Jacques Nkunda loved fiddling with mechanical problems, and when he found the old Ducati motorcycle under a tarpaulin in the barn he grinned to himself. Peeling an orange he had taken from the trees in Jo's little orchard, the Rwandan sat at a workbench and began to tinker with the dented wheel of the machine, and ignored Dietrich's yell from the house to come in for breakfast.
He had ridden a bike back in Rwanda, in the days when he was with the Akazu* as he did his best to rid his country of Tutsi trash during the genocide of 1994. His murderous skills had translated well to life as one of Moreau's many employees, and he was happy with his lot. Good pay, good conditions, as long as he did as he was told and without question, and he could otherwise do what he wanted with no constraint. He knew of Eliot Spencer's betrayal. He didn't understand the man. At all. Why give up on such a good thing?
"Merde!" he muttered as he tried to loosen a screw in the rim and the screwdriver slipped, nicking his thumb. He sucked the little bead of blood that appeared, and then tried again and felt the surge of triumph as the screw shifted slightly. He ate a section of orange, spitting out the pips onto the floor.
He was about to return to his task when he hesitated and cocked his head to one side. His amiable, handsome face broke into a smile.
"You must be Eliot Spencer," he said, his voice deep and mellow, a voice many women found charming and likeable.
"That'd be me," Eliot answered softly, standing quietly behind Nkunda. He knew he would have no chance of creeping up on this man. The barn was a myriad of echoes and even the slightest sound could be picked up by anyone trained to listen for that indefinable something that hinted at a presence. If he was going to deal with the tall African then he would have to do it face to face, and he couldn't tackle Coetzee unless Nkunda was out of the equation. Defeating Coetzee would need all of Eliot's considerable skills, and he couldn't do it and also have to watch his back.
Nkunda straightened on the old chair, put down the screwdriver and turned to look at the American.
"Is this your bike?" he asked, gesturing at the Ducati.
"Yep. It's mine." Eliot's voice was expressionless.
Nkunda raised an eyebrow in appreciation.
"Nice. I like a Harley myself, but a Ducati … they make pretty good machines," he smiled sweetly. "Maybe after you're dead I'll fix it up and see how it goes."
"You're welcome to try," Eliot replied, a small smile quirking the corners of his mouth. "But I'm not figurin' to be dead any time soon."
Nkunda studied the dusty, dirty figure in front of him, standing balanced and ready in the light gleaming through a small chink in the corrugated iron roof, dust motes dancing in the breeze coming in through the big door.
So … this was the famous Eliot Spencer.
Nkunda thought he didn't look like much of a threat, but as he assessed the stocky, powerful frame and the steady blue eyes, he knew Eliot was more than he appeared to be. He wasn't a big man. He also looked tired and, Nkunda thought, a little underweight and sore. He knew his colleagues had badly wounded Spencer, cutting him along the side … a deep cut, one that would have laid him up for weeks. He saw the gaunt hollows of the man's belly and the hint of ribs showing under the dusty teeshirt, the relic of a long, slow recovery. But, he decided, it just made Eliot Spencer seem hungry … like a starved wolf. And that made him even more dangerous.
"Well … at least I'm not going to kill you," Nkunda said, his lilting voice friendly and kind. "That's for Coetzee to do." His face had a slight hint of reproach. "You made quite a mess of his eye, mon ami."
"Maybe he shouldn't sell and rape children then, huh," Eliot said. He shifted to one side, giving himself more room to manoeuvre.
"Hey, that's just business, man," Nkunda shrugged, and then he stood up.
Eliot almost took a step back, but stopped himself in time. Now wasn't the moment to look shaken. He had only seen Nkunda sitting or bending down, and although he knew the man was tall, he didn't know the African was close to six-feet-eight.
Jesus.
He ran through his options quickly. He still wore Prizzi's shoulder holster carrying the Sig Sauer, but the noise of a shot would alert Coetzee and endanger Soapy, Jo and Effie. Besides, Eliot had other plans for the weapon, and he only had one clip of suitable ammunition. Slipping the automatic out of the holster with his thumb and forefinger, palm out, he laid the weapon on a worktable. His Ka-Bar knife, while sturdy, would mean having to get close enough to use it and bring him within Nkunda's long reach.
