get onto the bridge itself.
Tom could see the lions now, but they were lying facing the other way, towards the tour van. The guide driving the bus saw him now and pointed, alerting his tourists to the madman approaching. Tom saw four lenses swing in unison to face him. ‘Police!’ he yelled. ‘Back off that bridge, now!’
The driver stared at him, hardly believing what he was seeing. The lions raised their heads as one at the sound of his voice. One stood and uttered a throaty, bass growl that sent a chill up Tom’s back.
‘Get in,’ a woman said to him, leaning back and opening the rear door of her BMW. Tom sidled up to the car but did not take up the invitation.
He held his gun up, pointed in the air. ‘Back up, now!’ The tour operator driver finally saw sense and started his engine. As he tried to reverse, however, he jack-knifed his trailer and had to engage first gear to move forward again. All three lions were on their paws now, growling and facing outwards in different directions. The van’s erratic movements were spooking them, but the cats, like the other drivers on the bridge, were trapped. ‘Move it!’
The lion that had spotted Tom caught sight of him again. Cornered, it had only one option. It bounded between two cars and started running directly at Tom. Women screamed and cameras whirred as the lion closed the gap, charging for the kill. Tom had moved to the front of the BMW better to communicate with the van driver, but now he saw the flash of tawny fur streaking towards him. ‘Get in!’ the woman behind him yelled again. He needed no further prompting. He took three paces back and dived, headfirst, onto the rear passenger seat. The woman was trying to close the door but his foot was in the way. He yelped as he felt the door crush against his ankle but, turning around to look back over his shoulder, he saw it was not the woman who was closing the door any more. She was bent double in the front seat, screaming maniacally. The lion was standing on its hind legs, roaring. The pressure on the door was coming from two massive paws, and the leathery pads, each the size of a dinner plate, were pressed against the car door’s window. The beast’s foul breath fogged the glass. Its deep, wheezy growls rocked the car almost as much as its massive weight as it fought to get inside the vehicle.
Tom lay on the back seat and racked his Glock, chambering a bullet as he let the slide fly forward. He reached out and pressed the electric window button in front of him, on the door opposite the lion. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, you fucking idiot?’ the woman’s husband said from the driver’s seat. He had been in shocked silence so far. As the window slid down, Tom felt the pressure relieved on the car. The lion hadn’t left, it had just got smarter.
He saw the hooked claws protruding, each as long as one of his fingers, as the lion hooked one huge paw into the gap in the partially open door. He was going to open it. Tom pulled his foot free at last and thrust his right hand out of the window. He squeezed the trigger four times. Children cried and parents hollered. The lion withdrew its paw at the deafening sounds of the gunshots, and turned and ran back over the bridge in pursuit of his two brothers.
The tour van had finally turned around and was speeding away. Like a champagne bottle uncorked, the road was now clear and cars spewed across the bridge, eager to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the madman with the gun as quickly as possible. Inside the BMW the woman who had probably saved Tom’s life was a sobbing wreck. ‘Get out of my fucking car now, you stupid rooinek,’ her husband spat at Tom.
Duncan pulled up beside them in the Land Cruiser, shaking his head. ‘Well, you cleared the bridge,’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ was all Tom could think to say to the couple in the car. He climbed out and leapt back into the front passenger seat of the game-viewing vehicle.
Tom noted the sign on the bridge as they raced across the Sweni River. He checked the map as Duncan drove. People honked their annoyance at them as Duncan overtook car after car, not caring any longer that he was going almost twice the fifty kilometre per hour speed limit. They had already covered roughly sixty kilometres from Skukuza, but still had more than twenty to go, on dirt, once they reached the S100 road, just south of Satara camp. If the men they were pursuing were sticking to the speed limit, in order not to draw undue attention to themselves, then Tom was hopeful they would catch them before they abandoned their vehicle. Assuming, of course, they were on the right road and had correctly figured the kidnappers’ plan.
‘Can’t you go any faster?’ They had turned onto the dirt road now and Duncan had slowed the Land Cruiser to about sixty kilometres per hour — still twenty above the maximum for gravel.
