Murderous by David Hickson (best ereader for comics .txt) 📕

the pedestrian door that would take us onto the quay, as the alarm cut out. It left an echoing silence. The trucks all stopped moving. The constant throbbing noise settled to a low hum. The sound of confused voices and running feet came from behind us. Then a cry of triumph. Hendrik was leading a team of White Africans. His shouts followed us out into the icy night air.

Twenty-Three

I kept my hand on Fat-Boy’s round back and pushed him along the quay away from where our frothy concrete mix was slowly setting. Fat-Boy was not built for speed, and despite Roelof’s snide remarks about Hendrik’s level of fitness, he was gaining on us.

Hendrik called out behind us as we rounded a corner of the warehouse. I pushed Fat-Boy towards a wide-open door, which spilt light out onto the broken tar. If we could reach that doorway, we could get back into the warehouse and lose ourselves in the maze of boxes and crates inside.

Then came the sound of a gunshot. I felt Fat-Boy’s body jump with the shock. He stumbled on the uneven ground and fell forwards like a baseball player diving for home base. I stooped down to help him up. His hands and face were grazed, and blood dripped from a gash on his forehead. I helped him to his feet, but his breath was coming in quick choking gasps.

“Leave me,” he said. “Go find the colonel, leave me with them.”

I put my arm around his broad shoulder to hold him up and turned to face Hendrik.

Hendrik came to a stop ten metres from us. His face was flushed from the exertion, his blond hair a tangled mess. He pointed his Beretta at us.

“Fucking knew it,” he shouted between gasps of air. “I fucking knew it.”

Three White Africans came running up behind Hendrik, weighed down by their AK-47s. They stood beside him and raised their weapons to point at us.

“I told Roelof I’d shoot you,” said Hendrik, as if he felt the need to explain. “We found the old guy and that drunk girl. Roelof’s dealing with them. I told him to take them round the back and shoot them. I knew I’d find you here, trying to get your weapons back. I said I’d shoot you.”

Before we could respond, there was a sudden roaring sound from the open doors of the warehouse, and a pair of bright halogen lights shone at us. Hendrik and his colleagues turned to look. The roar settled to a low growl, and the lights started sliding towards us. It was the tractor cab of the semi-truck which had been attached to the trailer with Hendrik’s crate of lions. We had run a full circle and ended up where we had started. The tractor belched a cloud of black smoke from its vertical exhaust stack, and it hauled its load out of the warehouse. It crept behind us and then hissed and puffed as the hydraulic brakes were applied. There was some clanging and screeching and the truck settled to a stop. The driver’s door opened and Kenneth climbed out, leaving the engine of the truck idling. He slung an AK-47 over his shoulders and looked at us with surprise.

“What you doing, boss?” he asked.

“I’m gonna shoot them,” said Hendrik and he raised the Beretta, which had drooped a little in the excitement of seeing his truck emerge.

“Not here,” said Kenneth calmly, and he looked towards the open doors of the warehouse.

Hendrik also looked towards the warehouse. He gave a terse nod.

“Load them up,” he said. “Put them on the back, we’ll take them with us.”

He used his Beretta to beckon his White African colleagues towards us, and they advanced cautiously with their weapons ready. Fat-Boy and I raised our hands in the air. We turned obediently and followed Kenneth around to the back of the trailer.

The flat steel base was about shoulder height. Crude rungs in the trailer's rear created a simple ladder on each end, and I climbed up. Kenneth helped Fat-Boy up, shoving him with more force than was necessary and causing him to trip and fall face first onto one of the steel attachment points. Fat-Boy dropped onto the steel floor with that extra looseness that results from a momentary loss of consciousness. I went to help him up. Blood was running down his face from another cut on his forehead, and he looked at me with eyes wide with fear.

“On your feet,” shouted Hendrik.

“He’s hurt,” I called.

“What the fuck do I care? Get up there Kenneth, pick the fat one up.”

Kenneth clambered up and stood over us as he wondered how to lift the substantial bulk of Fat-Boy. Hendrik had stepped up to the cab out of our sight beyond the crate, and we heard him pull open the driver’s door. A moment later, one of the White Africans tossed Kenneth a coil of rope.

“Tie them up with that,” called Hendrik. “And make it snappy, we’ve gotta go.”

By now several other White Africans had emerged from the warehouse, and they stood in a ring around the trailer watching with some confusion as Kenneth and I helped Fat-Boy into a sitting position. He shuffled back to lean against the crate, and Kenneth started binding the rope around Fat-Boy’s wrists.

“Where is Roelof?” I said to Kenneth in Zulu. “Where has he taken our friends?” Kenneth’s hard eyes focused on me in surprise.

“You speak Zulu?” he said.

“Tell me where he took them.”

Kenneth frowned at me, but a ray of light passed over his face, and I turned to see the White Africans outlined suddenly with a rim of bright light. The sound of a motor being revved too fast came over the wind. The lights poked through between the row of men like fingers reaching for something. The vehicle skidded to a halt, and the doors sprang open. It was a Cape Town Harbour security vehicle, and the four men who climbed out were wearing the black garb of dock