The Devil's Horn (27 page)

Chapter 30

Juma kept his back to Promise as they moved up the street. He left her to walk with LB and Karskie, surrounded by four guards and Good Luck. The little boy Hard Life was sent ahead, dragging two rifles in the road. Old, white Lush Life strode without shoes beside Juma. The man was short, hard used, and mismatched to Juma and Macandezulo. Promise asked LB who he was.

Good Luck hissed at her to be quiet.

Promise whipped toward the shooter, but LB dug a hand inside the band of her shorts, hauling her backward down the street until she spun to face forward.

“Easy, girl. Eyes open. Mouth shut.”

Karskie stepped up to bracket Promise, with LB on the other side. She walked like this, blocked in by men. She thought of Wophule. If he were here, would he be so angry, would he want killer Good Luck’s throat in his hands? Perhaps not. Wophule had been gentler. The animals saw this. Treasure would have seen it, too, given time. Promise had stolen that time from her and Wophule, left his body lost, his spirit closed in by rocks. Promise did as LB demanded, shut her mouth, walked on, and watched. She sensed the spoor of judgment and payment in the dust of this road, in the unstinting light of the day, in the broad backside of Juma in front of her.

They moved into the village through sour human smells, past haphazard huts and peeling buildings. The bush was not patient with Macandezulo, blistering, choking, swallowing the place. Juma was not the power here, he was just rubbish and the sputter of one generator.

They stopped before the largest structure in the village, a two-story house of gray block. Hard Life waited in one of two lawn chairs outside. Juma told Hard Life to go inside and head upstairs. Somewhat automatically and emotionlessly, the little boy left his guns behind and disappeared through the door, up the flight of stairs. Juma ordered his guards and Good Luck to stay outside. He pointed to the emptied lawn chair.

“Mr. Karskie. Wait here with Good Luck and my men.”

Karskie’s reluctance to stay behind was met by a raised finger from LB. The big boy collapsed into the lawn chair. Good Luck folded into the chair opposite him, the long rifle across his lap. Juma’s four guards backed into the street. They slung their weapons and reached for dagga cigarettes. Juma hefted the two rifles Hard Life had lugged into the village, a Kalashnikov and the ranger rifle taken from LB. Juma headed for the door. Promise called to his back.

“Juma.”

Her great-uncle acted as if he’d not heard. Lush Life touched Juma to make him turn. Who was this white man that he could do this? Coming around, Juma sighed.

“What, child?”

“I want to come, too.”

Juma filled the doorway, owlish and slow. He slumped, saddened, and Promise saw how old Juma was. Older than Gogo, older than Lush Life beside him.

“Why?”

Because she had slaughtered a rhino. She’d called Juma to the missile. She’d betrayed the Kruger rangers, her partner, and the animals. She’d brought the American here. She was betraying Juma even now. She was as bad as him.

And what if LB, with his fingers on his radio, were to explode the missile while he stood over it? She didn’t think him crazy or a zealot, but he had said nothing was to get in the way of his mission. Not her. Not him. He might do it. Would she want to survive that? Be left to Juma’s guards, to Good Luck?

“I’ve earned it.”

Only the corner of Juma’s mouth moved, a tiny twitch on a giant’s face.

“Yes, you have. Come, then.”

Chapter 31

Juma took none of his guards into the blockhouse. He led the way, carrying the little poacher boy’s Kalashnikov and LB’s FN rifle. Juma ducked under the door frame, followed by Lush Life, LB, and Promise.

They descended a stairwell to a metal door. Juma undid the padlock. LB didn’t need to see the missile to know Wally couldn’t have detonated it from a half mile away, maybe not even from the edge of town. The air-to-air freq and his weak radio couldn’t have reached the missile down here behind concrete walls. Juma pushed open the door and, without looking back, entered an armory.

