Fire Force(88)

Both men remained still.

‘There’s no time,’ yelled Ian.

There has to be time, thought Steve. If those soldiers get hold of a boat, then we’re done for. They’ll chase us across the lake.

Behind him, the Land Rover was screeching up towards the jetty.

Steve took aim.

Squeezing hard on the trigger, he pumped the few remaining rounds of ammo into the engine of one of the boats. It took six shots before the engine caught fire, sending a sudden shaft of flame shooting upwards, and a cloud of black smoke into the air.

‘You fucking bastard,’ shouted the fisherman, lunging towards Steve.

Steve put one bullet into the jetty next to the man’s feet. It was enough to stop him dead in his tracks. Suddenly, he heard a burst of gunfire behind him. The Land Rover had screeched to a halt. Two soldiers were leaning out of its side, putting down round after round of fire from their AK-47s.

With no time to waste, he ripped the one remaining grenade from his chest, pulled the pin and dropped it into the second vessel. No sooner had he released it from his hand than Steve lunged into the boat. Ian had already gripped the motor, and kicked off into the water. The sound of gunfire echoed all around them.

Behind them the grenade detonated. Splinters of wood shrieked across the lake. A ball of fire ripped into the air, and whether either of the fishermen had survived, it was impossible to tell. Through a wall of flame, the soldiers were setting up a volley of fire but could see nothing clearly through the clouds of smoke.

Ducking down to the bottom of the boat, Steve let the spray wash over him. Ian had put the engine on full throttle, squeezing every last ounce of power out of its four-horsepower engine. The boat was picking up speed as it steered through the choppy waters and towards the Tukan border.

Less than a mile, Steve thought to himself. And then at least we’ll be out of this sodding country. And we can start plotting our strike back.





‘Move it towards the damned truck,’ Wallace bellowed.

Ollie remained motionless, still dazed by the suddenness and violence of the attack. He’d already figured that Newton must have been betraying them from the start. But Archie Sharratt as well? It hardly seemed possible.

‘I said move!’

The soldier jabbed the butt of the AK-47 hard into his back. It was like having a baseball bat smashed into your spine. Reluctantly, Ollie started to walk forwards. A Hyundai Cargo Truck had pulled up at the exit to the fort. One by one the men were being pushed inside. The surface was made from flat boards, and there was building debris clinging to its surface.

‘What’s happening?’ asked Ollie, turning around to look back at Wallace.

‘We’re going to put you on trial for plotting to assassinate our President,’ said Wallace.

He laughed to himself, and relit the stub of the cigar in his mouth.

‘And then we’re going to bloody execute you.’





Thirty-One

THE JETTY LOOMED UP OUT of the pouring rain.

Steve stood on the prow of the small boat, waiting until he was close enough to reach out and grab the wooden pier. It had been a tough journey. The wind was blowing hard across the lake, and the rain had kicked in when they were just a few hundred yards away from the Batotean shore. At times, it was so heavy, you could only see a few feet ahead of you. Nick and Ian were bailing water out of the boat, whilst the fisherman, Kingston, steered, and Steve used his compass to keep them heading due north towards the Tukan shoreline.

At least the rain means we’re invisible, Steve had consoled himself as he felt the storm lashing into his clothes. Even if they had a boat, Wallace’s men would never find them in weather this rough.

‘Where are we?’ said Ian, climbing onto the jetty.

‘Place called Siavonga,’ answered Kingston, using a rope to secure the boat.

Steve glanced down the main street. It was a dusty little place, with fifty or so houses, and three or four shops. There were some fishing boats, and a pair of pleasure cruisers that took tourists out on runs into the lake, but this was the rainy season and even the Germans and the Dutch didn’t go on safari then. Only a couple of fishermen were on the dock, repairing their rods and lines, and one taxi driver was standing next to a battered old Toyota waiting for any trade that might be passing.

‘How much do we owe you?’ asked Steve, looking back towards Kingston.

‘Three thousand dollars.’

‘I thought—’ Steve started to protest, but Kingston was ready with his reply. ‘I’ve risked my life for you, man,’ he said. ‘I can’t go back to Batota now. I’ll have the army on my back, and if they find me, they’ll kill me. I don’t care about that. The whole country is going to hell anyway. The fish in the lake are the only things that are worth anything, and that’s not much. But if I’m going to start again, it will take money. And you owe me.’