Glancing around, he saw a big trolley jack with a removable handle. That would have to do.
Quickly striding towards the jack, he grasped the heavy handle and lifted it free of the main body of the jack. Swiftly gauging its weight, he twirled it and brought it to bear like a medieval staff, balancing it in both hands. Moving to the free space in the centre of the barn, he settled into a fighting stance.
Nkunda sighed.
"Seriously?"
Eliot gave him a feral grin.
"Do I look like I'm jokin'?"
Nkunda wasted no time. He took the fight to Eliot.
The huge man's swing was powerful and skilled, and it was only the massive difference in height that enabled Eliot to duck below the swing and rap Nkunda's ribs hard with the handle, but before he could step backwards Nkunda's left fist hit Eliot's side with a blow that drove the breath out of him and sent blinding agony through every nerve.
Eliot realised that Nkunda knew where he had been cut and was targeting the healing injury.
Sonofabitch.
Wheezing, Eliot staggered backwards, narrowly avoiding Nkunda's long, powerful arms.
"You won't win, kazungu** … I can tell you're hurt, my friend." Nkunda sounded almost apologetic.
Eliot steadied himself and tried hard not to favour his injured side. He winked good-humouredly.
"Bring it on, you dumb ass-hole," he grinned.
"Suit yourself," Nkunda replied, and it only took him three strides to close in on Eliot.
Tucking his elbow against his injured side, Eliot swung the handle behind him and darted away, light on his feet and superbly balanced. He twirled the handle around his back to his left hand and before Nkunda could change direction Eliot smashed the sturdy length of metal against the big African's back, and from the guttural groan coming from the man, Eliot knew he had broken a couple of ribs.
But Nkunda didn't break stride as he turned like a cobra and faced Eliot, reaching out to grasp the handle. It was only by the skin of his teeth that Eliot managed to stumble back out of the way, but Nkunda followed him relentlessly.
Eliot suddenly dropped to the ground and swinging his legs to one side, he slammed the handle as hard as he could against the back of Nkunda's knees.
But even as he yelped and hit the ground with a heavy thud, Nkunda reached out and grasped Eliot by the arm. The vicious blow he landed on the American's shoulder with his free fist numbed every nerve in Eliot's arm and hand and he lost his grip on the handle.
Nkunda sensed victory.
Eliot, gathering every ounce of his waning strength, twisted desperately to one side and used his own body weight to pry Nkunda's long, powerful fingers from his shoulder. But his cry of agony didn't stop him rolling over until he was on his knees.
Nkunda scrabbled around again, trying to get a grip on Eliot, already realising the man wasn't as incapacitated as he had expected. Reaching out, he tried to use the advantage of his long arms to gather Eliot into a crushing, unbreakable bear hug.
But attempting to catch hold of Eliot was like trying to imprison quicksilver.
The smaller man landed a solid blow on Nkunda's nose and the African bawled in agony, and Eliot, seizing the day, desperately scrambled over Nkunda's writhing body. Draping himself in a wrestler's hold around the broad shoulders and yanking back the man's head, he snaked a powerful arm around the African's throat.
Nkunda, in pain and furious, tried his best to buck off the muscular body wrapping strong legs around his ribcage and hanging on like a limpet. Eliot was now well-nigh impossible to dislodge, and Nkunda realised that Spencer was reaching down to pull something out of his boot.
With a mighty burst of energy, Nkunda heaved himself onto his knees, Eliot still hanging on and slowly cutting off Nkunda's air supply with the crushing arm around his throat.
But Nkunda kept going. He bared his teeth with the effort and he crawled on his hands and knees across the barn floor, even as Eliot arched his back and piled on the pressure.
Reaching up to the place where he had been working on the wheel and scrabbling around on the dusty surface, Nkunda's fingers wrapped around the screwdriver.