Juma was clearly a significant dealer in illicit arms. LB could barely step into the room for the stacks of rifles in uncountable calibers and international makes and the handguns spilling out of crates, a thousand guns to fuel poachers, militants, bad guys of every stripe. Juma yanked the magazines out of the FN and the AK, then tossed the rifles onto a pile. He left himself unarmed. Was this trust or contempt? Juma was a mountain of a man, maybe he figured he was in no danger. LB took this as a small insult.

Juma’s cache of guns was big but sloppy, as if he’d shoveled them in the basement door. Every hard bit of it seemed humbled, bowing before the battered table in the center of the room where the Hellfire lay.

Now that he’d seen the rocket, LB could blow it. He wasn’t sure from how far away. He inched closer until he stood between massive Juma and the secretive, little white man. Promise crept up, too. Juma and Lush Life looked at the missile like it was a pile of money, with lip-licking avarice and a tinge of worry that they might not collect. Promise stared in openmouthed awe, which alarmed LB.

Then she nodded to him.

LB clapped loudly, just to fuck with them all. They jumped.

“We’re good. Let’s go.”

Moving for the door, LB played out tactics in his head. Before leaving the village, he’d assure Juma that all was in good order. Yes, that was his country’s missing Hellfire on that table; he’d report it that way. He’d walk Karskie and Promise straight down the dirt road. At fifty yards, just far enough to endure the blast, hopefully close enough to activate the tritonol charge, LB would punch in the five numbers, and the three of them would hit the ground.

Boom. Under the shock and surprise of the explosion, they’d run like hell.

If there was no blast, LB would send Karskie and the girl on. He’d turn around. Act like he’d forgotten something. Wave to Juma. Hey, buddy, one more thing. Keep dialing.

Five-four-three-one-zero.

Then boom. Maybe.

Maybe not. Keep walking. Dialing.

At some point, the damn thing would go off. The question remained: At what point? The Hellfire’s warhead was going to blow this building to smithereens; the shock and flying concrete were going to crush anything within twenty, thirty yards. The heaps of ammo would cook off, too. Juma had complained he wanted something impressive: too bad he wouldn’t get to see the crater. Bye-bye, Juma, his guards, his illegal weapons. And mysterious little Lush Life, who had a bigger hand in all this than he let on. They’d be collateral damage to LB’s mission. But no one in South Africa, Mozambique, or the United States was going to weep for poachers, arms dealers, and blackmailers.

Assuming LB wasn’t in small pieces himself, he’d catch up to Promise and Karskie. The girl knew the bush like the alphabet. She could hide them, move them until they made it back to the ravine, Wally, and Neels. Then they’d scurry over the border. A debrief would be next, some beers with the team in Jo’burg, then home.

That was what was going to happen: simple, straightforward, and the only plan LB had come up with.

Outside in the sun, Juma’s guards squatted on their haunches, puffing. Karskie stood from the lawn chair, expectant. Mean-looking Good Luck and his rifle stayed seated.

Lush Life rubbed his hands like a man finished with a meal.

“Well, Sergeant?”

“I’ll radio it in.”

Lush Life seemed satisfied. Juma asserted his immense hand for a shake. LB left it hanging.

“Sergeant?”

“No thanks.”

“Where are your manners? This is business. Nothing else.”

LB’s immediate thought was at this moment it would have been better to send Wally.

“I said no thanks. We’ll be leaving.”

“On an insult?”

“I got a few better ones, if you want to push it.”

Lush Life raised hands, refereeing, but Juma did not lower his own mitt. No blood dripped off it, so LB splashed some on him.

“Pal, I know who you are. You killed this girl’s partner right in front of her. I saw a rhino today, and my heart almost jumped out of my mouth. You would’ve cut it into pieces. You’re blackmailing my country. And, by the way, you think you got enough guns down there? How many more people and animals you plan on wiping out for business? You’re a piece of shit.”

LB turned on Lush Life.

“And I don’t know who the fuck you are. Let’s leave it that way.”

Before he could turn, Juma pressed his great hand over LB’s shoulder. The weight of the man’s touch, the strength, was powerful and woeful. LB would’ve had to fight hard to knock it off. He pitied Promise for being under it. He stood still while Juma leaned in. In the street, Juma’s guards straightened up and rattled their weapons into their hands.

