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

that had bound Hendrik was beside me, and I tied a tourniquet above the wound. Tight as I could make it, although every move caused my chest to spasm in pain. Two broken ribs, at least.

There was a sudden swell in the sound of the crowd, hooting, stamping, cheering and singing.

I picked up Chandler’s Glock and reached the door, more by willpower than by the use of my legs. It had been locked, but it took only two 9 mm bullets to cut the bolt from the wall. I limped through it, choosing my direction by instinct.

I made my way to the main corridor that wrapped around the back of the Northern stand. It was a wide concrete ledge with steel railings to prevent the crowds from dropping fifteen metres to the ground below. An icy wind blew in through the massive buttresses, and in the distance the sheer granite face of the mountain was spilling clouds over the city. I moved as fast as I could, using the pain in my leg to fuel my determination. The ledge was strangely quiet, the sounds of the capacity crowd muffled by the thick concrete walls. Two young men came running toward me, their faces tight with fear.

“Turn around,” one of them called as they passed me. “Get out of here.” They kept running, their loose jackets flapping like wings in the wind.

A woman came next. Fleeing with desperation, her arms and legs flailing like a swimmer being sucked under.

Ahead of me I could see the reason for their panic. A circle of police officers were pointing their assault rifles at a figure sprawled on the ground. Someone was shouting. A tense, high-pitched voice. The figure on the ground was not moving. There was a smear of blood beside him, as if he had been dragged across the floor and then dumped there. Something was wrong about the way he was lying. All jumbled up, his legs twisted unnaturally under him. He was not conscious. It was Fat-Boy.

Andile Dlamini was standing back from the circle of police. Speaking into a radio. His face told me I looked as bad as I felt.

“Where’s Van Rensburg?” I asked.

He shook his head, confused. Still taking in my appearance.

“This man is with me. There are explosives in that bag. They’re on a timer. Get the bomb squad here. You need to find Van Rensburg.”

Andile took that in, fast. He turned to the men behind him and called instructions, then back to me: “He also has explosives?”

“Strapped to his body. He might be heading for the bar in the Railway stand.”

Andile gave orders to his men. I stepped towards the crumpled figure of Fat-Boy, but Andile held me back.

“I need to see if he’s alive,” I said.

“We clear that bag first,” said Andile.

I pulled clear of his grip and pushed past him. An officer shouted at me, but I had my hand on Fat-Boy’s neck. There was no pulse. He was face down, so I turned him onto his side. Pulled his arm forward. Felt again for the pulse. Nothing. I unclipped the vest that bound the backpack to him, all five clips. And ripped it away from him. Two police officers grabbed me by the shoulders and tried pulling me away, but I kicked at them with my good leg. Fat-Boy rolled onto his back and I bent over him. Then I felt the flutter. Weak, intermittent, but he had a pulse.

I tugged the bag with the explosives free. There was only one blue LED light showing.

I stood. Andile helped me find my balance. His hand gripped my arm. Beyond him I could see the bomb squad sprinting down the corridor towards us, carrying their heavy shields.

“Van Rensburg?” I asked.

“Not yet. We’re looking.”

“Keep this man alive. Send a team up to the Media-Mark box. Roelof’s got a dead-man’s switch. They must do nothing until he’s disarmed.”

Andile started to reply, but I was already out of earshot. My leg was sending distress signals, great waves of pain through my body. But I kept running. Roelof’s plan was still underway, and I knew where he would be. Up in that box, standing beside his uncle and boss, waiting to see the expression of loss on his face.

As entrances go, my arrival at the Media-Mark box was an impressive one. It started off simply enough. I didn’t bother knocking, but fired a bullet into the lock and pushed the door open.

Piet was standing at the glass wall, looking dishevelled. His jacket was creased, the collar of his open-necked shirt was twisted, and his jaw was spattered with white stubble. In his hand was a tumbler containing a generous dose of rum. He turned with a start as the door sprang open. And that was the first impressive moment. Piet’s mouth opened and his eyes widened comically.

“What the fuck?” he said in a voice that was too loud.

Roelof had his back to me, focused on the tablet he was holding in his left hand. He looked up at Piet and then turned to see what had caused his surprise. The look of fury that flushed his face was the next impressive element of my entrance, complemented by the gasp of horror and the hand that Melissa lifted to her mouth to choke it. Judging from the looks on their faces, I was not a pretty sight.

“What the fuck?” said Piet again, and he spilt some of his drink onto the carpet. He looked around for Kenneth before remembering, and a moment of panic flashed over his face. “Call security, Rudi.”

“There’s no time for security,” I said. Melissa stepped closer to Roelof and huddled beside him for safety.

“Don’t move,” I snapped, “and keep away from him.”

“You can’t come in here …” protested Piet, but I cut him off.

“Show me the trigger,” I shouted and pointed my Glock between Roelof’s eyes. I could see the racing thoughts. He needed a moment to process everything and reach the decision to lift his