A State Of Sin Amsterdam Occult Series Book Two by Mark Hobson (golden son ebook .TXT) 📕

would be riding in the pickup. If he made it as far as the outskirts of the tiny community of Elandkop at the foot of the mountain range – a distance of around about 12 miles as the crow flies – then he could go free. If they caught him before he reached safety, then sadly there could be only one outcome. The man, Johan told a terrified Bart, was young and fit, so it was by no means guaranteed that they would have a successful hunt. Some you win and some you lose, he had chuckled.

A short time later and they had arrived, and Bart climbed out on unsteady legs. The day was heating up and he felt a trickle of sweat roll down his fat neck and under his collar.

Uncle Johan thrust a hunting rifle at him, and then slung another over his own shoulder.

“Make sure the safety is off until we are in position,” his uncle reminded him, even though they had spent the preceding few days shooting at tin cans for practice. “And when you do take the shot, remember to line up ahead of the target: he will probably be running fast, and this thing can kick like a mule. Plus, we want a head shot if possible, or into his heart. It’s less messy that way. You ready boy?”

Bart nodded, wishing he could go to the toilet.

“Right then Dalton, set him loose.”

Dalton used a knife to cut through the ropes binding the man’s ankles and wrists, untied the gag and pushed him out of the bed of the truck.

The poor wretch stood there, shaking like a leaf, his teeth chattering with fear.

“Well go on then, don’t just stand there. Off you go!” He stepped forward into the man’s face, who needed no second warning and turned and fled, his skinny body bolting across the rolling grassland, Johan’s parting laugh crackling like a gunshot.

They watched him go, away from the sloping hillside where they were parked, making for a narrow stream at the bottom.

Johan tutted to himself and shook his head, his eyes narrowed as they followed the diminishing figure running for his life.

“They are always the fucking same. They always follow the bloody stream, thinking the shortest route is the best course to take. Big mistake that, Bart. What he should be doing is cutting out across country away from us, in that direction.” He pointed off, to the north Bart thought. “Then he could lose us amongst the rocks at the base of that big hill there, the one with the flat top, and then swing around to pick up the line of the fence. Follow that for a mile or so, and then the land dips down into a series of gullies, and we’d never find him in there. After that, he would have a clear run all the way to the finish line. Bloody fool.”

They sat in the shade of a large jackalberry tree to wait. Swarms of flies hovered in their faces and Bart watched a line of ants walking from the base of the trunk across the hard-packed earth, and he crushed one of them with his thumb, squishing it flat into the ground.

The half-hour went by too quickly, and when the time to set off arrived he dragged himself reluctantly to his feet and shuffled over to the pickup.

Johan told him they would drive to a spot several miles away where the dirt road bisected the stream. There they would wait for the fleeing man to come running right into their gunsights. To be on the safe side, Dalton was to take the truck over the stream and find a place to wait in the folds of land, and should their quarry make an attempt to head off away from them in that direction, he was to drive him back this way.

Bart and his uncle lay down side by side in the shelter of some rocks and boulders overlooking the narrow stream, and waited in silence. There was a stillness to the air. The sun beat down on them, flat and heavy. The mist had burned away, to be replaced by a cloudless blue sky, the intensity of the heat sapping Bart’s strength. He found himself longing for the cold and ice of Amsterdam in the winter, and he wiped the sweat from his eyes.

After several minutes he felt his uncle tap him on the arm gently, and then nod his head down at the stream, and he followed the pointing finger.

At first he could see nothing. Then there was a sudden flurry as a pair of Sakabula birds took to the wing, and seconds later the fleeing man came into view, running and weaving as he followed the watercourse, glancing back over his shoulder.

“He’s all your’s boy,” Uncle Johan whispered.

Bart brought his hunting rifle up and sighted along the barrel, which seemed to vibrate in his shaking hands.

“Breathe slowly. Try to relax.”

Bart wished his uncle would just shut up. He wanted the whole thing to go away, he dearly hoped this was all just a bad dream and any moment now he would wake up in his bed back home, and everything would be as before. He hated it here in Africa, he hated his family for bringing him here, and most of all he hated himself!

His finger twitched, and the gun bucked in his hands, the loud report bringing a girlish scream from his lips, and in the heat haze caused by the firing rifle there was a bright scarlet eruption of blood from where the running man was passing below them. The figure stumbled and nearly fell – he’d hit him! – but then he regained his momentum and raced on and out of sight around a bend in the stream.

“Shit!” his uncle exclaimed under his breath.

Bart glanced across at him in confusion, and then he felt himself being dragged to his feet and pushed down the rocky slope towards the streambed. Together they trotted