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2100hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 Frans & Hoek Winery, Western Australia |
Mackay had been watching Wynand work for about ten minutes before he heard the cry. He had moved around the back of the building, forty yards out behind a sloping drop in the landscape. Low and flat on his stomach. Blending into the darkness. Over the course of those ten minutes, Mackay took the phone from his backpack and sent off a text. Completing his second communication back to Cross. On the hour, every hour. Which he hadn’t done since crash-landing into the forest canopy.
ALL GOOD. OBSERVING A WORKER ON THE GROUNDS. ENGAGEMENT TBC.
Brief and concise. Let her know he was still in the game, completing the mission as planned. Which almost didn’t happen, thanks to the unhinged witch doctor. All other details could come out in the wash later.
Mackay bided his time. He observed the skinny worker in the shed and regrouped his thoughts. He watched the man do a decent job of reversing the trailer. He watched him roll two massive oak barrels from the trailer to the shed floor, then watched him jump into a forklift and manoeuvre the barrels onto a second row of casks along the rear wall. Then the man made an error of judgement – driving the forklift too far forward and cracking the second barrel against the brickwork. A horse from the back stable let out a stark neigh. Following that the man shut the engine down and paused. He went still, as if listening intently, head cocked to the side. The human version of what a dog or kangaroo does when pricking up its ears. After ten seconds, he got out of the forklift and began climbing the barrels, disappearing over the top. Thirty seconds later, Mackay heard a scream. Clear as day.
A cry like that, for an angry man listening in the dark, sent fast, immediate messages into his auditory cortex. It rang out into the night, prickled across Mackay’s hair cells and created a picture in his mind’s eye. Deep inside the temporal lobe. In that moment, at that exact time and location, Mackay knew it was the scream of a scared little boy. A boy who, without a doubt, was family. Part of his blood. A scream that belonged to Lincoln. A switch flicked inside him. No matter what kind of human being you were – good or bad – a child’s distressing cry can yield inconceivable things deep within. Heartache, rage, compassion, hatred. Mackay’s fight response kicked in. His immediate impulse. Honed from years of combat training and on-field rugby experience. The only other instinct that went hand in hand alongside it, was to save.
Mackay tossed up various options for his approach. With force? Violence first, questions later? Or reccy elsewhere to save his strength? The guy wasn’t a boss or a high-level operator, that was a no-brainer. He was obviously an underling. A lacky chump doing a lacky chump’s job. A farmhand. However, anyone working on the grounds this late was no innocent front-of-house staff either. Coming off the back of dealing with the witch doctor, finding the beaten woman, and now hearing Lincoln cry out, Mackay was under no illusion the man was part of the wider operation. A skinny cog in a big machine. Either he was a groundsman with information, or he was an ignorant groundsman who needed a wake-up call. With all things considered, on this night, ignorance was not an excuse.
Mackay narrowed down two methods of engagement. He could run straight inside the cabin with force. Complete shock and awe. Eliminate the threat, grab the boy and get the hell out of there. Retreat by way of the forest and communicate a pick-up reference point with Cross. Dark and unseen amongst his nocturnal friends. Or he could take a slower approach: eliminate the threat, leave the boy where he was, take out any remaining parties, come back for the boy afterwards. This was the safest choice, but it wouldn’t be very kind to a lost, distressed child. Some recons were better suited to be drawn out – waiting days for the right moment, then crawl in and neutralise. Slow, cold and merciless. This wasn’t that moment. Lincoln’s cry was serious, dictating an immediate problem requiring an immediate response. He needed someone familiar, someone who could tell him everything would be okay, even if it was just a simple warm hug. Hearing that shriek meant Mackay’s time limit had been shortened to a very narrow margin. Lincoln’s scream meant bad news. And bad news doesn’t get better with age.
Mackay went with a combination of the two options. He was making good time and would use that advantage to get to Lincoln first, then clear all buildings of any personnel involved with the operation. Pick them off one by one. He rolled to his side and ran his hand over his thigh, confirming he still had the knuckle dusters. The hardened, knobbly steel hadn’t moved. He then tapped the Glocks fitted to both front and rear holsters of his vest. All intact. Mackay was satisfied. He stood up and moved. Speed and precision. Whether the security camera picked him up, he didn’t care at that point. More important things were at stake. Mackay strode ten quick paces, pulling the front Glock from the vest, paced another quick ten and made it to the edge of the cabin wall. He rounded it with the weapon pressed out front. Two hands snug over the grip. One firm, one easy. Safety off. The faint yellow glow from the cabin’s lights turned to sunshine as Mackay entered the wide-open floor. There was no one there. No immediate threat. From wall to wall the space inside was big enough for five tractors parked side by side plus wiggle room. The left wall was filled with star pickets and gardening tools, while the right was stacked with the smaller stuff: spindles of wiring, rope, plant pots, faded gnomes and ornamental bird feeders. Immediately, parked to his left, was a ride-on lawnmower. To his right was the tractor, trailer and forklift transported by the skinny worker. Beyond that was the rear wall. Full of empty, double-stacked oak barrels.
