The Alex King Series by A BATEMAN (free ebook reader for ipad TXT) 📕

the stump for Kruger to see in the mirror. “Than the shot that bastard gave my brother.”

“I guess you know what it’s like to be hunted now, eh?” Kruger said. “Like those poor lions and elephants that you got paid to track down. It’s a pretty low thing to take money in return for allowing a wealthy American dentist to kill an innocent, majestic beast.”

“Yeah? Well, fuck you! We employed almost forty people, culled wounded or aggressive animals to keep the rest of the animals safe and healthy and we organised the butchery and distribution of bush meat to over three-hundred people who live below the poverty line. Without operations like ours, there is little employment, no conservation of animals, nobody to scare off poachers who will kill indiscriminately and no extra food for people who are practically starving. So, go sign a Facebook petition and post a sad face with fuck-all clue what we really do. Fucking bleeding heart, city-boy.”

Kruger glared into the rear view mirror, but said nothing as he started the engine.

Caroline turned in her seat. “Okay. Feel better? I don’t buy the whole conservation thing, but that’s my choice as well. You profited extremely well from your hunting activities. And you sold illegal ivory, helped perpetuate the trade, so it’s time to get off your high horse and do what you’ve been released to do.” She had taken out her iPhone and pressed the voice memo function. She propped it in the coin tray beside the armrest. She looked back at him and pointed at his stump. “So, start with the man who did this to you.”

“Oh, come on woman,” Badenhorst said, looking subdued. “Let’s wait until we’re at your hotel. Where are you staying?”

“No, Badenhorst!” Caroline snapped. “We’ll start now. We’ll do it my way, on my schedule and wherever the hell I chose. That will be in the car, the hotel and even on the flight to England. I’ll remind you that I got you out of Pollsmoor and I can send you back anytime. I bet your husband is missing you already.”

“Jeez, lady!” Badenhorst looked taken aback. “You play rough!”

“You haven’t got a clue,” Caroline said. “Now, make a bloody start.”

Badenhorst shrugged. “Okay,” he said as he rubbed his stump subconsciously, turned and looked out of the window as Kruger wound the vehicle through the last of the twisting streets of Tokai and onto a quiet road into wine country. The vineyards were lush and green. New growth sprouting through.

Vigus Badenhorst thought he’d never see such beauty again. He sighed, leaned back in the comfortable leather seat. “Well, the guy was about thirty to thirty-five.”

“Why so specific?” Kruger asked.

“Hair, creases and wrinkles,” Badenhorst shrugged. “He just looked older than a carefree twenty-something. Younger than a world-weary forty-something.”

“So, how old am I?” Kruger asked incredulously. “Just to test your abilities.”

“I’m guessing about forty,” he said. “On the world-weary spectrum. A bit of grey, a few creases. Yeah, at least forty.”

Kruger looked annoyed. Caroline smiled, she could tell he had been hoping for a younger guess. Kruger looked back in the mirror. “I’m thirty-eight,” he replied emphatically.

“Pretty accurate then,” Caroline said. She smiled. “What’s two-years?” She nodded for Badenhorst to continue.

“Short-cropped, dark-brown hair. Not quite black, but dark. It sort of lightened in bright sunlight.”

“Greying?” she prompted.

“A little at the sides. Just a few flecks.”

“Eyes?”

“Dark.”

“Colour?”

“I don’t make a habit of looking into another man’s eyes.”

“Funny,” Kruger said. “That was the reason you were so desperate to get out of Pollsmoor.”

Vigus Badenhorst flung himself down into the seat like a stroppy teen. “Fuck you!”

“No,” Kruger said. “That’s a prison thing, or so I’ve heard.”

“Okay!” Caroline snapped. “For Christ’s sake, you couldn’t have said he was thirty-two, could you?” She turned to Kruger. “If it makes you feel better, I thought you were thirty-four. Is that better? Can we get down to why we’re here now? At least it proves the man can guess a person’s age.”

Kruger shrugged. He glanced into the mirror, studied the car behind, then nodded. “Okay,” he conceded.

“What else?” Caroline asked.

“He had a scar on his chin,” Badenhorst said. “A thin one, about two-centimetres long. And another at the corner of his eye.”

“Which eye?”

Badenhorst thought for a moment. No doubt he was picturing a conversation, an incident. Maybe they were having a drink at the bar in the hunting lodge, or telling tales around the firepit. “His right,” he said, measuredly. “Yes, his right eye.”

“Height and weight?”

“Just under six-foot, perhaps seventy-five kilos.”

“What’s that, eleven or twelve stone?”

“About twelve, I think,” Kruger said. “He eyed Badenhorst in the mirror. “Around my size?”

“A bit thinner,” he replied. “He had a flatter stomach than you.”

Kruger looked about to rise, but seemed to think better of it. He smoothed a hand over his own trim stomach. He glanced at Caroline, caught her smiling. He turned back to the road, checked his mirrors.

“It’s the shot you have to look at,” Badenhorst said. “You need to check other militaries. Try special forces personnel, rather than regular infantry.”

“You think?” Kruger asked. “What makes you say that?”

Vigus sighed. “I take,” he paused. “Used to take hunters on shoots. Professional marksmen. Some of them were even sponsored by firearms manufacturers, shooting supply companies, ammunition producers. Especially some of the seppos.”

“The what?” Caroline interrupted.

“Seppos,” Badenhorst said. “Septic tanks – yanks. Some of those Americans are on another level. Serious marksmen who can shoot the centre out of a bullseye, consistently. This man trumped them all. He shot a springbok at seven-hundred metres with a varmint rifle.” He looked at Caroline, whose expression seemed to question him. “That’s a deer-like creature with a rifle no more powerful than a military personal weapon system, like five-point-five-six. Good for three-hundred metres on a