Eliot, still doing his utmost to choke the breath out of Nkunda, found what he was looking for. Sliding the filled syringe out of his boot, he desperately pulled the cover off with his teeth, spat it out and jammed the needle into the African's neck and slammed down the plunger.
But even as he felt the hard sting of the needle and the cold flow of the drug, Nkunda reached around and stabbed the short screwdriver into Eliot's leg above the knee.
Eliot gave a keening groan of agony, his body convulsing with pain, but he held on even as his wounded leg lessened its grip. All he had to do was wait until the drug took effect, but pain made darkness begin to impinge on his consciousness and his breathing, already ragged with effort, began to stutter. But he hung on, every muscle straining, and he managed to hook his damaged leg back around Nkunda's ribcage.
It felt as though time was slowing down. Eliot felt his rough, haggard breathing rasp in his chest and he coughed even as Nkunda's struggles slowly … oh, so slowly … began to lessen and then, after what seemed like hours, the tension in the man's muscles became non-existent. Nkunda was out like a light.
Eliot, only semi-conscious and in excruciating pain, allowed himself to relax and roll sideways off Nkunda's unconscious body and onto the barn floor, spread-eagled on his back and feeling the blood soak his pants leg.
Damn, he thought.
Effie was cooking up a storm. Goldie sat at the big table in the kitchen and watched her hungrily. The little woman was a nasty piece of work, he decided, but by god, she was a great cook. Goldie's mother had been a rotten cook, and the little cockney appreciated well-prepared decent food.
The smell of the omelette was driving him nuts.
Effie dug out a plate as she laid Goldie's steak on the grill, and she gently folded the cooking omelette in half so that the sharp, rich grated cheddar melted inside. The scent of the herbs filled the kitchen and made Goldie's stomach growl.
Warming the plate in the oven for a minute, Effie then slid the golden omelette, gleaming with cheese and bell pepper slices, onto the plate and set it in front of Goldie.
The little cockney lifted his knife and fork and cutting a piece of the omelette, shovelled it into his mouth. He hummed happily to himself. It was delicious.
Effie smiled and turned back to cooking the rest of the breakfasts.
Eliot managed to lever himself to his feet, and had to lean on the worktable beside him for a moment. Taking deep breaths, he did his best to control the pain in his leg. But he couldn't hang around feeling sorry for himself. He had work to do, and holding onto bits of equipment and furniture he hopped forward and opened the door to the station office.
Within minutes he had dug out the big medical kit and carefully sat down in Soapy's chair.
Eliot looked at the screwdriver embedded in his leg. He didn't have time to dress the wound properly, so he pulled out a pressure bandage and some topical antiseptic, and using scissors he slit his pants leg around the wound. Jeez, this was gonna hurt.
He took more steadying breaths. Then grasping the screwdriver, Eliot pulled it out of the muscle of his leg. He ground out a gasping, keening groan, but he pressed the thick bandage over the now freely-bleeding hole in his leg and kept up the pressure. He rocked gently in the chair, eyes squeezed shut, and waited for the pain to lessen a little and for the bleeding to stop.
"Okay … okay, I gotta move …" he ground out, and checked the bleeding. It had slowed to a trickle but not stopped. He unfolded another pressure bandage and replacing the now blood-sodden packing, he tied the bandage as tightly as he dared over the wound. Then he rummaged about in the office and dug out a roll of duct tape. Within a minute he had wrapped the tape around his leg, wound and pants, holding the bandage in place. It would have to do.
Eliot stood up and tested his leg, putting weight on it. The pain was bad, but he could bear it.
Limping back to the unconscious Nkunda, he managed to use wire flex to tie the man's hands and feet and rolling him onto his chest, Eliot hoisted Nkunda's feet up and tied them to the flex around his wrists. He finished the job by putting duct tape over the African's mouth. If he vomited and choked to death then it was just Nkunda's bad luck, Eliot decided.
Lifting the Sig Sauer and slipping it back into the shoulder holster, Eliot painfully limped out of the barn and headed towards the boundary of the homestead.
Soapy checked his watch as Effie brought through breakfast and placed steaks and omelettes onto the veranda table. Effie checked the contents of the teapot.
