Xavier marched towards his battle-scarred truck, more content than he had been in some while. After days of negotiation, he had finally agreed a price on his remarkable cargo of giant tusks. The winning bid had eventually come in from one of his old Rhodesian contacts – an unlikeable fence who had powerful and impatient buyers scattered throughout North Africa and Asia. The sudden scarcity of good ivory and the demand for a quality haul meant that, almost overnight, Xavier could now demand three times his usual price. However, given the extraordinary dimensions of his haul, he was able to hold out for even more, settling on a figure almost five times the going rate.
He fired up the Ford and headed down a narrow gravel track which, beyond a sharp bend, fed onto a larger sand road that would lead them to the small town of Messina.
‘It’s good,’ he finally announced, sparing his brother a glance. ‘Even better than we expected.’
‘Who went highest?’ Requin asked, his teeth twisting through a smile.
‘Rhodesia. But things might still change. There are some new buyers who want to talk.’
‘Is that where we’re going?’
A nod.
‘How much so far? And how much more do you think we can push for?’
Xavier was about to respond when he noticed the blur of a white truck in his mirror. Lurching across the road, it raced up behind them, swerving out at the last moment. The driver bent over his steering wheel, an almost-empty bottle of whisky clutched in his hand, and glared at them. His passenger made a phantom rifle with his hands and pointed its imaginary barrel at them. As they passed, the driver hung his arm out and tossed the empty bottle into the air. It cartwheeled through the large swirls of dust, skipped hard off the gravel track and exploded into the front of Xavier’s truck.
Requin shot forward in his chair, raising his fist. ‘What th–the–’ he stuttered, turning to his brother.
Xavier did not reply. He barely even flinched. Instead, he blinked slowly and pushed down gently on the accelerator.
‘Wh–What’re you going to do?’ Requin spat out, his voice begging for retribution.
Xavier said nothing, his eyes locked on the white truck.
Within a minute they had closed the gap. Xavier bided his time before turning out and pulling level with the speeding truck. The pair snapped their heads at him and shouted obscenities that were lost to both the scream of the engines and the roar of the road. Now it was Xavier’s turn to lean over the steering wheel. He lifted his arm and gestured calmly for them to pull over. He held his hand over his mouth, opening and closing it like a child might, indicating that he thought they should talk. Then, he smiled warmly at them. The driver laughed in return and his passenger cocked and then fired off another round from his finger gun. They were both outstandingly drunk.
Xavier nodded at the men and allowed his truck to fall back. He slowed and tucked in behind them. ‘Rifle,’ he said evenly, his eyes deadpan.
Pleased at the request, Requin reached down and hauled up the Mauser. He checked to make sure it was loaded before handing it to his brother.
‘Bring down your window,’ Xavier instructed, placing the weapon across his lap. He again pressed his foot down and, for a second time, closed in on the white truck. Within less than a mile, he was alongside them again. The driver swung out as if he intended to run Xavier off the road. But it was a mock charge, one that triggered hysterical laughter in both men.
Xavier grinned back at them as if he was now prepared to be a good sport and, in fact, had changed his mind about their antics. Lads will be lads, and all of that. But then, dropping the grin, he hauled up the rifle. He shoved the barrel through Requin’s open window and let it rest on the crook of the door.
The men’s expressions changed instantly. Gone were the belligerent faces and their air of drunken aggression. In their place were looks of raw fear, a cold and sobering comprehension. The passenger held up his hands as an apology and the driver immediately began to shake his head, as if suggesting that the last few minutes had all been a big misunderstanding. That it was all a mistake … no mess, no foul, right? Let’s talk about this, his eyes pleaded. He even gestured for them to pull over so they could talk.
But Xavier was no longer interested in a discussion. That opportunity had passed them by. Besides, he loathed men who would back down at the first sign of trouble. Had they stood their ground, he might have changed his mind about what he was about to do. Perhaps he would have let them off with only a warning, a shot across the bow, maybe.
‘Don’t ever point a gun,’ he began, singling out the man in the passenger seat, ‘that you’re not prepared to use.’
And then, before the man could respond, before he could contemplate his situation – before he could bargain or even beg for forgiveness – Xavier adjusted his rifle and shot out their front tyre. The truck lurched violently, bucked sidewards, and then veered out of control. The driver wrestled desperately with the steering wheel, but to no avail.
Xavier did not even bother to watch as the truck began its deathly somersault in his rearview mirror. His mind was already ridding itself of the encounter.