The Dark Of The Sun [047-066-4.8]
By: Wilbur Smith
Category: Fiction Thriller
Synopsis:
The bend in the road rushed towards them, just a few more seconds. Then
with a succession of jarring crashes that shook the whole body of the
car a burst of fire hit them from behind. The windscreen starred into a
sheet of opaque diamond lacework, the dashboard clock exploded powdering
Shermaine's hair with particles of glass, two bullets tore 'through the
seat ripping out the stuffing like the entrails of a wounded animal.
'Bruce Curry is the leader of a mercenary band with the dubious support
of three white officers. His mission is to relieve a mining
town cut off by the fighting and to retrieve a priceless consignment of
diamonds. Ranged against his ill-disciplined unit are bandits,
guerrillas and hostile tribes that infest the land. But there is
another, even deadlier enemy, - one of his own men ...
'I don't like the idea,' announced Wally Hendry, and belched. He moved
his tongue round his mouth getting the taste of it before he went on. 'I
think the whole idea stinks like a ten-day corpse.' He lay sprawled on
one of the beds with a glass balanced on his naked chest
and he was sweating heavily in the Congo heat.
'Unfortunately your opinion doesn't alter the fact that we are going.'
Bruce Curry went on laying out his shaving tackle without looking up.
'You shoulda told them to keep it, told them we were staying here in
Elisabethville, - why didn't you tell them that, hey?' o Hendry picked
up his glass and swallowed the contents.
'Because they pay me not to argue.' Bruce spoke without interest and
looked at himself in the fly-spotted mirror above the washbasin.
The face that looked back was sundarkened with a cap of close-cropped
black hair; soft hair that would be unruly and inclined to curl if it
were longer.
Black eyebrows slanting upwards at the corners, green eyes with a heavy
fringe of lashes and a mouth which could smile as readily as it
could sulk. Bruce regarded his good looks without pleasure. It was a
long time since he had felt that emotion, a long time since his mouth
had either smiled or sulked. He did not feel the old tolerant affection
for his nose, the large slightly hooked nose that rescued his face from
prettiness and gave him the air of a genteel pirate.
'Jesus!' growled Wally Hendry from the bed. 'I've had just about a
gutsful of this nigger army. I don't mind fighting but I don't fancy
going hundreds of miles out into the bush to play nursemaid to a bunch
of bloody refugees.'
'It's a hell of a life,' agreed Bruce absently and spread shaving-soap
on his face. The lather was very white against his tan. Under a skin
that glowed so healthily that it appeared to have been freshly oiled,
the muscles of his
shoulders and chest changed shape as he moved. He was in good
condition, fitter than he had been for many years, but this fact gave
him no more pleasure than had his face.
