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

security. They had their pistols drawn. Behind them, a further three vehicles rounded the corner at speed and skidded to a halt beside the first.

“Lower your weapons,” called one of the men, and there was a silence filled with the low thrumming of the truck’s engine.

The White Africans lowered their weapons. The silence extended.

“What the fuck?” called Hendrik’s voice from the front of the truck. His voice had the pitch of tension that I recalled from the Maputo docks. There came the slamming sound of a door closing. I felt an odd slipping sensation and then realised that the truck was moving.

The men from dock security held their weapons up and watched in disbelief as the truck crept forwards.

“Step out of the vehicle,” their leader shouted, but the truck kept sliding forwards.

I could feel the crunching of the gears vibrating through the driveshaft until Hendrik found one that worked. The engine whined, and the wheels moaned as we crept forward. Then Hendrik discovered the release handle for the parking brake, and the truck gained speed. One of the security men reached out to grab the truck and held on as if he could stop its progress, but then let it go in confusion and watched as we inched away from them.

“Stop the vehicle,” shouted the leader.

Two of the security men started after the truck as if they were intending to stop us by holding on and digging their heels in. They realised their mistake when someone behind them opened fire. The sharp rat-tat of a double blast from a Sig Sauer brought them to a stop. I felt the truck lurch as one of the double rear tyres burst, but we kept rolling. Hendrik was riding the clutch and pumping the accelerator, nursing the truck forward and the distance between us grew. The other men lifted their weapons, and the air reverberated with a burst of single shots. They were aiming for the wheels and the undercarriage of the truck, as the most obvious way of stopping it. But for Fat-Boy, Kenneth and I, pinned against the crate, it felt very much like we were their targets. Besides, as the distance between us grew, it would make little difference where they were aiming. We needed to get off the truck before we were riddled with bullets. Kenneth had the same idea, and he shuffled to the edge of the loading bay, waiting for a break to jump to the ground.

I struggled to untie the knot holding Fat-Boy’s wrist to the crate. Kenneth glanced back and there was a moment’s hesitation as he realised he was abandoning us.

“Help me untie my friend,” I said in Zulu.

The truck had picked up speed, and we gained some distance. The firing had slowed, but then a wild shot struck the base of the truck with a loud twang. Kenneth spun back around and lifted his AK-47.

“Don’t,” I shouted, but it was too late.

Kenneth squeezed the trigger, and there was a deafening burst of automatic fire. He aimed high, intending, I guessed, to give a warning shot. But the result was catastrophic. The White Africans suddenly found themselves being fired upon. They raised their AK-47s and returned Kenneth’s fire.

Fat-Boy and I were wearing vests under our overalls, but they are effective against single shots aimed for the chest and make little difference when you’re standing in a hail of bullets. As I processed that thought, I felt Fat-Boy’s round shoulder jump under my hand. I looked down to him and saw the flash of pain and desperation in his eyes. He opened his mouth. The blood from the gash in his forehead dripped between his lips, and his tongue cleared it so he could speak. But instead of words, all that came out was a groan.

“Where is it, Fat-Boy? Where do you feel it?”

Fat-Boy opened his mouth again. “I’ve been hit, Angel.”

“Where do you feel it? Is it high or low?”

“Low,” he said, and coughed. Some blood spurted out of his mouth, but I couldn’t tell if it was blood from the forehead wound, or whether it came from his lungs. It wasn’t frothy, which was a good sign, and if the bullet had struck low, that gave him a better chance. “I trusted you, Angel,” he said. “I did what you said to do.”

His eyes pleaded for reassurance. I settled for what I intended as a comforting look, but Fat-Boy didn’t seem to draw any comfort from it.

“We’ve lost everything,” he said, then blinked slowly as the pain swelled. His hand was still tied to the crate. I looked at Kenneth, whose eyes were on me like a diver waiting for the signal to plunge. He had seen my exchange with Fat-Boy and guessed what had happened. Fear had rushed in.

“Untie my friend,” I called. I reached under my overalls and my fingers found the comforting shape of my Glock’s tempered steel grip. I drew it out, and Kenneth’s eyes widened further. He scrambled over to Fat-Boy’s bound hand and started working to loosen the knot. Another burst of fire sounded, and the bullets smacked into the metal sides of the truck.

“When we get some cover, we get my friend off,” I said to Kenneth. “I go first, then you help him off, and come with him. We wait for cover.”

Kenneth nodded. The truck lurched to the side again as another tyre burst, followed by the shrieking sound of a metal rim grating across the tar. Hendrik went with the sudden swing in direction caused by the blowout. He’d orientated himself and was heading for the side security gate. We needed to get off before he reached that gate. There was a series of booms there, spikes in the road, and security who were unlikely to take kindly to a truck travelling at speed and spewing sparks.

“He’ll never make it,” said Kenneth, still struggling with the knot in the rope.

“He will make it,” I said.

“Not him. Hendrik. He won’t make it out of the