Mackay moved slowly across the floor between the lawnmower and tractor. One foot after the other, heels rolling silently to the toes. He heard something scuttling down the back, clambering behind the stacked barrels. Cloth and rubber scraping across the brick wall. The casks obscured whatever was making the sound, so Mackay kept the Glock steady out front. Chest level. He passed the tractor, the key was still in the ignition. He passed the trailer, its rear gate was down. He passed the forklift. He was ten metres deep when he saw the thin man start a reverse descent from the top row of barrels. Swinging his legs down with his back towards Mackay. He had no idea a man in tactical uniform with an ominous painted face was standing less than a metre beneath him. Holding a Glock with fifteen rounds.
Instead of a straightforward kill, Mackay changed tact. It was better to face the guy if he was going to take his life. Showed character. Not a good trait shooting a man in the back. Robert Ford made that example clear when he shot Jesse James. Mackay wanted to give the guy a chance to explain, just in case. Just in case he wasn’t party to killing his brother’s family. Or potentially keeping a six-year-old autistic boy captive inside a brick wall. On the whole, Mackay figured he’d still need some information regardless, and maybe this was just the guy to give it.
Mackay silently holstered the Glock. At that point Wynand’s feet were right in front of his face, levelled with his shoulder. Gripping the small nooks between the casks for support. Perfect height. Mackay dug his right hand into his pocket, fitted the knuckle dusters then slugged Wynand in the ankle. Hard and sharp. Snapping it against the curve of the cask. Metal into bone, bone into wood. A short hook. Just like Cross had taught him. Full hip rotation, power from feet, to shoulder, to fist. The metal-on-bone made a loud crack – the sound of the steel edge separating the skin and softening the bone underneath to a paste.
Wynand lost his footing, swung sideways and dropped flat on his side on the concrete. The wind was knocked out of him immediately. Mackay leaned over and whacked him twice more in the chest anyway. Crunch. Crunch. Right in the middle, cracking the sternum. For insurance. Better than losing both sides of your ribcage in an IED explosion.
Wynand’s mouth and eyes opened like a tuna fish. Like the catch of the day pulled onto the deck. He couldn’t speak or yell out in pain. His mouth opened and closed as it searched for breath. For air that wasn’t coming. Nothing was filling his lungs. Seconds passed. Mackay exchanged his knuckle dusters for the seal pup knife. He removed it from his hip and pressed the tip firmly into the hollow socket of skin just above the man’s collarbone. Below the trachea. Just in case he needed to slice it open for the guy to breathe. Maybe he’d hit the sternum too hard and punctured a lung, making him drown within from his own blood, like Malvin.
Mackay watched, waited and let him struggle. At the thirty second mark, Wynand began taking small, shallow pockets of air, bringing life back into his cheeks. Mackay kept the point of the knife where it was.
‘About how old is the child you got back there?’ said Mackay.
Wynand couldn’t answer, he didn’t have the capacity to speak yet. Either from falling to the floor having the wind knocked out of him, or getting his sternum punched in. Probably both.
‘Maybe I help you breathe a little easier,’ Mackay said, pressing the point of the knife in.
Wynand sucked his throat inwards and shook his head. Spittle ran down his chin. Mackay looked into his eyes for a second, ascertaining the man had a low-level IQ. Part of the young man’s genetic make-up wasn’t all there, which couldn’t be helped. Mackay almost felt sorry for him.
‘Wait, wait. Stop,’ Wynand managed. He swallowed, sucked air and gasped.
‘How old?’ Mackay said again.
Wynand blinked and refocused.
‘Maybe five or six.’
‘Boy or girl?’
‘Boy.’
Good enough for Mackay. He needed nothing else from the man, so he took him out. Unconscious, not dead. Same right fist, same knuckle dusters. A right hook across the jaw, which put Wynand to sleep. And maybe tore the jawbone from the meaty attachment point on the side. Mackay stood and walked up to the stacked barrels, looked between the little gaps, saw the wall, then saw an even larger gap in the foundations at the bottom. A wide, hollow edifice. A fireplace. He started climbing, made it to the top, braced against the wall and dropped over the other side. He scanned the tight fissure against the fireplace then leaned into the hearth. He saw a pair of small white shoes with little legs protruding out. The shoes had Velcro straps. Mackay remembered wearing the same design when he was a boy. Easier fitment for small hands, made for children who hated the hassle of tying laces.
