Thirteen Hours (49 page)

'How easy?'

'I'll grease a few palms, and get some dumb fuck to go
in and take it. Little video tape, slip it in your pocket, easy-peasy.
Tomorrow, next week, this will be old news, girl's gone, pressure's off. Relax.
Where is she?'

'You're absolutely sure?'

'Of course I'm fucking sure. For a thousand bucks
they'll be standing in line to do it.'

'OK,' said Jason and took out his cell phone.

'She's alive, isn't she?' Oerson asked. 'Because you
guys owe me a favour.'

When the Roodebloem turn-off flashed past, Griessel
realised he should have taken it. He cut through to the Eastern Boulevard and
the same route as Vusi, but it was too fucking late. The only alternative was
Liesbeeck Park, then down Station Road, but it was going to take a minute or
two, three, longer.

The van's wheels squealed around the last turn before
De Waal joined Hospital corner. Traffic was dense, there was no time to think.
What was Jeremy Oerson's connection with the whole affair? He nearly drove into
a pharmacy delivery motorcycle and had to swerve out in front of another car.
Horns blared, couldn't the idiots hear the siren? Then he was around the bend
on the N2 Settlers road and swung over into the left-hand lane. They gave way
now and he stomped on the accelerator. Jeremy Oerson? Metro? African
Adventures?

What the fuck?

He entered the Liesbeeck off-ramp too fast, the turn
much sharper than he remembered, and the red traffic light was totally
unexpected. Cars were crossing the road in front of him. Too late to brake. The
van began to skid, he was going to hit someone. Then he was through between two
cars, wrenching the wheel to get it under control, accelerated again. Out the
other side.

He only turned off the siren when he turned onto Lower
Main.

Benny was taking too long.

Vusi's car was parked halfway between Scott and
Stanley on the pavement. He had his service pistol on his lap, ready cocked. He
could see the warehouse through the windscreen - a long building, brick walls,
galvanised zinc roof. Large white-painted sliding doors behind four trucks and
four trailers, each bearing the legend African Overland Adventures. Big
vehicles, the seating deck high with luggage space below. She was in there.
Where was Benny? Perhaps he should go inside. But how many were there? Oerson
and the person Oerson had spoken to over the phone. How many more?

He sat there, breathing fast, his heart thumping in
his chest.

He pulled the car keys out of the ignition, got out,
walked around, opened the boot and looked up. They wouldn't be able to see him.
There were no windows on this side anyway. He put his pistol down in the boot,
took off his jacket and picked up the Kevlar bulletproof vest. He put it on and
picked up his pistol. He checked his watch. 15:22. Late.

He would have to do something.

He came to a decision; the girl's life was the main
priority. He pulled back the pistol's slide and gently closed the boot.

He was going in.

Then he heard the squeal of rubber on tar behind him and
looked back. A SAPS patrol van came around the corner, drove straight towards
him and stopped in a cloud of dust on the pavement. A figure jumped out with
unkempt hair and gun in his hand.

Benny Griessel had arrived.

'Hey!' said Jeremy Oerson, but she didn't look up. She
just lay slumped against the pole, stark naked, he could see everything, the
tits, the bush between her legs, the bleeding right foot and three toes lying
in the dust like fat insect grubs.

He stood with his feet planted wide in black boots,
the pistol in both hands aimed at her head.

'Get her to look at me,' he said to one of them.

'Just fucking get it over with.'

'No. I want to see her face. Hey, Yankee, look at me.'

Slowly she lifted her head. Hair hung over her
forehead in strings. He saw the eye swollen shut, black and purple, dried blood
on her temple. 'You guys really fucked her up,' he said.

Her head was raised, but the eyes were still somewhere
else.

'Do it, Jerry.'

'Look at me,' he said to her, saw the eyes rise to meet
his. He pressed the safety off with his thumb.

'Take the back, Vusi, there must be a door. I'll give
you time,' said Griessel as he ran. He saw the black detective swerve off
towards the corner of the building.

He reached the big white sliding door and pressed his
back against the wall, service pistol in both hands in front of him. His breath
was racing. He had to get it under control, he counted, thousand-and-one,
thousand-and-two, thousand-and-three, wanting to give Vusi twenty seconds. He
prayed. Dear Father, let her be alive.

Thousand-and-seven. When had he prayed last? When
Carla was in mortal danger, his prayer had only been partially answered. He
would take that, anything, just so that he could please phone Bill Anderson and
say: 'She's alive.' Thousand-and-twelve. He heard a shot, jumped, grabbed the
door with his left hand, dragged it open, ducked and ran in. He saw a young
man, tall and lean, directly in front of him with a silencer aimed at his
heart. He knew in that instant that it was all over, his own pistol was degrees
too far to the right.

The shot cracked and blew Benny Griessel off his feet.
His back slammed into the door and pain exploded in his chest. He was
fleetingly aware of the strangeness, of feeling first the bullet and then
hearing the shot. He fell to the ground.

That unease he had had all day, that expectation of
evil, here it was.

Oerson waited for her eyes. He wanted his to be the
last face she would see. He wanted to know what mortal fear looked like, he wanted
to see the light of life fade out of her. But above all he wanted to know how
it felt, the power, they said the power was indescribable. He had wondered for
so long what it felt like to take a life.

She looked into his eyes. He saw no fear. He wondered
if they had drugged her. She looked absent.

Then he heard the shot. He looked around, at the door.

Another shot.

'Shit,' he said.

