“Go,” said Tiny.
He took two, three steps to the door, opened it.
He froze.
Hope Beneke, Bester Brits, and another man, all on their knees, arms manacled behind their backs. The barrel of a gun in each of their mouths, three men standing there. They didn’t look at him, kept their eyes on their targets, fingers on the triggers. Behind them stood a Unimog truck, the back covered with a tarpaulin, and a white panel van.
“You see, Doctor, it’s not over. It’s not over by a long chalk.”
He looked back at Venter, saw the two men facing each other in the murky light, both crouching, ready, swung back to the other room, saw Hope’s shivering body, her lips around the barrel of the M16, the tears rolling down her cheeks, her eyes turning toward Van Heerden. He lifted the Rossi, saw his hands shaking, aimed at the soldier in front of Hope.
“Take the gun out of her mouth.”
“I planned it differently, Doctor.” Speckle Venter’s voice came from behind him. “I assumed you would come on your own, the way you handled the investigation. Alone. And then we would’ve negotiated. Hope Beneke and the will for you. Bester Brits and Vergottini and the dollars for me. The will is there – do you see it?”
The document, rolled up and pushed down Hope’s neckline.
“The dollars are on the truck, a few gemstones, and my little arsenal. And we would ride heroically into the west, against the setting sun, and everyone would’ve been happy…”
And then he spat out, “But then you brought the kaffir. And now things have changed.”
Van Heerden didn’t look round, his eyes and the Rossi still on the soldier in front of Hope. He could see they were young, rough, tough, like the bodies in front of his mother’s house.
“Take the gun out of her mouth.” His heart jumping, Lord, he’d got her into this.
A shuffling of feet in the room behind him, the two big men circling each other.
“Now you’re going to close that door, Doctor. And if the Xhosa opens it, you must take your chances in there. And if it’s me we can negotiate again.”
“No,” he said.
“But first, to show you how serious I am, Simon is going to shoot Bester Brits. And it’s ironic, Doctor, because twenty-three years ago I shoved a Star pistol into Bester’s mouth and he survived, can you believe it? I should’ve blown his brains out and I simply shot out his teeth. But now we have more time.”
“No.”
“Simon is going to shoot Bester, and if you don’t close the door Sarge will shoot Vergottini. And then the attorney, but I don’t know how you’ll feel about that because it seems to me you can’t choose between her and Kara-An.”
The Rossi shook in his hands, with powerlessness, rage, fear.
“Shoot Brits,” Speckle barked from the warehouse behind them.
He shouted and at the same time the shot rang out. Bester Brits was thrown back, fell. He aimed the Rossi at Brits’s murderer, fired, the big weapon jerking in his hands, and missed. Simon pointed the M16 at Van Heerden.
“I’ve heard about your problem with firearms,” said Venter. “Put that thing down now and shut the door. Otherwise Beneke is next.”
He stood, paralyzed.
“Sarge, I’m counting to three. If he doesn’t do as he’s told, shoot the woman.”
Van Heerden bent slowly, put the Rossi on the floor, turned, and started to close the door.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” said Tiny Mpayipheli.
Venter laughed and then the door was closed, and he stood looking at Bester’s body lying on the floor and Simon and the M16 aimed at him and Hope’s whole body shaking and Vergottini with his eyes closed as if he was praying, and he wondered how he would get his Z88 out from above his tailbone, how he could keep down the overpowering nausea that was rising in his throat, how he was going to control his fear. And then he heard the sounds on the other side of the door, brutish cries, flesh smacking against flesh, someone hitting the wall between the two spaces with a dull thud and the building shaking, then silence. He looked down at Bester Brits’s still form, lying on his back, one arm thrust out, the blood oozing from the wound at the back of his head, the red pool slowly growing. He looked at Simon, the M16 that hadn’t moved, the black eye of Death staring at him, then more sounds from the other side, the battle starting all over again, Hope Beneke crying jerkily, her tears dripping onto the document against her neck.
“She’s a woman,” he begged the man standing in front of her. Neither the man nor his gun moved. “Don’t you have a conscience?”
He put his hand under his jacket, felt the stock of the Z88, curled his fingers around it. He didn’t stand a chance – he wouldn’t even have it out before they shot him down like a dog. Someone bellowed in the other room, someone screamed, hate and pain combined, dull blows, wood breaking, the table. How could Mpayipheli win against that brute mass?
“Please, let her go,” he said. “I’ll kneel, I’ll put my mouth around your fucking gun.” And he moved closer, the Z88 out of his belt, still behind his back, still under the jacket.
“Stand still,” said the one in front of Hope, the one Venter had called Sarge.
He stopped. “Are you in charge?” he asked Sarge.
“Just stand still. Then she’ll be safe. You, too.” The man didn’t even look at him, simply stared at Hope’s face down the barrel of his firearm.
“She’s a woman,” he said.
Heaving, grunting, the sick sound of heavy blows to a body, an unidentifiable voice that went “
The awareness sank over the whole group – the three soldiers, Hope, Vergottini, Van Heerden – that it was quiet in the warehouse, the scraping of feet on the floor, the blows, the cries, suddenly silenced.
He stared at them. Simon stared at him; Sarge and the other one only had eyes for their targets.
Rain on the roof.
Silence.
Safety catch of the Z88 off, slowly, slowly, slowly, mustn’t make a sound, his fingers wet with sweat. He was going to die here today, die today, but he’d been here before, he wasn’t scared anymore, he’d already been here at the gates of death. He would dive to the right first, pistol extended, shoot, shoot Sarge away from Hope, that was all he would be able to do, and he must not miss. The silence stretched and stretched and stretched.
“What are we going to do if no one comes in?” His words hoarse, his throat dry, no saliva left.
Sarge’s eyes darted toward him, the eyes off the target for the first time, then they flashed back. He saw a drop of sweat on the man’s forehead, and something happened in his head, the panic receded: they were only human after all, they hadn’t bargained on this, they were waiting for Venter, Basson, whatever they called him.
“What do we do?” Louder, more urgently.
“Shut your fucking mouth.” Sarge’s voice echoed in the large space, uncertainly, and when he realized it, he repeated it, quietly, more in control. “Shut your mouth. Basson will come.”
“The police as well,” he lied. “You shot a detective this afternoon.”
“It was an accident. We wanted Vergottini.”
“Tell that to the judge, Sarge.”
He knew he had to keep on talking, he knew he had inserted the thin edge of the wedge, caused uncertainty.
“If we could find you, so can the police, Sarge…”
“Shut up. If you speak again, if you say one fucking word, I’ll blow away the bitch’s face.”
Sweat on everyone’s faces now despite the cold outside, the chill in the room.