The rest of the child’s body was pressed all the way back into the firepit’s wall, obscured by darkness. Mackay still had the night vision lens attached to his head, so he pulled the optical over his eyes and twisted the iris to focus. It was Lincoln. Same as he ever was, only thinner, malnourished and soiled. The firepit stunk of excrement, soot and oak. Lincoln hadn’t moved for at least two, maybe three days. He was curled into a ball, arms around his legs, as far from the winery’s savages as he could manage. His face was between his knees, covered over with the same mop of hair Mackay had always remembered. Curled over his ears, eyes and collar like ivy tendrils. The boy had held on the only way he knew how. Retreating within himself, mentally wishing he was elsewhere, in a better place far and away somewhere in his imagination.
Mackay now needed to coax him out. But he didn’t want to frighten the poor thing. Or create alarm or give reason for him to scream and draw attention. He needed to ease the distress slowly, which required a calm approach. The type of approach that said, I am family, I’m here to protect you and take you away from this bad place. Away from this dark, god-awful hellhole.
Mackay removed his night vision and began rubbing the painted camouflage off his face. If and when Lincoln eventually came out, he’d want to see the familiarity of his uncle rather than the nefarious warmonger he currently resembled.
‘Lincoln. Your name is Lincoln,’ Mackay whispered. ‘I know it’s you because I am your uncle. It’s Mackay, Uncle Mackay. I’m here to get you out of here. To a safe place.’
Lincoln didn’t move.
‘I am your father’s brother. Your father’s name is Malvin. Your mother’s name is Neve. Do you remember me?’
Still no answer. Maybe it was because Mackay was whispering, so he tried using his voice. Flat and soft. The same Irish brogue as the boy’s father’s.
‘In Aldershot, we used to watch Disney movies on that ugly grey couch in the spare room. Downstairs in the games room. With the bike you said was stupid because it never went anywhere, and the plastic plant with the leaves you used to chew on, then get in trouble for it with your mother.’
Still nothing.
Mackay thought harder, talking wasn’t working. A silent moment passed before it came to him. Mackay needed to sing. A song he knew Lincoln knew. One of the many from Lincoln’s favourite film. If Mackay could work the words and the tune with some form of tone and melody, maybe it would connect. It was worth a shot. Mackay gave it his best, his voice as good as a droning microwave but at least he had some modulation. He only knew a few bars of ‘Chim Chim Cher-ee’ from Mary Poppins, which was enough, and ironic, considering Lincoln was more or less holed up inside one. He went through as many of the lines as he could remember. His tone low, hushed and quiet. Lulling and soothing. He repeated the verses over and over. On the fifth reprise Mackay heard movement. A slow shuffling of the Velcro shoes, edging out closer towards him. Out of the pit, into the light.
‘Mary Poppins,’ said Lincoln, hoarse and cracked. Then, ‘Ugly grey couch.’
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2100hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 Admin Room, Front of House, Frans & Hoek Winery, Western Australia |
After Van Breeman ordered Bryson to find Taylor and Derek, he took a moment. Excluding the murdered family and the reporter tied down in the hotbox, he had two missing cops on his payroll. That was the kicker. Taylor and Derek were solid, and had never faltered once. They were always contactable. Always picked up their phone. He paid them well to make sure of it. And even if they didn’t, they’d always call back within the hour at the latest. They were cops after all, both with mortgages and families. And being detectives, Van Breeman was aware of the nature of their work. He knew they had high-end jobs that needed attending to. Homicide, kidnapping, rape, the works. Was it a coincidence they were out of the picture? He didn’t think so. Something was wrong. With Taylor and Derek silent, the coincidence was too big to ignore.
The best Van Breeman could do was to stay put and watch the security feeds. Just in case something came up. He had two monitors set up: one in the admin room where he stood, the other inside the strongbox next to the main gallery, where his personal investments lay. Van Breeman didn’t like coincidences, and with the two detectives currently out of the picture, it was necessary to keep things under full control. Under lock and key with eyes on. His eyes. All night if he had to. Tomorrow was a new day, bringing new decisions and plans, but for now, he would use the remaining hours of the night to mind his goods. Like the good paranoid businessman he was. And when Wynand, the useless prat, finally showed, he’d have him help. Two eyes were better than one. Van Breeman monitoring from the strongbox, Wynand from the supply room. Possibly with a bullet in his leg or shoulder for not being contactable.
Van Breeman rang Wynand one more time. It rang immediately, the chirping call imitating an old rotary phone which belled and vibrated somewhere close, but it wasn’t the admin room. The sound came from the gallery next door. He followed the twittering to find the phone at the end of the wine-tasting bench opposite the drinks fridge. Next to a can of Fanta. Recently consumed too as it had a small wet ring under it. Condensation from a change in the drink’s temperature. He put Wynand’s negligence to the front of his consequence list in his head then left the room.
