Death is prescribed the day you are born. It is the first and only certainty.
Of it he had learned much. Random in its dispensation, mortally cruel in method, it was, in his experience, by turns callously just and brutally unfair. It came to him in nightmares, sometimes as drowning, but more often by instruments blunt and bladed, a mindless butchering that left him gasping. And in each cold aftermath, he would contemplate his own end, by whose hand it might be accomplished, and why, after so many years and opportunities, it had not yet come.
The sounds and smells of the fight came to him now, more as vague impressions than any specific punctuation: the buzz of the rapid-fire Uzi and the industrial crack of the last AK shifting on the cordite breeze, and then, suddenly, the clean metallic tang of blood.
Time slowed, then stalled.
Cadence and interval stretched.
Time measured now in the spaces between detonations, those frozen eternities.
He thought of Rania, alone and frightened, far away. Of Grace and little Joseph, rotting on the seabed. He closed his eyes. Other faces came to him, moments that filled time to bursting: His best friend, Eben, striding towards the C-130, his face lit red by the flares, determined to do what was right; Abdulkader at the wheel of the Landcruiser, hurtling through the Masila night towards the Omani border; Vivian dying in his arms as he fled to Mozambique. He stifled a groan, let it all echo through the empty space inside him.
He opened his eyes. He had to try.
Manheim was only three long steps away, his Uzi levelled at Clay’s chest. It would come at any time. He was surprised Manheim hadn’t done it already.
Manheim checked the Uzi. ‘Before I kill you,’ he said, ‘tell me something.’
Clay opened his arms. His G21 was in his front jacket pocket, loaded, ready to fire. ‘I’m just the bait, remember?’ Keep him talking.
Manheim twisted his mouth into what might have been a smile. ‘Maybe, Straker. But you were a traitor then, and you’re still one now.’
Crowbar’s handgun cracked again in the distance, followed by the clatter of an Uzi.
Manheim’s eyes widened. ‘Crowbar,’ he said. ‘Did he tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘About why…’ Manheim paused, seemed to reconsider whatever it was he was going to ask.
‘He’s down there,’ said Clay. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’
But before Manheim could answer, a loud explosion ripped the air – one of Crowbar’s grenades. Manheim’s eyes snapped towards the sound.
It was the moment Clay had been waiting for. He charged.
He’d closed most of the distance separating them, had rotated his torso to make himself a smaller target and had just begun to parry the Uzi aside with his forearm, when Manheim fired.
Something slammed into Clay’s side. It felt as if he’d been hit with a bat. The force of the blow wrenched him around so that his forward momentum sent the point of his shoulder smashing into Manheim’s groin. The Uzi spun away as Clay wrapped his arms around Manheim’s legs and drove him to the ground. They landed hard, Clay on top. Manheim twisted, pushed a knee into Clay’s ribs and exploded back, kicking out with his other foot. Manheim’s boot caught Clay in the chest, sent him reeling back, blinded by pain.
Then Manheim was up, scrambling across the sand towards the Uzi. He’d reached the weapon and had dropped to all fours, was about to swing himself around for a shot when Clay reached into his pocket, pulled out the Glock and fired. The .45 calibre bullet hit Manheim in the side of the face. He toppled back and slid headfirst down the slope.
The sound of the battle raged in the distance. Clay looked down at his right side. His jacket was torn, high up, under his arm. Blood oozed from the frayed opening. He steadied himself, crawled back to where the Galil lay, dropped to the prone position, scoped the ramp.
Crowbar was pinned down behind the taxi. The white man was behind the Ford, sending short bursts from his Uzi over the hood as he hunched behind the front wheel. The black guy was trying to flank Crowbar, work his way around the Hilux to Crowbar’s left. Clay shuddered the cross hairs onto the white man’s back, high up, on the spine. His hand was shaking from the adrenaline, from the pain exploding in his side. He took a deep breath, let it go, squeezed the trigger. That familiar bark, so much like the R4 he’d carried for over a year through Angola, and then the little puff to the man’s right as the bullet snapped into the car’s door. He watched the man flinch, hunch lower. Clay adjusted right, fired again. The round clipped the man’s shoulder, pitched him over. The man scrambled in the dirt, looked behind him, realising now what was happening. He was bringing his weapon around when Clay fired again. This time the 5.56 mm high-velocity bullet hit him in the sternum, blew apart his chest. He slumped to the ground. Clay scanned right. The black man had heard the shots being fired from behind and rolled away under the Hilux.
Clay switched the selector to B, sent a three-round burst into the Hilux. Crowbar was up now, limping towards the truck. His left arm was clutched around his midriff. Clay sent another burst into the Hilux. The guy underneath would be pissing himself. Crowbar was closing in. Clay flicked to auto, put out a burst of ten rounds, shredding the Hilux. The guy underneath, if he wasn’t already hit, wouldn’t be paying any attention to Crowbar. Crowbar was close now, alongside the taxi. Clay watched him kneel, go prone, take aim. Clay emptied the rest of the magazine into the vehicle as Crowbar fired. It was over.