He sent a quick glance heavenward. Thank you, God.
He would get down on bended knee and offer a prayer of thanks as soon as he was safe.
Burn ran, dodging tourists. He lost sight of the watchman for a few seconds, then saw him heading up the stairs. There was no sign of Barnard. Burn hit the stairs, pumping his legs, racing to the top. He slowed when he hit the plaza above. The tourists were thinner on the ground here; he couldn’t risk being spotted.
He saw the watchman, using a minibus loaded with tourists for cover, walking toward the ramp that joined the main road into downtown Cape Town. Burn speed-dialed the phone he had given to the watchman.
Benny Mongrel shadowed the minibus, which crawled as a giant tour bus passed, waiting to swing out into a lane and accelerate. The phone in his pocket started to ring and vibrate. Benny Mongrel threw it into the gutter and walked on. The fat cop looked back, but he couldn’t see Benny Mongrel.
Then the cop ducked off the ramp and hauled his fat ass down a narrow flight of stairs that led to the road below. The road flanked a dry dock, and Benny Mongrel could see a group of Chinese sailors scraping and repairing their rusted trawler. One of them saw the cop’s man-breasts jiggling as he humped down the steps, and he said something to his friend and they stopped scraping and laughed. The cop didn’t notice. He was heading toward a brown Ford that was parked outside the old fish canning building.
Benny Mongrel knew he was going to be exposed on the stairs, but he had no choice. If he didn’t make his move now, the cop would be in the car and away. He hit the stairs at a run, two at a time.
The fat cop was at the rear of his car, popping the trunk, his sweating back to Benny Mongrel. He dropped the bag into the trunk, slammed it, and turned. And clocked Benny Mongrel, who was closing in fast. Surprise, astonishment even, crossed the cop’s face. He had to get both his fat and the T-shirt out of the way before he could draw the revolver at his hip, and that saved Benny Mongrel’s life.
Benny Mongrel closed the gap and kicked the fat cop in the balls while he was still trying to draw the gun. The cop made a sound like air escaping from a blimp and sagged but didn’t fall. Benny Mongrel kicked him again, in his ribs. And the cop was on his knees.
The Chinese sailors were chirping excitedly, hanging over the railing of the boat. It was better than a Jackie Chan movie. Benny Mongrel had the knife in his hand, and he flicked the blade open on the pocket of his jeans. The fat cop was looking up at him, gasping for air, stinking. Benny Mongrel held the blade so that it gleamed in the sunlight, grabbed the cop by his thatch of hair, and pulled his head back, exposing his throat.
Time to say goodnight.
Benny Mongrel felt the cold barrel of a gun shoved up against the back of his head. “Drop the knife,” said Burn.
CHAPTER 26
Benny Mongrel wondered if he would be quick enough to cut the cop’s throat before the American shot him. He held the blade against the jowls that hung like accordion bellows from the fat man’s neck, a rivulet of blood already snaking down to the cop’s T-shirt. One motion, quick and true, and it would be done. Benny Mongrel didn’t care if he died, but there was no way he was going to die without taking the fat cop to hell with him.
He heard the gun cocking, a sound he had heard many times before in his life.
“I mean it,” said Burn. “Drop the knife or I’ll shoot you.”
Benny Mongrel believed the desperation he heard in Burn’s voice.
He looked into the cop’s eyes, saw the fear, smelled the stench of his body. Then the message from Benny Mongrel’s brain moved down his arm and reached his fingers, and he loosened his grip on the knife.
There was a moment of absolute silence, broken only by the clatter of the knife as it hit the road. Then the Chinese sailors were jabbering again, in high excitement.
Benny Mongrel felt the pressure of the gun barrel ease as Burn stepped back. He turned and saw Burn reach down and pocket the knife. The fat cop, still down on one knee, was moving a hand toward his ankle. Burn’s gun arced and fixed on the cop.
“Search him,” said the American.
Benny Mongrel found the. 32 in the ankle holster and set it down on the road. He removed the. 38 from the fat man’s hip and placed it next to the other weapon.
Burn held the gun steady, unwavering, pointed at the fat cop. “Where is my son?”
The cop sneered. “Fuck you.” Burn’s finger was tightening on the trigger. “Shoot me, and you can kiss his little ass good-bye.”
“Open the trunk of the car,” said Burn, the gun moving between Benny Mongrel and the cop. Benny could see that Burn knew how to use it.
Benny Mongrel popped the trunk. Burn leveled the gun at the fat cop.
“Get in.” When the cop tried to protest, Burn pointed the weapon at the cop’s leg. “I’ll shoot you. I mean it.”
The cop shook his head again. “Fuck you.”
And Burn shot him. The bullet took the cop above his left knee, in the meat of his thigh, passing through his flesh without doing serious damage. The cop bit back the pain and grabbed at his leg. The Chinese sailors were chattering like monkeys.
Burn waved the gun again. “Now get in the trunk.”
Blood was flowing down the cop’s leg, and he cursed as he hauled himself to his feet, keeping his weight on his right leg. With a series of actions that under any other circumstances would have been comical, he contrived to load his bulk into the trunk.
“Close it,” Burn said to Benny Mongrel.
When Benny brought the trunk lid down, it hit the cop’s massive belly and refused to close. He leaned his weight on it. He heard the cop grunt and curse. He had to lift himself off the ground, lie on the lid, before he heard it catch.
“Kick the guns over to me.”
Benny Mongrel did as he was told. He watched as Burn pocketed the weapons.
“Now you drive.” Burn gestured with the gun toward the car.
Benny Mongrel shook his head. “I don’t drive.”
Burn stared at him. “You’re kidding me?”
“I never learn.”
“Fuck.” Burn shook his head. “Okay, get into the passenger seat. Slowly.”
He got into the Ford, and Burn slid behind the wheel and started the car.
“Where we going?” asked Benny Mongrel.
“To my house. To get him to talk.” Burn was doing a juggling act, the wheel, the ignition key, the revolver.
“It’s okay.”
“What is?”
“I won’t try nothing.” Burn was looking at him. “You want your boy? You need to know where to get him?” Burn nodded. “I help you if you do one thing for me.”
“What?”
“You let me work on him.” He jerked his head back toward the trunk. “To make him talk. I wanna do that.”
Burn nodded. “Deal.” He started the car and sped off, the revolver shoved between his seat and the door.
Benny Mongrel thought that maybe things had turned out okay. Maybe the American had done him a favor. Cutting the fat cop’s throat was too easy, too quick. Now he had the chance to take his time, put to good use the torture practices he had mastered in prison.
He was looking forward to that.
Burn drove toward his house, battling with the gears on the right-hand-drive stick shift. He had driven only the automatic Jeep since coming to Cape Town. Then he started to get it, felt the mind-muscle coordination kick
