Ivory Nation, Andy Maslen [e manga reader .txt] 📗

truth? We don’t want a bunch of English bastards muscling in on a very profitable business. Especially not if they’re triad muscle. They’ll take over, then they’ll either kill us or turn us into hired help. Is that your vision? Because it isn’t mine. I say call Duckie right now and have him put a bullet in the Englishman’s head.’

Witaarde, who’d just lifted the mug to his lips, put it down again. He felt the calmness descending on him. The stillness at his centre where he found the motivation to torture, maim and kill his enemies.

His vision clouded.

He was staring down at a kaffir sprawled before him on the barn’s dirt floor. He felt no pity despite the man’s horrific facial injuries.

A jagged cut above his right eye was bleeding freely, giving him a red contact lens. His nose had been mashed sideways by a fist or boot forcing him to breathe heavily through his mouth.

Every time he gasped for breath his bloody gums moved against each other.

‘One last time, kaffir, who are you working for? The cops? State Security Agency?’

‘I told you,’ the man mumbled through broken teeth, ‘I’m a wildlife photographer.’

Witaarde drew his right foot back and kicked the man in the solar plexus. He groaned and curled into a foetal position as he struggled for breath.

‘Listen to me, kaffir!’ Witaarde shouted, spraying spittle onto the prostrate figure. ‘The only wildlife round here are our guard dogs. You were caught spying. Now, tell me who for and maybe I’ll let you go.’

Wheezing, the man looked up at Witaarde. And in that moment, as he registered the hatred in his eyes, Witaarde realised he would never get him to talk.

‘You think you’re going to set up a white homeland, Witaarde? Not. Going. To. Happen.’ He heaved in a breath. ‘Fuck you!’

Witaarde shook his head.

‘No, kaffir.’ He pulled his pistol from the polished leather holster on his belt. ‘Fuck you!’

He fired twice, directly at the man’s face, blowing the back of his skull away in a spray of blood, brain and bone.

‘Julius?’

The vision dissipated. He looked across the table at Klara.

‘What?’ he snapped.

‘We were talking about what to do with the Englishman.’

‘We don’t kill him. Not yet. If his story checks out, then we could have some very useful support. Think about it, Klara. You know the Botswanans are putting more behind the anti-poaching drive. It’s just as bad in Congo-Brazzaville. These boys are ex-army. British Army. They’re tough. Combat-hardened. The triad connection could work in our favour. They must have better distribution. We cut out Yusuf and the guys in Vientiane and deal direct with the Chinese.’

She shook her head.

‘No. I still say the risks are too high. We should kill him.’

He curled his fingers around the coffee mug. It was still half-full. Hot to the touch. He hurled it in her face. She screamed, leaped from her chair and ran to the sink, reaching blindly for the taps and splashing cold water on her cheeks.

‘Don’t say no to me again,’ he said in a quiet voice, before turning and leaving the room. ‘He lives.’

He left the house and climbed into his truck. The engine caught on the first twist of the key and he roared away, spattering the side of the house with grit from the spinning tyres.

He called Duckie, keeping one hand on the wheel and scanning the town for signs of the Englishman.

‘Yes, Julius.’

‘Where is he?’

‘West of town. Big Lake. He’s doing some kind of weird exercises.’

‘OK. Leave him. I’m driving out.’

‘Yes, Julius.’

Witaarde reached the lake in ten minutes. He pulled up behind a thick stand of trees and stepped down onto the earth. The red earth it was his intention, his dream, to turn white.

When he reached the lake, the Englishman was standing at the water’s edge, facing across the narrow expanse towards the national park on the far side. His arms were raised above his head, palms pressed together, and, as Witaarde watched, he lifted one foot from the ground and placed the sole against his other thigh.

Witaarde folded his arms and watched, amazed, as the Englishman held the pose for four minutes. As slowly as a chameleon stalking a moth, he crept closer. The Englishman was chanting. Nonsense words.

He came to within twenty feet of him. The Englishman’s eyes were closed, face upturned. How easy it would be to put a 9mm round in the back of his skull and leave him here, just like Klara wanted.

‘Hello, Julius.’

Witaarde started.

‘How the fuck did you do that? I was silent. I’ve been hunting out here since I was nine years old. My pappa taught me.’

‘You might want to leave off the aftershave next time, then. You’re upwind of me. I smelled you coming.’

The Englishman opened his eyes, lowered his right leg and turned round to face Witaarde.

‘How many men?’ Witaarde asked.

‘Thirty, including me.’

‘You think they’re up to it?’

‘British Army, best in the world.’

‘What unit?’

‘Mainly Royal Marines, a few SAS and the rest are Parachute Regiment.’

Witaarde felt a surge of triumph, finally back on top as far as this smooth-talking Englishman was concerned.

‘You might want to check how tough your boys really are, Gabriel,’ he said with a smirk. ‘We had a few Paras up here not so long ago training those fucking kaffirs in Bots. Guess what?’

‘What?’

‘They’re not here any more.’

‘No? Did they go back to the UK?’

The Englishman’s face was impassive. Witaarde had never been good at reading people. Now he wished he had Klara by his side.

‘Nah, man. They went to the big fucking game park in the sky, courtesy of me and my boys. We ambushed them. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. One of them was a kaffir himself, so he’s gone to the black heaven. Or better yet, they’re all down in Hell.’

He saw the Englishman’s lips tighten a fraction. Not so fucking cocky now, are you?

‘It was their time,’ the Englishman said, finally. ‘But remember, my boys would be fighting on your side. As long as the