“Those are angry words from an unarmed man.”

“A man who needs to walk out of here for you to get your money.”

Lush Life agreed and tried again to soften Juma, telling him the sergeant needed to go about his business. Juma nodded, withdrawing his paw.

“True, shamwari.”

Wordlessly, LB gave Juma one last grave digger’s glance. LB had killed men before. Years ago as a Ranger captain, he’d spent a decade doing it in jungles and dunes. After that, as a pararescueman, he’d killed only to accomplish his rescue missions. They were never his choice, the killings, but the choices of others. While a Ranger, he’d followed orders. In the Guardian Angels, he sometimes had to battle his way in, or out, to rescue downed and isolated warriors. Not once in twenty years had LB looked forward to a killing, and never did he fail to remember every taken life. He had a memory full of bodies; he thought of them as his cemetery. When LB had run out of room, when the graves crowded his sleep, he’d become a PJ, so he could put himself on the line to preserve lives instead of end them. To make some space in his graveyard.

But Juma. There was room for him.

LB’s feet itched to walk away. His fingers played over the radio. He jerked his head at Promise and Karskie.

“Let’s go.”

Juma lifted a palm like a stop sign in front of Karskie.

“I don’t see why everyone has to leave.”

The big boy reacted before LB could speak.

“No. Look, no.” Karskie raised his own hand against Juma’s and staggered backward as if he might somehow slip away. “I’m not that important. Really.”

Juma motioned to the lawn chair.

“Have a seat, Mr. Karskie.”

Good Luck, already seated, pointed at the lawn chair across from him.

He lisped, “Sit.”

Karskie shot LB a pleading look.
Get me out of this
.

The boy was as good as dead if he stayed, if LB blew the missile. Karskie hadn’t signed on for that. LB had.

LB said the words fast, so they were out before he could hesitate. It was like jumping from a plane, once he stepped, all he could do was fall.

“I’ll stay.”

Lush Life was crumpled, a little bleary, and needed a shave. Up close, he smelled stale. He had a stupid, fake name. But Juma didn’t talk whenever he did.

“Sergeant.”

“What?”

“Who is Mr. Karskie? Really?”

“A parks employee. Like his ID says.”

“Why did you bring him here?”

“To verify who I am.”

“Why do you have no papers? No patches on your fatigues. Not even your name.”

“This is supposed to be a covert mission.”

“So if you’re found dead, you would be unknown. Is that right?”

“Right.”

“That takes courage.”

“I don’t think about it.”

“Then Mr. Karskie is as he says. Unimportant.”

“He’s not much of a bargaining chip, no.”

“I believe . . .” Lush Life tapped the side of his nose twice, then pushed his fingertip into LB’s vest. “I believe he will be for you.”

Karskie flapped his arms.

LB and Lush Life were close to the same height. LB outweighed him by seventy pounds. The white-haired old man didn’t blink. He had some steel in him. Or, just as likely, he was missing something. LB pushed Lush Life’s finger down from his chest.

“Let him go.”

“You prove me correct, Sergeant. Tell me something else.”

“If I have to.”

“Why did you bring the girl? She could’ve stayed outside the village. Why bring her in here? To anger my mate Juma?”

Promise started forward, tipping to her toes, arming her answer. LB silenced her with a raised hand. He did this to answer for her, just as he had for Karskie. The only way to keep them both safe was to show Juma and Lush Life that they didn’t matter.

“She wanted to come.”

“Why?”

“Why do you care?”

Juma shifted beside Lush Life. Side by side the two couldn’t have been more different. A massive black man, nattily dressed, next to a short, spotty old Englishman with flyaway hair wearing slept-in clothes. But something about them had been paired long ago, and though they were crooked as lightning, they were friends.

“I don’t expect you to understand, Sergeant.”

“Try me.”

