“Cool it, Mitchell,” Downs said. “Clear your head. Short, controlled bursts, okay?”
It was the last thing he said.
A single shot cracked through the fog, slapping into the back of Downs’ neck, in the gap between the top of his vest and the bottom of his helmet. The big IGA man crumpled to his knees, then toppled onto the ground. Isra dropped to one knee, pulled her carbine into her shoulder and emptied a magazine in the direction the shot had come from.
“Isra, stop firing,” Walcott shouted. “Isra. For God’s sake.”
Maratse rolled free of Walcott’s grip, just as a pistol bullet caught the IGA leader in the chest, throwing him onto his back.
“We’re exposed,” Isra yelled, changing magazines. “Mitchell. Cover me.”
Isra ran to the corner of the house opposite the store as Mitchell filled the air with lead in a wide arc. Each burst echoed between the buildings, adding smoke and cordite to the fog. Walcott sat up, shook his head, then fixed his helmet. He looked at his carbine, pressed his finger into the busted magazine where the bullet struck, then tugged the rifle from his chest. Walcott tossed his carbine to one side, drew his pistol, and grabbed Maratse.
“We’re going to the helo, Constable. Now, on your feet.”
Maratse struggled to stand, stumbling for balance as Walcott stuffed the end of his pistol into the constable’s back. They walked forward, into the fog, in the direction of the helicopter.
“They want Maratse,” Walcott said, calling out to the remains of his team. “I’ll get him to the chopper. Secure Downs’ body and I’ll send a team to pick you up.”
“You’re leaving us?” Isra shouted.
“They don’t want us, only him. It’s safer this way.”
“Safer my ass,” Mitchell said. He tugged a fresh magazine from the pouch at the front of his vest, slapped it home, then turned his carbine on Walcott and Maratse.
“Mitchell, stop,” Isra shouted. She cursed as Mitchell pulled the trigger, caught her breath when his carbine jammed, then put two bullets into the centre of his tactical vest, dropping him to the ground. “Go,” she said with a wave at Walcott. “Get out of here.”
Walcott nodded, then pushed Maratse forward, deeper into the fog. He clicked the team radio on his shoulder, ordering the helicopter crew to hold their fire as he approached.
“Your team is in trouble,” Maratse said, as Walcott hurried him along with another stab of the pistol into his back.
“No shit?” Walcott shifted his grip to the ties around Maratse’s wrists. “And no thanks to you.”
“I didn’t bring them here. I didn’t start the shooting.”
“No? But it’s strange, isn’t it, Constable? That wherever you go, there’s always trouble.” The whine of the helicopter engines starting up urged Walcott to pick up the pace. He tugged at Maratse’s wrists, forcing him to dip his head forward as they walked into the fog.
They stopped at the last house before an empty stretch of open ground to the helicopter. The exchange of fire continued behind them – single shots – more a statement than a serious effort to do harm.
“We’re coming to you now,” Walcott said into his radio, following up with a double click as the pilot confirmed they were ready and waiting. The roar of the rotors drowned out the last shots and short bursts of gunfire behind them, but not the single crack of a rifle bullet splitting the air in front of Walcott’s face before burying itself in the wall of the last house before the helicopter.
“Let him go,” Kamiila shouted, as she stepped out from behind the next house, the small .22 rifle steady in her grip as she aimed at Walcott’s head.
“You shot one of my men,” Walcott said, raising his voice to compete with the thunder of the helicopter. “That’s murder, young lady.”
“Naamik,” Kamiila said, as she stared at Walcott. “It’s revenge. An eye for an eye. You killed Nukappi. I killed one of yours. It’s over. Let David go.”
“Kamiila,” Maratse said.
She lowered the rifle just enough to look at Maratse, shaking her head before he could say anything more. “This is how it is now, David. It’s a fight, a struggle. We have to fight back, for what we love – our family, our homes, our country. We can’t just give up.”
“We’re not giving up,” Maratse said. “But there are other ways to fight.”
“Naamik,” she said. Another shake of her head.
“Listen to him, Kamiila,” Walcott said. “Be smart. You have to do what’s right.”
“We tried that,” she said, adjusting her aim. “This is the way now.”
Walcott’s radio crackled with the voice of the door gunner, confirming that he was on the ground and in position.
“Just give the word, and I’ll take her,” he said.
Walcott let go of Maratse’s wrists to click the transmit button. “Stand by,” he said, just as Maratse twisted away from him, scraping the side of his boot down Walcott’s shin, before following up with a kick to his groin.
“Run, Kamiila,” Maratse shouted, as a long burst from the gunner’s rifle cut through the fog and the thunder of the rotors, splintering the wall of the house above Kamiila’s head. She dropped and squirmed under the house, taking cover behind the stilts upon which the house was built, and the empty barrels and crates hidden beneath it.
Walcott recovered. He held his pistol in a tight grip – his arm straight as he gained his feet, then spat dust from his mouth. “Get on the fucking chopper, Constable,” he said, smacking Maratse’s face with the back of his hand. He turned, put two bullets into the ground beneath the house where Kamiila hid, then grabbed Maratse by the collar of his jacket. They ran to the helicopter. Walcott nodded at the door gunner as they passed him, then shoved Maratse up and into the aircraft.
“What about your team?” the gunner said, as he climbed in next