He exited the front of house and walked along the balcony to the strongbox at the end of the building. He punched the code into the keypad, then sat in the middle of the room to watch the security monitors. He observed the twelve panels on the screen for five minutes before he found Wynand – driving a tractor, hauling two oak barrels out of the cellar loaded on a trailer. He watched him tow the barrels down to the maintenance cabin, then reverse the trailer into the floor space and park it. At least Wynand was working, Van Breeman thought. He then thought about lowering the level of consequence he’d planned for him, just a little. But he knew Wynand better. He knew he was passing the time doing a low-priority job just to look busy, keeping out of his way. The kicker was that Wynand was without his phone, which was a non-negotiable. Van Breeman decided to keep the consequence as it was. A bullet. Somewhere that wasn’t life-threatening. Leg or shoulder, which he thought was fair, especially at a time like this. With a young boy still missing and two detectives unreachable. Being inaccessible under these circumstances was poor form.
At ten minutes into watching Wynand, he observed him get into the forklift and raise the second barrel to the top row of casks along the wall. Which was when he heard his horses whinny, all the way from the bottom of the vineyard. Which also meant – though he couldn’t really tell from the black-and-white image – Wynand had stuffed up the manoeuvre. Likely jamming or crushing the barrels, which had spooked the horses. Another act of incompetence and another mental note for the back burner. At eleven minutes into watching Wynand, he observed him get out of the forklift and begin to climb the double stack of barrels. Hands and feet grappling over the casks then disappearing behind them, which made Van Breeman curious. Made him lean forward a little, take a little more notice. Between the twelve- and fourteen-minute mark, nothing happened. There was no movement. He couldn’t see Wynand at all. Then, at the fifteen-minute mark, a dark figure appeared, walking onto the floor space of the shed. Not some lost wild animal from the state forest. It walked upright on two legs, and it wasn’t Kimbala. It moved slow and measured towards the rear wall. Arms raised at chest level, hands out front holding something. Likely a handgun. It was a presence Van Breeman was more or less expecting. The loss of contact from Taylor and Derek started to make sense.
Whoever the newcomer was, he, or she, was fitted in what appeared to be some form of tactical get-up. In the black-and-white picture on the feed – fitted to a nearby tree – Van Breeman could only make out a few key features. For the money he spent, the camera’s picture was decently clear, but it wasn’t close enough to pick up any high-clarity definition. He could make out a backpack and a set of night-vision goggles. As the figure moved further inside the cabin, the angle on the monitor’s grid switched from a rear observation point to a front observation point. The view now high above the barrels on the rear wall. The image closer and clearer. In quick succession, Van Breeman realised three things. Firstly, even though the figure’s face was concealed with some kind of dark coating, he could tell it was a man. The lean shape of the face, the broad shoulders and thick torso were unmistakeable. Secondly, he knew the type of weapon in the man’s hands. The way it was held: two hands wrapped snug over the grip with the slide protruding above the knuckles. He knew it was a Glock. The same pistol Australian police officers were issued. The very same Taylor and Derek used. The third thing Van Breeman realised was that the newcomer was no amateur. The way he moved and the way he was dressed meant he was either military or police.
On a single rectangular grid on the monitor, the dark entity moved past the tractor, past the trailer, past the forklift. The next thing he saw was Wynand climbing out from behind the double stack of barrels. The figure stopped dead and watched on. Waiting there while Wynand awkwardly clambered down, controlling his footing between the barrel’s grooves and arches. Waiting for Wynand to descend closer.
Van Breeman couldn’t help but watch. If nothing else, it was out of total intrigue. For a moment or two, he wanted to see what was about to play out. Like the big reveal or twist at the end of a movie. Whatever was going to happen next was as enthralling as real life could get. As Wynand lowered himself from the top row of casks, the dark figure holstered the Glock then, as cool as a southerly breeze, placed a hand into his pocket, dug it back out and pivoted with a right hook into Wynand’s foot. His right ankle, just as he placed it on the edge of a lower barrel. The figure knocked Wynand clean from his grasp, dropping him to the concrete floor below.
That was enough of a finale. Van Breeman stood and left the strongbox in a hurry, leaving the front door wide open in his wake. It wasn’t on account of Wynand’s welfare, he couldn’t care less. There were bigger things at stake. If all he did was continue to watch the security monitor, who knew where the tactically dressed man would end up. Or what secrets he might uncover. The gravity of problems he could potentially stir wasn’t something Van Breeman wanted to comprehend. The dark figure was a spanner in the works, and he had a very good idea as to why he had arrived. He needed to be removed immediately.