‘If we hit a buck or an elephant you’ll be going nowhere.’ Duncan returned his concentration to the road. Tom held the bar on the front dashboard for support as they roller-coastered through a drainage culvert. All four wheels left the road as they hit a hump where a grader had turned off.
They left a cloud of red dust in their wake, which blanketed a pair of cars and their occupants, who had stopped to photograph a trio of giraffe. The long-limbed animals, scared by the roar of the Cruiser’s speeding diesel engine, cantered away, looking as though they might trip at any moment.
Tom was still looking backwards when Duncan braked hard, and he was thrown into the dashboard, his right shoulder connecting with it painfully. ‘What?’ He looked up to see a family of warthog, a big male, his female and three tiny piglets, galloping away, their tails pointed up like antennae as they ran. Duncan accelerated again and ground through the gears until they were back up to their safe maximum speed.
‘ Bakkie ahead,’ Duncan called. It was the fifth such vehicle they had seen. This one had its brand, Isuzu, written in bold, raised black letters across the tailgate. Tom noted that the enclosed rear canopy was heavily tinted. He slid his pistol from its holster and held it loose in his lap.
‘Take them,’ Tom said. Duncan pressed his foot to the firewall.
Tom saw a face in the driver’s wing mirror as Duncan brought them alongside the right rear corner of the pick-up. It was an African and he was watching them intently. He saw the rear passenger window of the twin cab start to come down. Tom raised his pistol so that it was level with the dashboard, but still out of the sight of any occupant of the other vehicle.
A man’s face peered out, but only for an instant. His complexion was dark, swarthy, but not black. If Tom had to guess he would say Arab. ‘Get ready to ram them if I tell you.’ Duncan’s face was grim, but he simply nodded.
Duncan slowed marginally as they prepared to draw alongside. At that moment, Tom heard a whining protest of changing gears and the other vehicle shot forward, accelerating. ‘Faster!’
Duncan changed down quickly but the bakkie was pulling away from them. Tom had only a split second to make his decision. They could simply be local men who might resent some rich tourist from a private game lodge and his guide trying to overtake them at speeds in excess of the legal limit. Or they could be Robert Greeves’s kidnappers.
He raised his hand and aimed at the right rear tyre of the other vehicle. As he squeezed, Duncan hit a deep rut and had to wrestle with the wheel to keep them straight. Tom’s shot went wide. If the driver of the other vehicle heard the shot he did not heed it as a warning and continued to accelerate. Tom coughed as they drove through the dust plume churned up by the Isuzu. It would be hard to get a clear shot through the red-brown mist of grit and he was worried about accidentally killing one of the people they were trying to save.
Any doubt Tom had about the identity of the other vehicle disappeared when the tinted rear window of the bakkie ’s canopy suddenly flew up. Tom lifted his arm instinctively, but then ducked as he saw a man wearing a black ski mask pointing a short-barrelled version of an AK 47 at them. Duncan saw the threat too and swerved wildly as the assault rifle opened up on them. The rough ride made it hard for the gunman to aim and the bullets sailed high. Tom glanced up and saw two holes had been punched through the canvas sun canopy.
Tom felt no satisfaction that they had taken the right route, nor that they had found the criminals’ vehicle. They were outnumbered and outgunned. He didn’t imagine that was the only automatic weapon in the bakkie. He couldn’t shoot back — he was certain that the man with the AK was guarding Greeves and Bernard, who would be lying in the back of the truck’s cargo area. All they could do was keep them in sight.
‘Keep on them but don’t get too close,’ he said to Duncan, who was doing his best to do just that.
Tom fished his mobile phone from his pocket and held it up so he could see the screen. ‘No signal. Shit. We’re on our own, Duncan.’
‘Not quite.’ As he drove one-handed, Duncan snatched up the handset of his two-way radio and started talking rapidly in Shangaan. Tom listened in as he kept his eyes on the vehicle ahead, visible now and then through a swirling dust cloud. A series of acknowledgement messages came through in African dialect. He also heard some radio chatter in Afrikaans when Duncan turned up the volume. ‘We might get some support if we’re not too
