was amazed.
The night sounds returned, soft and respectful, as if nature knew she could not compete now.
Wordlessly, Little Joe Moroka stood up from the circle at the helicopter.
From habit he slung the Heckler & Koch UMP submachine pistol over his shoulder and he walked.
No one said a word. They knew.
Little Joe walked down the bank. It had been a bittersweet day and he wanted to cherish the sweet a little longer, taste the emotions a little more. He walked down to the river, stood gazing into the dark water, the HK harmlessly behind his back. He did not want to stand still but walked toward the bridge, thinking of everything, thinking of nothing, the sounds reverberating in his head? damn, it was good, like when he was a kid? aimlessly wandered into the dark under the bridge. He saw the dull gleam of the stainless-steel exhaust pipe, but it did not register because it did not belong, he looked away, looked again, a surreal moment with a tiny wedge of reason, a light coming on in his brain, one step closer, another, the shiny object took shape, lines, tank and wheel and handlebars, and he made a noise, surprised, reached for his weapon, swung it around, but it was too late. Out of the moon shadow came a terrifyingly fast movement, a shoulder hit him for the second time that day, but his finger was inside the trigger guard, his thumb already off the safety, and as his breath exploded over his lips and he tumbled backward, the weapon stuttered out on full automatic, loosing seven of its nineteen rounds.
five hit the concrete and steel, whining away into the night. Two found the right hip of Thobela Mpayipheli.
He felt the 9 mm bullets jerk his body sideways, he felt the immediate shock; he knew he was in trouble but he followed the fall of Moroka, down the steep bank to the river. He heard the shouts of the group at the helicopter but focused on the weapon? Little Joe was winded, Thobela landed on top of him, his hand over the firearm, jerked it, got it loose, his fingers sought the butt, his other forearm against the soldier?s throat, face-to-face, heard the approaching steps, comrades shouting questions, pressed the barrel of the HK against Moroka?s cheek.
?I don'?t want to kill you,? he said.
?Joe?? called Da Costa from above.
Moroka struggled. The barrel pressed harder, the weight of the fugitive heavy on him; the man hissed, ?Shhh,? in his face, and Little Joe submitted because where could the fucker go, there were six of them against one.
?Joe??
Mpayipheli rolled off Moroka, moved around behind him, pulled him up by the collar to use him as a shield.
?Let?s all stay calm,? said Thobela. The adrenaline made the world move in slow motion. His hip was wet, blood running in a stream down his leg.
?Jissis,? said Cupido above. They could see now. Little Joe with the gun to his head, the big fucker behind him.
?Put down your weapons,? said Mpayipheli. The shock of the two 9 mm rounds combined with the chemistry of his body to make him shake.
They just stood there.
?Shoot him,? said Little Joe.
?No one is getting hurt,? said Thobela.
?Kill the dog,? said Little Joe.
?Wait,? said Da Costa.
?Put it down,? said Mpayipheli.
?Please, man, shoot him,? Little Joe pleaded. He could not face Tiger Mazibuko?s anger again, no more humiliation. He writhed and struggled in the grip of the fugitive and then Thobela Mpayipheli hit him with the butt of the HK where the nerves bunch between back and head, and his knees sagged, but the arm locked around his throat and held him up.
?I will count to ten,? said Mpayipheli, ?and then all the weapons will be on the ground,? and his voice sounded hoarse and strange and distant, a desperate man. His mind was on the helicopter: Where was the pilot? Where were the men who could use the radio to send a warning?
They put their weapons down, Da Costa and Zwelitini and Cupido.
?Where are the other two??
Da Costa looked around, betraying their position.
?Get them here. Now,? said Mpayipheli.
?Just stay calm,? said Da Costa.
Little Joe was beginning to come around and started wriggling under his arm. ?I am calm, but if those two don'?t get here now ??
?Captain,? Da Costa called over his shoulder.
No answer.
He?s using the radio, Mpayipheli knew; he was calling in reinforcements.
?One, two, three ??
?Captain.? There was panic in Da Costa?s shout.
?Four, five, six ??
?Shit, Captain, he?s going to shoot him.?