Van Breeman ran back across the veranda, through the gallery into the admin room. He opened the wooden cabinet tailor-made for his vineyard-select weaponry and removed the shotgun. A Lanber 2097. Pre-loaded with two shells. Good to go. Single trigger action, twenty-six-inch barrel, twelve gauge. A proper mess-maker with immense power. Solid and reassuring. The best option for the evening’s situation. He would have preferred a pump action with a five-shell load, but in Australia, semi-automatics and pump actions were banned. For close-range kills, the spray from the Lanber could easily wipe out a horse or camel. Taking down a human would be a cinch. He pocketed two extra shells from an open box then hurried out into the darkness. He passed the wine press, the underground cellar, then continued down the worn dirt path toward the back of the property. As he closed in on the old colonial lodge, he slowed to a walk, taking a wide birth silently around the maintenance shed at the hotbox end. He wasn’t heading for the tactically dressed man straight away. Not just yet. First, he wanted to stop in at the stables. As he continued, he kept an ear out for Kimbala. Or hopefully a cry from the journalist, but it was completely silent. Nothing but crickets. Instead, he found Kimbala perched against the wall of the hotbox like it was mid-morning break – ready for coffee and cigarettes. Only Kimbala was motionless with his head facing into the bricks. Van Breeman was impressed. The stranger had taken out one of his best. Credit where credit was due. The big witch doctor was down. No more chanting. No more dark arts.
There was no need to muse on his losses, so Van Breeman moved on. Treading quietly toward the central stable where his two ex-racehorses nodded and snorted in familiarity. Approving their owner’s presence. As he arrived at the two long faces behind the gate, he reached in and took the coil of rope hanging from an inside hook. A lariat. Horse rope used to lead and tie the animals. Made from quality nylon for superior strength. The rope was part of his bread and butter growing up on his father’s farm in Franshoek. A modest, yet unique item he could use, and use well. The boss had a plan. It might work, or it might not.
Next, Van Breeman opened the stall to his fastest horse, Rye. The thoroughbred. Chocolate brown with a sliver of white on the forehead. Too old for racing, young enough to live a full life working on a winery. He reeled Rye out of the stall and ambled him up the old training ground towards the maintenance shed. Towards Wynand and the tactically dressed man. Closing in on his prey silently, like a crocodile. The yellow glow from the aged colonial cabin brightening at every step.
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2300hrs Wednesday December 19, 2012 Maintenance Shed, Frans & Hoek Winery, Western Australia |
Mackay needed to move Lincoln out of the hearth and over the double stack of casks to safety. But where was that safety? Having Lincoln in his grasp was a new phase he wasn’t prepared for. This was a new development in unknown territory in an unprepared point in time. He couldn’t take him back to a police station as he was surely a wanted man by now. If he knew for certain he would find Lincoln, he would have planned three, four steps ahead, making sure the boy’s protection wasn’t jeopardised. But Mackay could only move one step at a time now. His priority was Lincoln’s safety, and regardless of what steps or course of action came, he could not leave him to scope the rest of the vineyard for further threats. That was not an option. Lincoln was finally reunited with someone of familiarity. He was with family, and after a hard slog of surviving on his own, Mackay could not leave him again. Not for anything. Not for any sums of money, bargaining or compromise. From here on, he would be at his side until his last breath. Till every last drop of energy was drained dry from his system.
‘We need to get you out of here,’ said Mackay. ‘Back over those barrels.’
Lincoln didn’t respond. His weakness was obvious. Days without food and water bodes worse for a child. Mackay took his backpack off, found the water bottle, unscrewed the cap and offered it.
‘Small sips,’ said Mackay. ‘Take it easy.’
Lincoln drank. Three small sips, then a breath, then another three, this time in gulps. The boy was thirsty. He handed the bottle back to Mackay. ‘Enough,’ he said.
‘Okay, let’s move.’ Mackay held Lincoln’s hands and pulled him to a shaky stance, waiting a second or two to let his gait and balance settle. With his hands around his waist, Mackay pushed him up to the second tier of casks, jamming his little feet into the grooves between the barrels for stability.
‘Hold the rim, tight as you can,’ said Mackay, then climbed up next to him. He pulled and twisted Lincoln’s body onto the very top then followed suit.
Halfway there.
Mackay lowered himself down backwards to the concrete floor with Lincoln bear-hugged in his arms. Which, considering the way Lincoln was facing, made for a well-timed coincidence. Lincoln was facing toward the mouth of the shed looking out, Mackay wasn’t. He was facing the barrels. Lincoln immediately noticed a man in jeans and a collared shirt moving into the shed’s yellow glow. He wore a coil of looped rope around one shoulder and a twenty-six-inch shotgun raised and braced against the other.
‘Gun!’ screamed Lincoln.
