Other movement caught David's eye on the open slope of the hill above
Akkers. For a moment he thought it was an animal, then with an intake
of breath he realized that he was mistaken.
What is it? Debra demanded, sensing his concern.
It's Sam, the damned fool. Connie told him not to leave his post, he's
unarmed, but he's baring down the slope to try and cut Akkers off. Can't
you stop him? Debra asked anxiously, and David didn't bother to answer.
He called Conrad four times before there was a reply.
Conrad's voice was thick and wheezing with the effort of running.
Sam is on to Akkers. I think he's going to confront him. Oh God damn
him, groaned Conrad. I'll kick his black ass for him.
Hold on, David told him, I'm going around for a closer look. David saw
it all quite plainly, he was only three hundred feet above them when
Akkers became aware of the running figure on the slope above him. He
stopped dead, and half-lifted the rifle; perhaps he shouted a warning
but Sam kept -on down, bounding over the rocky ground towards the man
who had burned his children to death.
Akkers lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed deliberately, the
rifle jumped sharply, the barrel kicking upwards at the recoil and Sam's
legs kept on running while his upper torso was flung violently backwards
by the strike of the heavy soft-nosed bullet.
The tiny brown-clad body bounced and rolled down the slope, before
coming to a sprawling halt in a clump of scrub.
David watched Akkers reload the rifle, stooping to pick up the empty
cartridge shell. Then he looked up at the circling aircraft above him,
David may have been mistaken but it seemed the man was laughing, that
obscene tooth-clucking giggle of his, then he started off again at a
trot towards the truck.
Connie, David spoke hoarsely into his handset, he just killed Sam.
Conrad Berg ran heavily over the broken sandy ground.
He had lost his hat and sweat poured down his big red face, stinging his
eyes and plastering the lank grey hair down his forehead. The
walkie-talkie set bounced on his back, and the butt of the rifle thumped
rhythmically against his hip.
He ran with grim concentration, trying to ignore the swollen pounding of
his heart and the torture of breath that scalded his lungs. A thorn
branch clawed at his upper arms, raking thin bloody lines through his
skin, but he did not break the pattern of his run.
He turned his red and streaming face to the sky and saw David's
aircraft, circling ahead of him and slightly to his left. That marked
for him Akkers position and it was clear that Conrad was losing ground
in his desperate race to head off the escape.
The radio set on his back buzzed, but he ignored the call, he could not
halt now. To break his run would mean he would only slump down
exhausted. He was a big heavy man, the air was hot and enervating, and
he had run three miles through loose and difficult going he was almost
finished. He was burning the last of his reserves now.
Suddenly the earth seemed to fall away under him, and he pitched forward
and half-slid, half-rolled, down the steep bank of the Luzane stream, to
finish lying on his back in the white river sand, clean and grainy as
