In the Company of Killers by Bryan Christy (ebook reader for pc and android .txt) 📕

Used to be mine until I sold it to him. The Kimber, it’s called. Anyway, this client, he wants a hunt. Always does after a big deal goes off. And he makes some big fucking deals. This time he’s blooding his kid. Wants a good lion for her and then something bigger for himself. Gets off on it. My PH tells him he knows a buff. Great big dagga boy I been saving for myself.” Botha spread his arms above his head to indicate the buffalo’s wide horns. “Minotaur. Client says he wants to get his daughter her lion, take Minotaur, then out. Boys set up camp for him, bait up the lion. Only she can’t take the shot, wants to tranquilize it for a school project. Client shoots the lion, then snotklaps her. Pop!” Botha swung his hand. “Put her on a plane home that night. Next day, my trackers locate his buff. Jump in the bakkie. There he is. Bigger than God, and not enjoying his age. Isaac sets up the shooting sticks. Njovu gets the truck ready.”

Normally Klay would give a guy like Botha all the time he wanted to tell his stories. He would come back again and again and listen as long as his target would talk, letting the guy unleash his ego. Rope-a-dope him with innocuous questioning; then, when the target was worn out, Klay would wade in with his real questions. But this time he didn’t have that luxury. Unchaperoned time with Botha might never come again. He needed to move Botha toward something Hungry could use to prosecute him. Investigate Botha so Hungry can take down Ncube—that is your mission, he told himself. And control yourself.

Still, something about Botha’s story smelled funny. Something about the man said, Wait.

“You listening to me, counselor?”

“I’m waiting for the movie to come out.”

Botha shook his head. “You know,” he said, wagging a finger, “you are some fucking crazy fucker. You remind me of me. So the fucking client waves the shooting sticks away. Wants to free-hand his shot. Now, he’s carrying a .416 Rigby. But it’s a single, and if he misses—? I have a motto for my camp: never leave a wounded animal behind. If it’s shot, we kill it.”

“Your camp? I thought it’s not your property anymore.”

“Yeah. We’ll see. Client asks Old Pete Zoeller for a range check. Pete carries my Holland and Holland double rifle in five hundred nitro express. If anything goes wrong, he’s there to second him with two. Pete’s making his check when the client fucking shoots. Misfire. Round’s a dud. No time for a second with his fucking single shot. It’s on, and it’s no joke. Minotaur is no fucking joke, I’m telling you. They got a locomotive coming down on them. Now here’s the part—client doesn’t sweat it. He pushes Old Pete out of the way, takes a step to the side, pulls a .45, and wham, shoots the boy.”

“The boy?” Klay said.

“Shoots Isaac, dead. Confuses ’em,” he tells Pete. “Says his lads did it with the hajjis in Afghanistan. Called it a Crocodile Dundee. He was right, too. Minotaur stopped mid-charge. ‘Send me the funeral bill,’ he tells Pete.”

Botha wiped a few drops of Klay’s blood off the tabletop with his paper towel. He looked at Klay.

Klay’s mind was spinning. He scanned Botha’s eyes, his breathing, his posture, and was startled to find no clue whether the man was lying.

“You know a lot of fucking assholes. That your point?” Klay asked.

Botha leaned forward. He punctuated his words carefully. “My point, counselor, is that boy never knew he was fair game. My point is, you take care with your assumptions. Didn’t they teach you that at the Farm? No? Maybe things have changed.”

Jacob put his head into the room and Botha nodded. He gathered bits of orange peel into a pile and scooped them into his palm with his paper towel; then he pushed back in his chair and stood. “You work for him now,” Botha said.

“I work for who?”

“The American. Terry Krieger. You work for him now.” Botha picked up Klay’s untouched orange. “I’m in here because of you. You ever think of that? Your girlfriend’s looking on the wrong tree branch.”

He dropped Klay’s orange and his peels in a wastebasket near the door. “She’s got her hands on some dangerous documents. Ask her where she thinks they came from.”

He nodded to Jacob and left.

THE UNRAVELING

Office of the Special Prosecutor

Pretoria, South Africa

The big steel door was propped open with a mop handle and bricks again. It was the same everywhere, Klay thought as he entered. You can erect all the defenses in the world, but if it’s not convenient, it’s not safe at all.

“What does ‘gatvol’ mean?” Tenchant was asking.

“Fed up,” Miss Edna answered. “As in, ‘We’re gatvol of that tsotsi.’”

“Yeah,” Tenchant echoed. “We’re gatvol of that tsotsi. Oh. Hey, Tom.” Tenchant put down his file. “I might have something.”

“In a minute.”

“I think you’ll be interested: Botha and Ncube’s wife share a post office box,” Tenchant said. “It’s in their company registrations . . .”

Klay paused. The two female lawyers were looking at him expectantly. Sehlalo was not in the room. “Help me with something downstairs, will you, Tench?”

Klay led Tenchant across the catwalk and down the stairs to the garage. He took him to the front of the garage out of sight and earshot of Hungry’s team.

“Tell me,” Klay said quietly.

“It’s crazy, right? I mean, we’re here for Botha, and somehow it looks like he’s connected to their Ncube investigation. But it could help all of us, right? What’s the matter?”

“Keep going.”

“They used the same address, a beauty parlor owned by one of the Ncube nieces. That address ties to several of Botha’s companies and a number held by Ncube’s family. Important thing is, they made a mistake. It proves there’s a link between them.”

“Doesn’t ‘prove,’ suggests.” Klay looked up toward Hungry’s office. “You told the team you found a link?”

“Maybe I