Mackay didn’t drop quick enough. All he could do was anticipate the shot. Experience and training evaluated the tone of Lincoln’s scream measured against the options in the space of the shed. He had no idea what type of shot he was about to be hit with so the best he could do in the moment was to go defensive. Keep Lincoln safe. Hold ground with his back toward the enemy. Allow the ballistic plate to absorb whatever round was coming.
Mackay shielded Lincoln inside his arms and ducked his head. The first shot hit him square in the back like a wet slap, the spray from the cartridge ripping through the backpack. The force was incredible. Enough to send the two of them flying into the bottom row of barrels as the blast echoed around them. Lincoln screamed out. Mackay recognised the sound: a shotgun shell. Distinct all to its own. Not like a crack from a rifle, more of a boom, amplified inside the confines of the cabin. Coming from a shotgun meant it would take a moment before the next round, or two, were cocked and triggered.
Mackay’s back ached hot immediately but he stayed covered over Lincoln. In the two seconds between hitting the barrels and dropping to the floor he was able to turn and glance at the assailant: a man in jeans and a collared shirt with a coil of rope around his shoulder. And he was reloading. Jacking a round inside a twenty-six-inch barrel ready to go again. That second round came faster than expected.
*
Van Breeman knew what he was doing. He was on his home turf using his own weapons. His first round knocked the tactically dressed man down as expected. There was however, one major issue: he should have had a kill shot. A head shot at the least. Especially considering the mere ten metres he stood from the man at the shed’s entrance. It should have been a given. He had no other excuse for missing his prey, except one. In the milliseconds leading up to squeezing the Lanber’s trigger, he noticed something he was not expecting: a small boy, aged between five or six, held in the man’s arms. The same young child he and his men had been searching for over the last seventy-two hours. The boy had seen his approach – just a glimpse – but it was enough. Allowing the man time to cover up and take the impact of the round in the back. Against a ballistic vest made of Kevlar with a ballistic plate. He couldn’t leave the two of them alive, not now. Another non-negotiable. If planning to use a weapon, use it to its full effect. Neutralise them completely. Especially if said enemy would expose him and interrupt his booming black-market sales. Van Breeman released the second round immediately, bouncing the Lanber’s butt off the ground to engage the recoil, then firing the second pin.
*
The two seconds between the first and second shot allowed Mackay enough time to identify the shooter’s aim and move out of the way. He used the grippy, hardened rubber of his Gore-Tex shoes to press into the floor and thrust himself backwards. Sliding his and Lincoln’s body across the concrete. The second spray hit the oak cask just above Mackay’s knees, splintering the barrel into a cloud of wood chips. A miss. All vital organs still safe and intact. All bones accounted for. Lincoln screamed out again, which was when Mackay released him, scuttled to his feet, took a chance and ran at the shooter.
*
On all accounts, Van Breeman was a resourceful man. He’d been toting guns, riding horses and tying hundreds of ropes and knots since he was a nipper. All drilled and berated into him by his father on the Franshoek estate. He was ready for the intruder. Plan A and B were shells one and two from the shotgun – both expelled. Which meant he was down to plan C, his backup: the coil of rope. Between moving from the stables to the shed, Van Breeman had tied a honda-knot at each end of the rope, essentially forming two lassos. An old cowboy cinch used as a noose for hanging men back in the day. He coiled one end of the rope around his left shoulder and left the other end slack over the horse’s neck.
The tactically dressed man let go of the boy, rose to his feet and began steaming forward. Nicus Van Breeman dropped the Lanber, took the lasso from his shoulder and threw it. All in one slick, well-contrived motion. It took him a single swing to get the momentum going before flicking it long and high toward the rapidly approaching form. The diameter of the lasso was slipped to a length normally sized for a horse, but it also suited the physical movement of a running man perfectly. The loop of the lasso arced, swelled wide and hooked around the man’s torso. Van Breeman zipped it tight immediately.
*
Mackay didn’t see it coming till it was too late. He didn’t even get close. The rope was already in the air before Mackay was on his feet – dropping over his head and shoulders before his first four strides. Before he’d reached any form of acceleration. All Van Breeman needed to do now was drop the rope, step towards Rye concealed behind the wall and give him a hard giddy-up. Across his rump. Which he did.
The thoroughbred bolted, wrenching Mackay into the darkness of the vineyard. Once the horse moved, physics demanded both loop ends of the rope to snap shut, tight as a weld. With the business end at over four hundred kilograms, Mackay had no chance. The beast took him like a featherweight. Like discarded trash ready for the heap. It yanked him off balance, face first onto the concrete floor, ripping the night-vision goggles from his head. Snorting and braying as it dragged him into the night.
