now a
three-meter-long metal whip. The man lunged, but he was a couple of meters away. Max slashed at him and the stinging metal cut across the top of his neck and shoulder. He cried out, but then snarled and spat even more, like a tormented scrapyard dog. If he ducked beneath Max’s swinging arc he would gut him like a fish.

Max was well balanced—a slight bend in his knees, his feet edging up onto his toes, waiting for the rush of his opponent. His fists were clenched around the aerial’s base as a warrior would hold a double-edged sword. The driver waited, Max watched his eyes; the man stabbed forward, but that was a feint—he intended to swing his arm back and plunge the razor-sharp blade into Max’s stomach. Max yelled, giving himself a surge of energy, ridding himself of the last vestige of fear, and whipped the aerial across his body—left and right and back again. Welts of blood suddenly appeared on the driver’s arms, chest and face. An almost surgical cut suddenly ran from above his left ear, down across his face and onto his neck. He was blinded. Max stepped back, nausea welling inside. He had caused the man serious injury, it felt terrible, and his feeling of guilt almost made him lower his guard. A voice shouted from his own mind—
He was going to kill you!
Max recovered and tightened his grip, but there would be no further attack—the man was defeated. He fell, picked himself up and went down the hill at a stumbling run, blinded by blood.

Max’s efforts on the back of the Land Rover had rocked it free, and it had slid off the flat-topped rock. He threw the aerial into the back. They needed help and the radio was their only means of contacting anyone. Kallie. He would
radio Kallie. She would send the police, or the army, anyone. Max felt the icy fear of being completely out of his depth.

But as the physical exertion of coaxing the Land Rover diagonally down the reverse slope of the ridge focused Max’s panic, his doubts swept away like the dust behind him. He would radio for help, but he was not going to stop. He would find his father. The bouncing Land Rover jolted !Koga. Max was steering with one hand and holding the Bushman’s shoulder with the other, keeping the boy’s head from banging against the dashboard. By the time they reached the flat road !Koga’s eyes had opened.

“What happened?” he asked.

“We won!” Max shouted. He laughed, though the steering wheel had a life of its own and demanded less celebration and more concentration as they lumbered across the uneven ground. !Koga smiled and said something Max took to be the Bushman equivalent of “Let’s get out of here while the going’s good.”

They were on the cooler, moister side of the hills, which offered more vegetation, the reason why animals trekked here. The boulders gave way to gentler ground with the hills to one side; they were now in a valley, heading towards the guardian mountains. As the ground leveled, Max let the tension ease out of his hands—he had been gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. With a backwards glance and the thought that it would take their attackers at least an hour, probably longer, before they contacted the other group, he allowed himself a sigh of relief. Fear had dried his mouth and he was parched, but he made a deal
with himself to stop and drink only when they were in the lee of the mountains, which had already lost the sun and which would offer them safety and shelter. A good vantage point, a safe haven for the night, was all he wanted now. And that drink.

As they drove towards the mountains, now purple in the evening light, he gazed in wonder at the amphitheater which lay before him. Perhaps this was a small corner of the Garden of Eden. He could not know its beauty concealed a treacherous place of death, where bones of the dead already lay.

A satellite link between Shaka Chang and his man in England beamed their voices across the thousands of kilometers between them. Things were not going as planned. There was no friendliness when they spoke, only irritation that the simple task of eliminating a boy was taking so long. Chang was on the first level of his desert fortress. It was a proper fort, huge and square, with battlements, like the French Foreign Legion had had in the Sahara, only this one had been built by a deluded German count in the nineteenth century. He had imagined himself to be a king and he built the castle as a fortress. It was impenetrable, riddled with underground chambers, escape routes, cellars, dungeons and a gravity-fed water system from a deep well. Unbeknown to the count, the castle lay on a fault line that a future owner—Shaka Chang—would develop into a mini-hydroelectric power supply. One day, the count told his wife and children he was going for a walk to admire the flowers along the riverside boulevard, and his wife realized that he had finally
gone mad. There were no flowers, no boulevard and, by that night, no count. They found his blood-smeared, silver-topped cane next morning. She and the children went back to Bavaria, to the cold, the snow and everything she had missed, including the count’s wealth, which she inherited. The fortress lay empty until the First World War, when the German army took control. A bitter war of extermination was levied against the indigenous people and the fortress’s reputation for housing mad and then cruel people was embedded.