“We had a saying in the mines. ‘I am well if my friend is well.’ ”

LB had seen all this before. Honor killings in Afghanistan. Tribute murders in Honduras. Stonings to salvage a family name in Iraq. People who used force instead of real human dignity to get ahead, people who made the rules to fit themselves. LB imagined these two had it tough early in their lives and decided to survive together, screw the cost to others. They were loyal and believed that made them respectable. It made them little more than mobsters.

LB tugged the small radio from his web vest to show it.

“I stay. As soon as Karskie and Promise are safe out of here, I’ll call it in. Then we’ll wait for payment together. You, me, Juma.”

LB indicated the seated Good Luck.

“And handsome here. That’s my deal. There isn’t another one.”

Karskie shook his head in tight, tiny tremors. LB couldn’t tell if he was shivering or saying no. Promise plainly shook her head no.

Again, the destination. LB had been here before in his thoughts, many times. The intense training of every pararescueman forced all GAs to wrestle this notion to the ground, to imagine that defining moment when one’s own life may become forfeit. LB had been here in the field, too, on combat missions and rescues, facing enemies and long odds. Each man and woman who went into battle knew his or her life might be the price. But only the Guardian Angels wore a patch that said so. “That others may live.” LB didn’t mind coming to this lonely place again without the patch on his sleeve. He’d worn it a long time.

Time slowed. Every moment was a large fraction of what he had left to him. LB drew a deep breath, allowed himself a long blink to smell the world and hear it, too. He had no regrets for things left undone and only some for the unsaid. He was sad to go but thankful to choose this fate of a Guardian Angel, instead of a later, different, sadder, hollow death he would not pick.

To Promise and Karskie, he repeated himself.

“There’s no other deal.”

Lush Life paused, stymied, while LB held out the radio. Good Luck didn’t care, and the four guards appeared disconnected and a little high.

Big Juma wagged a sausage-sized finger.

“Sergeant, no. This is Macandezulo. My Macandezulo. You do not dictate terms here.”

The great finger shifted to Karskie.

“He will stay.”

LB puffed out his chest, swelling before confronting Juma.

“I said no.”

“And that is precisely why I say he will.”

Again, Lush Life interceded, this time taking big Juma by the arm to walk him several steps away. The two conferred quietly in a language LB had never heard before. When they returned, Lush Life spread his hands accommodatingly. The little man had pull with Juma.

“Sergeant. You may stay.”

As he’d learned before when doing the hardest things, LB acted quickly, faster than his heart. He told Promise and Karskie to go.

Neither moved.

A titter, then a cough tumbled through the doorway of the blockhouse. The sounds were followed by shuffling bare feet scuffing the stairs, descending from the second floor.

Into the sunlight stepped eight women. Each wore white, their loose garb stained in some places, torn in others, but pale against ebony flesh, without undergarments. They filed between LB and Juma like geese, honking in a gaggle, oblivious to what they interrupted. They were glib, giggling, dully touching the guards as they passed. One cupped Karskie’s dropped chin. Another stroked Promise’s khaki shorts before walking on.

Karskie regained himself before LB could speak. He pointed after the girls. None of them strolled a straight line.

“What is it, Juma? Meth?”

“Yes.”

“You got your own lab?”

Juma tipped his brow at a shanty close to the blockhouse. LB figured it to be within the blast range. Karskie bounced his gaze back and forth to the hut, measuring; he might have been thinking the same.

On the radio, LB’s thumb settled over the first number, five, but did not push it.

“Sex slaves, Juma?” LB asked.

“Sex workers. And, Sergeant, you and I are not explaining ourselves to each other.”

Juma aimed his thick finger at the chair Karskie had vacated.

“Sit.”

LB did not. He wasn’t of a mind to take orders. Instead, he indicated the blockhouse.

“Is that all the women?”

“Yes. Why? Didn’t you see one you liked?”

The women had already tottered thirty yards up the street and were headed farther. They were not geese or slaves but safe at that distance.

LB took Promise by the arm. Pulling her close, he returned the soft, small nod she’d given him down in the armory.