The mountain of muscle did what mother nature intended it to do: run. Like it was still on the green of the track. The race machine hit almost forty miles per hour, then maintained it for half a mile, dragging Mackay’s useless body behind it. Through the fields. The tilled earth. The rows of grapevines. Mackay tried but couldn’t grasp the seal knife at his hip to cut the rope. The pounding and scraping of the earth underneath him dislodged any attempt from his hand. All he could do was bounce, twist and spin across the dirt.
Reaching the farthest boundaries of the vineyard’s fence line, the charging beast tired and slowed. Mackay had a window of opportunity to steady his hand, fold some fingers around the knife’s handle and cut the rope. The glow of the moon helped, making the jerking lariat an easier target to slash. The knife was sharp. Well done, Nutty. With one stiff controlled swipe, he was free. The instant release from the pace of the animal threw Mackay into a meticulously aligned row of vines – the knobbly trunks and arms beating his momentum into submission. He slowed to a roll and stopped. All he could do was lay still, reset his breathing and check for injuries. The dizziness was next level, stirring another cloudy cocktail inside his head. He had no idea where he was, and his brain was a thousand miles from anywhere being remotely focused. Dirt and grass caked his lips, teeth and ears, and his face felt pulpy and sore. The bony parts across the sides of his head were pulsating and swelling already. All of which were small scale for the injuries list, and wasn’t too bad, considering.
As his mental clarity slowly returned, his neural pathways gave the all-clear. Nothing twisted, no bleeding, no broken bones. Bruises and lacerations only. Good news. Mackay rolled to his front and took a knee, inhaled a few litres of clean air, exhaled just as much dust. He resheathed the seal pup knife then instinctively went for his weapon holstered at his front. Good soldiering skills: one weapon away, another at the ready. But there was nothing there. Just an empty pouch. The Glock had likely dislodged during his rollercoaster ride with the earth and could literally be anywhere between him and the cabin. An easy three-hundred metre stretch of long, orchard grounds. An area of between seven and eight hundred square metres. He considered it lost for good. One weapon down.
Mackay still had his backpack on, which was lucky considering the amount of earth-beating he’d taken. He dipped a shoulder, removed the pack and patted the back of the vest. The second Glock was still there. He took it out and checked the working mechanisms. The magazine didn’t release and neither did the slide. He double-, then triple-, checked it. It was finished. Rendered useless. Two weapons down. Bad news. The buckshot from the shooter had hit him square in the back where the vital organs live, and the Glock was holstered right in the middle of the rear ballistic plate. The silver lining: the plate did its thing and protected him. Thank you, Andy. He was alive because of it. The metal pellets inside the cartridge had passed through the contents of the backpack, cracking the slide and handle. Likely fragmenting the firing pin, barrel, recoil assembly and magazine tube. Mackay checked over the pack. It was tattered up and full of holes. Basically a strainer now. And it was wet. He emptied the contents and spread it on the ground. The water bottle had cracked through and leaked everywhere. The ration pack was torn apart and crumbled. The burner phone’s screen was shattered, and the number pad had slivers of buckshot embedded into it. As did the altimeter. With both firearms down, his defence capabilities were limited. It wasn’t the end of the world though; he still had the two blades and knuckle dusters. And even though the ration pack was a mess of morsels, it could still be useful, crumbled or not. Food was food, so he stuffed it back inside the pack, zipped it up and threw everything else away in random directions. He took the broken Glock, wiped it down with his sleeve and threw it away as well.
Mackay looked around to gather his bearings and rubbed away the layers of earth encrusted in his face and ears. He found himself on a slight decline at the bottom of a hill. Behind him was the bordering fence extending in an arc around the property. A divide between the vineyard and forest from where he’d entered. The dark mass of woodland silent and still, sinking low into the lay of the land extending no level of welcome whatsoever. Not wanting any part of whatever was about to play out. In front of him, the grapevines lined up in one long parallel row, planted in perfect arrangement all the way up the hill where the horse broke away and dragged him. Where he’d found Lincoln inside the old cabin. The machinery shed. Where he needed to return to immediately.
Mackay propped himself up and kneeled between the rows of vines. Like the head pin at a bowling alley with the grapevines set left and right like gutter guards. Mackay raised his head and looked up the rise. At the top of the hill, a hundred yards away was a silhouette. The outline of a man on a horse with a gun. The same guy who took two buckshots at him only moments ago. Who used a coil of rope as a lariat, lassoing him like a pro. The silvery light of the moon illuminated the image directly overhead, casting a halo effect around the horse and its master. Staged picture perfect for some geographic, farming or equine magazine. The head of the snake in all his glory.