Vusi sprinted around the first corner, along the short
side of the warehouse, then the next corner. High windows, two metres off the
ground. A single steel door with a big padlock on it. Locked. He did not
hesitate. He steadied against the wall, aimed and shot the padlock, one shot.
The nine-mm projectile blew it to bits. He tugged the door open. It was gloomy
inside, a smallish room, a kitchen, with dirty glasses and coffee mugs in the
sink and another closed door.

He heard a shot, not loud, a small calibre, perhaps.
Benny! He ran to the inner door and opened it. It was a large open space,
equipment in piles. A beam of light shone from the front through the big
sliding door. Someone was lying there dead still. Oh God, it was Benny.
Movement, a young white man to the left of Vusi, a long weapon in his hand. 'Don't
move!' No good, the young man swung around. Vusi fired. The man fell in slow
motion. Vusi had never shot anyone before,
uSimakade,
what was this city doing to
him? A bullet smacked into the wall beside Vusi. It came from the right. He
dived behind drums and rolled to the right, stood up, pulled the trigger, once,
twice, three times. The man staggered and fell on a stack of plastic cans. He
had had no choice - it was survival. He had killed a man, he realised. He stood
up slowly, eyes on the still figure, watching the blood run out of the body and
over the white plastic of the cans in long trails. Life blood.

A shadow moved on his right, he came back to reality,
too late, the pistol pressed against his head. 'Black cunt,' the voice said.

Awful pain in his chest, Griessel could not move,
could not breathe. He was lying on the cement floor. Death would come, it was
all over, he should have waited for the task force. At the periphery there was
movement, on the other side, he tried to turn his head. Vusi. A thundering
shot, someone fell, further to the right. Everything in slow motion, unreal,
vague, detached. This was the beginning, the tumbling away from life, he would
hear the scream of fear, the terrifying scream when you fell into the deep dark
abyss. Why wasn't he afraid? Why this .. . peace, just an intense longing for
his children, his wife, Anna. Now he knew he wanted her, wanted her back, now,
too late. Movement. He could see. Not dead yet. Vusi fired again, three times.
He watched his colleague. His breath came more easily now. Why? Benny's hand
moved slowly to his chest and touched the gaping wound. Dry. No blood. He
looked, and felt. A hole in his breast pocket. No blood. Why the pain? He felt
the hard object, gripped it.

The Leatherman. The bullet had struck the Leatherman.
Relief burned through him, a shooting consciousness. He had made an utter fool
of himself, thinking he was going to die. He heard a voice. 'Black cunt.' He
looked up. The one who had shot him stood there, with a long-muzzled gun to
Vusi's head.

Griessel reached for his pistol on the floor, grasped
it, raised it, no time to aim. Pulled the trigger, saw the man's arm jerk, saw
Vusi fall, fired again, missed. The man just stood there. His silenced pistol
had disappeared. Benny tried to stand, his whole ribcage on fire, pain burning
white, Leatherman or not. He crawled first, got to his feet and stumbled
closer.

Vusi moved.

Griessel aimed his service pistol at the man. 'Don't
move,' he said. He saw the man was holding his arm. The elbow was shattered,
lots of blood, a mess of tendons and fragmented bone.

Vusi stood up. 'Benny ...' His voice was faint,
Griessel's ears were deafened by the shots.

'I've got him, Vusi.'

'I thought you were dead.'

'So did I,' said Griessel, almost embarrassed. He
jerked the man by the collar. 'Lie down,' he said. The man sank slowly to his
knees.

'Where is Rachel?'

The man looked around slowly, at the closed door
behind him. 'There.'

'Is she alone?'

'No.'

'Is Jason in there, Jason de Klerk?'

No response. Griessel prodded him again with the
pistol. 'Where is Jason?'

A moment of silence. 'I'm Jason.'

Rage swept over Griessel, frustration, relief. He
grabbed de Klerk by the hair. 'You fucking rubbish,' he said, and felt a
powerful desire to kill him, shoot him in the throat, for Erin Russel, for
everything, his finger tightened around the trigger.

'Benny!'

There was a noise behind them, a door closing. Both
detectives spun around and aimed.

'Don't shoot!' another young man stood there, hands in
the air, looking scared, blood on his upper lip.

'On the floor,' said Vusi.

'Please,' he said and lay down immediately.

'Where is Rachel?' Benny asked.

'She's in there,' said the other one.

They looked at the door. 'Vusi, if he moves,' Griessel
said, and strode towards the door.

'Look out,' said the man. 'Oerson is with her.'

She was aware of the gun pointed at her, of the man in
his magnificent uniform towering above her. He spoke her name. Did he know her?
She raised her eyes, trying to focus, why was the other one still standing
here, the young one, one of those who had held her legs?

A shot cracked. Her eyes shut in reflex, she expected
to feel it, coming from the weapon pointed at her.

But her eyes opened as the man in uniform swore. He
had
turned away from her and pointed his pistol at the door.
The other man ducked and crept towards the wall.

Someone shot again in there, a softer bang.

'What the fuck?' the uniformed man whispered.

Another shot, deafening. He moved quickly to beside
the door, and again it boomed in there, three times.

Then it struck her: the policeman. Griessel. He had
found her. She wanted to sit up. She moved her legs and the pain in her foot
was incredible, but she didn't care, she drew her heels back, found a grip.
Another shot, one more. He was shooting them, Benny Griessel, he must kill them
all. She braced herself against the cold pillar. If only she could stand up.
The uniform and the young man were frozen, petrified. Another two shots.
Silence.