magnified voice bellowed into the night, and came crashing back in echoes from the close pressed hills. 'Do not attempt to escape!' The two men whirled and dived back towards the Mercedes. Timon Nbebi started the engine with a roar and the Land' Rover jerked forward.
'Stay where you are! Drop your weapons!' The men hesitated, then the armed one threw down his rifle and they both raised their hands in surrender, blinking into the dazzle of headlights.
Timon Nbebi swung the Land-Rover in front of the Mercedes, blocking it. Then he jumped down and ran to the open window and pointed his Uzi submachine-gun into the interior.
'Oud'he shouted. 'Everybody oud' Behind them the two trucks came to a squealing halt, clouds of dust boiling out from under their double rear wheels. Armed troopers swarmed out of them, rushing forward to club down the two unarmed men onto the gravel of the road. They surrounded the Mercedes, tearing open the doors and dragging out the driver and another man from the back seat.
There was no mistaking the tall, wide-shouldered figure.
The headlights floodlit his dark, craggy features and exaggerated the rocky strength of his lantern jaw. Tungata Zebiwe shrugged off the grip of his captors, and glared about him, forcing them to fall back involuntarily.
'Back, you yapping jackals! Do you dare touch me?' He was dressed in dark slacks and a white shirt. His cropped head was round and black as a cannon ball.
'Do you know who I am?' he demanded. 'You'll wish your twenty-five fathers had taught you better mariners.' His arrogant assurance drove them back another pace, and they looked towards the Land' Rover Peter Fungabera stepped out of the darkness behind the headlights, and Tungata Zebiwe recognized him instantly.
'You!' he growled. 'Of course, the chief butcher.'
'Open the truck,' Peter Fungabera ordered, without taking his eyes off the other man. They stared at each other with such terrible hatred, that it rendered insignificant everything else around them. It was an elemental confrontation, seeming to embody all the savagery of a continent, two powerful men stripped of any vestige of civilized restraint, their antagonism so strong as to be barely supportable to them.
Craig had jumped dbwn from the Land' Rover and started forward, but Itow he stopped beside the Mercedes in astonishment. He had not expected anything remotely like this. This almost tangible hatred was not a thing of that moment, it seemed that the two of them would launch themselves at each other like embattled animals, tearing with bare hands at each other's throats. This was a passion of deep roots, a mutual rage based on a monumental foundation of long-standing hostility.
From the back of the captured truck the troopers were hurling out bales and crates. One of the crates burst open as it hit the road, and long yellow shafts of ivory glowed like amber in the headlights. A trooper hooked open one of the bales and pulled out handfuls of precious fur, the golden dappled skin of leopard, the thick red pelts of lynx.
'That's it! Peter Fungabera's voice was choking with triumph and loathing and vindictive gloating. 'Seize the Matabele dog!' 'WI-iatever this is will rebound on your own head,' Tungata growled at him, 'you son of a Shana whore! 'Take him!' Peter urged his men, but they hesitated, held at bay by the invisible aura of power that emanated from this tall imperial figure.
In the pause, Sally-Anne jumped down from the Land Rover, and started towards the treasure of fur and ivory lying in the road. For a second she screened Tungata Zebiwe from his captors, and he moved with a blur of speed, like the strike of an adder, almost too fast to follow with the eye.
He seized Sally-Arme's arm, twisted and lifted her off her feet, holding her as a shield in front of him as he ducked low and scooped up the discarded rifle from the dust at his feet. He had chosen the moment perfectly.
They were all crowded in upon each other. The troopers pressed so closely that none of them could fire without hitting one of their own.
Tungata's back was protected by the Land-Rover, his front by Sally-Anne's body.
'Don't shood' Peter Fungabera bellowed at his men. 'I want the Matabele bastard for myself.' Tungata swung the barrel of the rifle up under Sally Anne armpit, holding it by the pistol grip singlehanded, and he aimed at Peter Fungabera, as he fell back towards the Land-Rover, dragging Sally' Anne with him. The Land Rover's engine was still running.
'You'll not escape,' Peter Fungabera gloated. 'The road is blocked, I have a hundred men. I've got you, at last.' Tungata slipped the rate-of-fire selector across with his thumb and dropped his aim to Peter Fungabera's belly.
