Thunderbolt by Wilbur Smith (reading strategies book .txt) 📕

lip, a lump in my throat. To buy time for it to pass I played the message again, but Mo’s voice – it was definitely him – sounding so cheerful made the lump bigger, not smaller. Luckily Amelia cut in with, ‘I always thought someone as resourceful as Mo would find a way out sooner or later. The rings just expedited his self-extraction, in my opinion.’

‘You mean sped up his escape,’ said Xander.

‘That’s what the words mean, yes,’ said Amelia.

They were jousting but smiling at one another. We’d all been gutted after the Leopard split us up from Mo and the others. To hear that some of them at least, and Mo in particular, had made it to safety, was the best news possible. When Xander finally sorted his bike, I rode that trail flat out with the biggest grin on my face.

I couldn’t wait to tell Mum, so I headed straight home after that. She was in the study poring over maps of the Arctic tundra. Apparently a consortium of oil companies was planning on digging up a load of pristine wilderness to get at the gas beneath it, and Mum’s latest thing was coordinating efforts to stop them.

Since we got back from Kenya, I’d filled her in on the full story with Mo, and I knew she’d been feeling guilty that the Leopard hung him and the others out to dry, so I hoped this news would mean a lot to her too.

It did. She beamed at me and said, ‘I knew all that treasure-hunting was for a purpose.’

‘Originally I was going to put what we found towards your coral conservation project,’ I said.

‘I know, and I’d have been so grateful. But this makes more sense given what happened.’

And that would have been that. Mum had known better than to bring up the Leopard – or Jonny, if that’s what he was really called – since our return, and although she could now say his actions hadn’t cost Mo his life after all, she didn’t.

I left her to her work and went down to the kitchen to fix myself some lunch. While I was stuffing a bagel full of pickle, ham, cheese and mayonnaise the doorbell rang. It was just the postman; he’d rung because he needed a signature for a recorded delivery. I did the honours, thanked him, and went back inside.

It turned out the padded envelope I’d signed for was addressed to me. I hadn’t ordered anything online and wasn’t expecting a delivery of any sort. With the bagel clamped between my teeth I ripped open the envelope, mildly curious to see what was inside. When the contents spilled out I opened my mouth in surprise, dropping the bagel in among the seven gold rings rolling around on the countertop.

What the …?

I checked the envelope and fished out a note. It was handwritten in black ink on a square of thick cream paper.

Dear J, I understand your reluctance to meet with me. Nevertheless, I hope that by returning these rings, which I have retrieved on your behalf, I can prove that all was not as it seemed in Somalia. My actions, which you witnessed there, were part of an ongoing operation. Had I revealed my true identity I would have jeopardised that operation’s goal, which included shutting down camps such as General Sir’s permanently. I hope you’ll give me the opportunity to explain myself in person one day. For now, you should know your friend Mo is safe. Though I was unable to liberate him and the others when I caught up with you, for fear of blowing my own cover, I assure you that freeing all the children in the camp was always my intention. With these rings you – and he – beat me to it. They served their purpose. I have great pleasure in returning them to their rightful owner. Yours, J.

The rings were unmistakably the ones we’d found with our detectors. The little earring was even among them. Amelia had smuggled the lot through our ordeal, and I had last seen them as I pressed them into Mo’s hand. How had this man hunted them down? I had no idea, yet here they were, indisputably, on the kitchen work surface.

I gathered them up. In a minute I’d show them to Mum. Maybe they’d help fund her new tundra preservation initiative. She’d offered to take me up there – somewhere cold for a change! – to look at what was at stake. This would be a way of showing a bit of enthusiasm for the cause.

I’d talk to her about all that in a bit, just as soon as I’d finished my lunch. I read the note over and over as I ate that bagel. Like all the food I’d eaten since our return, it tasted magnificent. I smiled when I finished it.

The note was written in solid, regular handwriting.

Dear J, it began. And Yours, J, it ended.

Despite myself, I liked that.

Look out for the next Jack Courtney Adventure, Shockwave, coming in 2022

Wilbur Smith is an international bestselling author, having sold over 130 million copies of his incredible adventure novels. His Courtney family saga is the longest running series in publishing history, and with the Jack Courtney Adventures he brings the series to a new generation.

Chris Wakling read his first Wilbur Smith book when he was Jack’s age: fourteen. He writes novels and travel journalism, and is available for events and interviews.

For all the latest information about Wilbur, visit: www.wilbursmithbooks.com facebook.com/WilburSmith www.wilbur-niso-smithfoundation.org

Wilbur Smith donates twenty per cent of profits received from the sale of this copy to The Wilbur & Niso Smith Foundation. The Foundation’s focus is to encourage adventure writing and literacy and find new talent.

For more information, please visit www.wilbur-niso-smithfoundation.org

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