"Hmmm … see you've drunk the lot," she said, studying the interior. "Want some more?"
Jo smiled at Effie.
"Oh, yes please!" she answered. "We're a bit dry today, for some reason."
"Yes, well …" Effie grumbled, glancing at Soapy who was studiously tucking into his steak. "I'll feed those two bastards in the living room and then I'll bring you more tea," she muttered.
Soapy swallowed a mouthful of Effie's superb steak and nodded his thanks.
Satisfied, Effie stumped off to the kitchen, teapot in hand.
Eliot made his way around the cattle yards, keeping to the shadows as much as he could. The wind did its bit, drifting dust over his tracks and the blood-drops hitting the ground with slow but steady drips.
Finally, he reached the fence that circled the homestead and retrieved the burlap sack that held the rifle ammunition from where he had stuffed it under an acacia bush. Lifting the sack and heaving it over his shoulder, Eliot limped slowly back to the fence line to a patch of open ground he had scoped out earlier when he watched from the almond stand.
Turning and squinting through the dusty haze of the day, he could just see the edge of the veranda about fifty yards away. Man, this was going to be a tough one. Eliot slid the sack off his shoulder and very gently tipped the contents onto the ground. Around fifty .3006 rounds lay in a pile. Breaking off a stick from a gum tree, he stuck it in the ground until about eighteen inches rose from the centre of the mound of cartridges.
Eliot sighed. It was the best he could do. Arranging the burlap sack on the stick so that it flapped gently in the breeze, he melted back into the undergrowth and headed towards the homestead.
Effie prepared the steak and eggs for Dietrich and Coetzee, both of whom were seated in the living room. The German sat in his chair and kept an eye on Soapy and Jo, but Coetzee was busy playing solitaire on the coffee table, bored with the wait. But Eliot Spencer would come, he knew, and it was only a matter of time.
As Effie served the food to the two interlopers, to her great delight she heard a loud, uncomfortable burp coming from the kitchen.
Eliot was struggling to keep upright. But, he knew, he had to keep going. He had a job to do, and his people were relying on him. He put his hand on the duct tape around his leg, and it came away bloody. But he couldn't concern himself about it right now, and he couldn't afford to pass out, so he shook his head to chase away the dizziness.
He was nearly at the veranda now, and crouching down, he worked his way around to the rear of the veranda and eased himself under the wooden frame. It took him nearly ten minutes to crawl through the gap until he was lying just underneath Jo's chair. He could hear his two friends eating their breakfast, and he reached up and stuck a finger through the decking.
Jo felt something touch her slippered foot. Then she felt three short, sharp taps. Reaching forward, she grasped Soapy's hand and squeezed. The pastoralist saw the hope shine in Jo's eyes, and he nodded. He was ready.
Effie returned to the kitchen and looked at Goldie, who was looking a little green about the gills, but she lifted his steak off the grill and set it on his plate. Goldie fought down the mild nausea he was feeling and studied the steak. It certainly looked delicious.
As he began to cut himself a portion, Effie turned her back to him and lifting the teapot lid, slipped out the filled syringe hidden inside and slid it into the pocket of her apron.
Eliot's vision was beginning to blur a little, so he rubbed his sleeve over his eyes and squinted. Sliding the Sig Sauer from its holster, he peered blearily through the veranda framing. He could just see the burlap sack fluttering in the distance, looking for all the world like a rag caught on a fence. Resting the barrel on the framing, he braced the weapon and aimed about eighteen inches below the sack. The dusty wind made it difficult to see clearly, but at least he could adjust for wind direction with the help of the sack, and he braced the automatic with his other hand. Taking a deep, deep breath, he let his heartbeat slow as he exhaled carefully, and when the moment came, he gently squeezed the trigger and fired.
To be continued …
Author's notes:
* Akazu - an informal organization of Hutu extremists whose members contributed strongly to the 1994 Rwandan Genocide.
** Kazungu – 'small white person', a derogatory term in Kinyarwanda, a dialect of Rwanda-bundi.