Craig was standing diagonally behind his left shoulder, he saw the slight deflection of the rifle barrel at the instant before Tungata fired. Craig realized that he had deliberately aimed an inch to one side of Peter's hip. The clattering roar of automatic fire was deafening, and the group of men leapt apart as they went for cover.
The rifle rode up high in Tungata's singlehanded grip.
Bullets smashed into the parked truck, leaving dark rents through the body work, each surrounded by a halo of bright bare metal. Peter Fungabera hurled himself aside, spinning away along the truck body to fall flat in the road and wriggle frantically behind the truck wheels.
Gunsmoke and dust shrouded the blazing headlights, and troopers scattered, blanketing each other's field of fire, while in the chaos, Tungata lifted Sally-Anne bodily and threw her into the passenger, seat of the Land-Rover. In the same movement, he' vaulted up into the driver's seat, threw the vehicle into gear and the engine roared as it leapt forward.
'Don't shoot!' Peter Fungabera shouted again, there was a desperate urgency in his voice. 'I want him alive!' A trooper jumped in fk6nt of the Land-Rover, 'in a futile attempt to stop it. 'he impact sounded likea lump of bread-dough dropped 'on the kneading board, as the bonnet hit him squarely in the chest and he fell. There was a series of jolting bumps as he was dragged under the chassis, then, he rolled out into the road and the Land-Rover was boring away up the dark hill.
Without conscious thought, Craig jerked open the driver's door of the abandoned ministerial Mercedes and slipped into the seat. He locked the wheel into a hard 180-degree turn and gunned her into it. The Mercedes' tail crabbed around, tyres spinning and he hit the high earth bank a glancing blow with the right front wing that swung her nose through the last few degrees of the turn. Craig lifted his foot off the accelerator, met the skid, centred the wheel, and then trod down hard. The Mercedes shot forward, and through the open window he heard Peter Fungabera shout, 'Craig! Wait!' He ignored the call, and concentrated on the first sharp bend of the escarpment road as it flashed up at him. The Mercedes' steering was deceptively light, he almost over steered and the off-wheels hammered over the rough verge.
Then he was through the bend and ahead the red taillights of the Land-Rover were almost obscured in their own boiling white dust cloud.
Craig dropped the automatic transmission to sports mode, the engine shrieked and the needle of the rev the red sector above 5000, and she counter spun up into arrowed up the hill, gaining swiftly on the Land-Rover.
It was swallowed by the next turn, and the dust blinded Craig so that he was forced to lift his right foot and grope through the turn, again he almost missed it and his rear wheels tore at the steep drop, inches from disaster before he took her through.
He was getting the feel of the machine, and four hundred yards ahead he had a brief glimpse of the Land Rover through the dust. His headlights spotlit Sally-Anne.
She was half-twisted over the side, trying to climb out and m the fleeing vehicle, but Tungata shot throw herself fro out a long arm and caught her shoulder, plucking her back and forcing her down into the seat.
The scarf flew off her head, winging up likea night bird to be lost in the darkness, and her thick dark hair broke out and tangled about her head and face. Then dust obscured the Land-Rover again and Craig felt his anger hit him in the chest with a force that made him choke. In that moment, he hated Tungata Zebiwe as he had never hated another human being in his life before. He took the next bend cleanly, tracking neatly through and pouring on full power again at the moment he was clear.
The Land-Rover was three hundred yards ahead, the gap shrinking at the rush of the Mercedes, then Craig was braking for the next twist of the road and when he came out the Land-Rover was much closer. Sally-Anne was craning around, looking back at him. Her face was white, almost luminous, in the headlights, her hair danced in a glossy tide around it, seeming at moments almost to smother her, and then the next bend snatched her away.
Craig followed them into it, meeting the brake of the tail as she floated in the floury dust and then as he came through he saw the road-block ahead.
There was a three-ton army truck parked squarely across the road, and the gaps between it and the bank had been filled with recently felled thorn trees. The entwined branches formed a solid mattress and the heavy trunks had been chained together. Craig saw the steel links glinting in the headlights. That barrier would stop a bulldozer.
Five troopers stood before the barrier, waving their rifles in an urgent command to the LanRover to halt. That they hadn't already opened fire made Craig hope that Peter Fungabera had reached them on the radio, yet he felt a nauseating rush of anxiety when he saw how vulnerable Sally-Anne was in the opbn vehicle. He imagined a volley of automatic fire tearing into that lovely young body and
