In reflection Little Joe Moroka would will himself to react faster, but in the real moment he registered the uniform snicking of safety catches as he and Weyers reacted in unison, conditioned by training, the motorbike sliding, iron and steel colliding with Weyers. The rider falling away from the machine, Moroka staggering, slipping, falling on his back, finger in the guard of the R6 pulling the trigger unwilled, shots in the air, rolling, jumping up. The shoulder of the fugitive driving into his midriff, falling again, winded.
Rain in his eyes, gasping for air, boots kicking for a grip to get up, the rider on top of him, bashing him in the face with the helmet, pain coursing through him. The man grabbed his firearm, pulled, jerked and twisted it from his grip. Blood, his blood, against the front of the helmet, then the barrel of the R.6 in his eye and he could only lie there in the mud until the man pushed up the helmet visor and said, ?Look what you?re making me do.? He heard Weyers groaning, ?Joe.? Weyers calling him but he could not turn his head to his mate. ?Joe?? A weird expression on the face of the man above him, not anger? sorrow almost. ?Joe, I think my leg is broken.?
?Look what you made me do.?
The digital radio at Tiger Mazibuko?s hip came to life and he heard an unexpected word: ?Hello.? Immediately temper flamed up in the tinder of his frustration and discomfort and exhaustion.
?Alpha One receiving and why the fuck aren'?t you using radio protocol? Over.?
?What is your name, Alpha One?? He didn?'t know this voice. It was deep, strange.
?This is a military frequency. Please get off the air immediately over.?
?My name is Thobela Mpayipheli. I am the man you are looking for. Who are you??
It was a bizarre moment, because there was joy in it, tempered with a sudden deep apprehension. He knew something had happened to one of his teams, but that would take some level of skill. It would take a worthy opponent.
?My name is Captain Tiger Mazibuko,? he said. And I am talking to a dead man. Over.?
?No one needs to die, Captain Tiger Mazibuko. Tell your masters I will do what I have to do, and if they leave me alone, there will be no blood. That is my promise.?
?Who did you steal that radio from, you bastard??
?They need medical help here, west of the Ni, the Sneeukraal turnoff. Your men will tell you the serious injury was an accident. I am sorry for it. The only way to avoid that is to avoid confrontation. I am asking you nicely. I don'?t want trouble.?
A wonderful thing happened in Tiger Mazibuko?s head as the meaning of the man?s words was assimilated and processed, like tumblers falling into place. The end result was the synaptic equivalent of an explosion of white fire. ?You?re dead. You hear me, you?re dead.? He ran toward the nearest vehicle. ?You hear me, you cunt, you fuckin? shit.? No, the helicopter. He spun around. ?If it?s the last thing I do, you?re gone, you cunt, you fuckin? dog.? The helplessness of the distance between them was driving him insane. ?Get this thing going, now,? he told the pilot. ?Da Costa, Zongu, get everybody,? he shouted. ?Now.? Back to the pilot: ?Get this fucking chopper in the air.? He touched the weapon at his belt, the Z88 pistol, jumped out of the helicopter again, ran to the tent, pulled open a chest, grabbed the R.6 and two spare magazines, ran back. The Oryx engines turning, Team Alpha came running. He held the radio to his lips. ?I?m going to kill you, I swear, as God is my witness, I?m going to kill you, you fucking piece of shit.?
Like a condemned man, Rahjev Rajkumar read the words on www.bmwmotorrad.co.za to the whole room, knowing the tidings he brought would not be welcome. ?At home all around the world. Adventures are limitless with the BMW R 1150 GS, whether on hard surfaces, pistes or gravel tracks. Uphill and downhill, through valleys and plateaus, forests and deserts? the R1150 GS is the perfect motorcycle for every adventure.?
?He can ride dirt roads,? said Janina.
The people in the Ops Room were quiet, the murmur of voices from the television bank suddenly audible.
?It?s my fault,? she said. ?I take responsibility for this one.?
She ought to have made sure. She should have had questions asked. Should never have accepted the conventional thinking.
She walked over to the big map of the country hanging on the wall and checked the distance between the turnoff and the roadblock. It was so near. She had been right. About everything. He had taken the Ni. He was an hour later than she had predicted, but he was there. But for the rain
She looked at the great stretches of the North West Province.
What now? Mpayipheli?s choices multiplied with every thin red stripe that represented a road, no matter what the surface. Even with Team Bravo in action, there were simply too many holes, too many crossroads and junctions and turnoffs and options to cover.
What to do now?
She needed a hot bath, needed to wash the night out of her hair and scrub it from her body. She needed new clothes and fresh makeup. A good breakfast.
Her eyes wandered to the final destination. Lusaka.
She knew one thing. He had turned west. Written off the direct route through Bloemfontein. She traced a new line. Through Gaborone, Mmabatho, Vryburg, and Kimberley That was the strongest possibility.
The storm had saved him, but now it was his enemy. They knew the system was two hundred kilometers wide, but he could only guess. He had fallen on the gravel road, not too skilled. He would have to ride slowly in the mud, carefully. He would consider his choices. He would wonder where they were. He would look over his shoulder for the helicopters, check the road ahead for soldiers. He was tired and cold and wet. Sore from the fall.
five, six hundred kilometers to Kimberley. How fast could he go?