Mackay heard a voice, barely audible from his position at the bottom of the slope. The rider had yelled out. All Mackay could make of it were words to the effect of, ‘Here I come, motherfucker.’ Or maybe it was, ‘Yeehaa, motherfucker.’ Either way, ‘motherfucker’ was the word of choice. If he had in fact yelled ‘yeehaa’, Mackay figured the rider was more crazed cowboy than criminal architect. A real whack-job entrepreneur. Which didn’t make much sense, considering the overall picture he was getting of the guy. Either way, he couldn’t really shout back and ask the rider to repeat what he’d said. That would just be awkward.
Mackay couldn’t match the rider with a shooting weapon anymore, and he had no throwing skills with a blade. His options were to either run back into the forest, leaving Lincoln stranded, or stand and fight. Mackay would rather take a point-blank to the head than go with the first option, so, fuck this guy, Mackay thought. Whoever the man was on the horse, it would be fight first, and figure his name out later. Maybe it was the boss, maybe it was a lackey. Time would soon tell.
Mackay grabbed a fistful of earth. Soil and grass. Trickling the grainy textures between his fingers. It was moist. In the early stages of going dewy in the cooling humidity of the night. Not the best for traction, but good enough for easing slips and falls. Which would be a benefit for his next proposal. His next plan of attack – something completely separate from phases one and two. Or three, if he ever made it back to Cross alive. This was a stand-alone plan. Which would one hundred per cent involve falling hard between the stretches of grapevines. On the rugby field, Mackay often thought about why he enjoyed tackling. When the blood was pumping and the adrenalin was high, it was exhilarating. Drawing out primitive elements of his hunter-gatherer psyche. On occasion he’d been able to put two grown men onto their backs in one hit, such was the power in his legs and core. This, however, was different. This was going to hurt.
A hundred yards of ground lay before him and the rider. Mackay just didn’t know the guy’s name. Didn’t know it was the ringmaster himself. At this point it didn’t matter. He would do what he could – what he had trained his body for. In one sense, this was his only option. In another sense, it was going to be the biggest test of what his new body was now capable of. How much his thermoplastic bone structure could take. The reality of what he was about to do filtered in and out of his mind. Taking on a horse was suicide to any normal man, but in the heat of the moment, those thoughts didn’t bother him. He had confidence. Part of which was fuelled by adrenalin and anger, but considering his body’s recent capabilities, he might just stand a chance. What he was about to do was only achievable if he wasn’t shot in the face, and the rest was best wishes and best of luck. Could he realistically take on a horse? He wasn’t going to overthink it.
Mackay checked his vest and tightened every strap. Abdomen and shoulders. He squatted and grabbed a handful of grass to steady his launch. Hunkering low like a sprinter: chin down, shoulders forward. His core, quads and ankles bracing and quivering as he coiled low into the earth. Mackay raised his head and looked up at the rider. The rider looked back over the horse’s mane. Both man and beast sniffing the night-time air for a sense of what was to come. Two men. A hundred yards between them. No discussions. Better aim for my head, Mackay thought. But you’ll miss, and then I’ll bury you.
The rider went first, kicking his heels into the beast, shotgun held out front like a lance.
Ninety yards between them.
Mackay went second. His anger rising for a three-count before unleashing. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand. His heart drawing in all the hurt within, then storming off the line like a tormented bull.
Seventy yards. You can do this.
Van Breeman yelled out again. ‘You’re a dead man!’
Mackay didn’t hear a thing. The only sound was the rushing wind over his ears and the pumping of his blood.
Forty yards. You can do this.
A shot rang out. The pellets hitting nothing but air. Mackay didn’t slow – the slabs of meat over his legs kept on. The forward propulsion for a mere human being was immense. His lungs inhaled and exhaled while his arms and fists pumped like jackhammers. He hit the same thirty-mile-an-hour mark he’d reached back in Aldershot. This time though, he was moving uphill. It didn’t matter, he was doing just as well. Who knew the potential if it was a decline.
Twenty yards. You can do this.
Mackay eyed the glinting barrel in the moon’s glow. He zigzagged unpredictably. Left, right. Right, right, left, disrupting the shooter’s windage. A second shot rang out. Both shells done. Nothing but an empty stick.
Fifteen yards. You got this.
At this range, Van Breeman had a clear picture of the rapidly approaching man’s face. With most of the face paint scrubbed away, he could make out the basics: white, male, early thirties, sunken eyes, a prominent brow, angry beyond comprehension.
Ten yards. Time to shine.
Mackay figured if he threw himself front and centre at the horse, it would kill him. So, it had to be the leg. Shoulder shot, just above the right knee. A leg can ultimately heal, even if the horse does go lame. He thought one last word, scrum, then timed his strides and aimed low. Mackay leaped into the horse with his entire being like he’d been pronged with an iron rod. Right shoulder into the front leg, colliding just above the beast’s right knee. Execution with precision. All bodies hit the ground.