Foreign Hostage Page 3

  “You’re joking?”

  “You don’t get it, do you Ashcroft? You just don’t get how fucking much this hits Mpenzi and I.”

  Simon watched as the third member of their group nodded with embarrassed agreement. He stared at her but she refused to look at him. Like Orszak, she was hiding something from him.

  Finishing his beer, Orszak said, “It’s like losing a family. You ever lost anyone close to you, Ashcroft?”

  Without thought, Simon touched the Glock 19 tucked into the belt at his back, concealed by his blue linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Instincts told him he would need the weapon tonight.

  “You ever been in love Ashcroft? I mean really, truly, deeply in love, and then had what is most precious to you suddenly taken away?”

  Simon did not understand what Orszak was talking about, but it didn’t seem relevant to their current circumstances. Any respect Simon had towards the man was fading, and as to Isengwe, she seemed no better.

  “This is bullshit, Orszak. The very poachers we are after, are right here, and you want to drink yourself unconscious? Call it in.”

  Isengwe spoke, “We need to wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Orders are clear. NTSCIU wants us to sit tight and observe, tail them if they leave and nothing more. We need to find where they stash their ivory before we move on them. Commandos are already searching the town, looking for it.”

  Simon felt kicked in the guts. “Isengwe, why didn’t you say?”

  She looked at him. “I’ve only just received my orders.”

  He considered again that she might be keeping him in the dark, as a reminder he was not sharing his own intelligence. He looked at Orszak. The American seemed content with his race towards inebriated oblivion. The situation was becoming worse by the minute.

  “Jack, you need to slow down.”

  “I need to do no such thing.”

  Giving up, Simon sat back, nursing his beer without drinking it. He didn’t want to be anywhere near these two, so he watched the crowd instead, scanning for anyone who might watch him, but mostly observing the syndicate poachers. They were a happy, boisterous group celebrating an important occasion. He tried to work out who their leader was, but no one seemed to give orders.

  Isengwe took a call. Her side of the conversation was brief and monosyllabic. After a minute of terse talking, she hung up.

  “Who was that?” Simon asked.

  “The commandos. They thought they had a solid lead, but they still have found nothing.”

  “Then I say we move.”

  Orszak stumbled out of his chair. He was unstable on his feet when he stood.

  “You need to stand down, soldier.”

  “I need to take a piss, that’s what I need to do, bud.”

  Fuming, Simon watched Orsrak stagger through the crowd. In his drunken wanderings, he somehow caught a young European woman as he knocked into her, stopping her from falling, danced with her for a few seconds, then stumbled further into the crowd. Simon didn’t realize what was happening at first, but Orszak had lost his sense of direction, and soon fumbled his way into the congregation of poachers.

  Suddenly the eight men were up on their feet and on the offensive. One pulled his semi-automatic, pressing it against Orszak’s forehead. Nobody in the crowd seemed to notice because they were all were drunk or high, plus the music was loud and the lighting dim. Orszak raised his hand in surrender, made some kind of apology and stumbled away. When he was off and in the bathroom, the poachers returned to their merriment, the incident forgotten. Simon hadn’t realized until then that his hand gripped the handle of his Glock 19 the whole time, ready to use it.

  His stare was dark as he looked to Mpenzi Isengwe. “You need to stand him down.”

  She nodded. “He’s taken this one hard.”

  “Is he normally like this?”

  “No. Normally he is on top of his game.”

  “Stand him down, or I will.”

  “I will,” she said without conviction.

  “He’ll get us killed if you don’t.”

  She looked away.

  He stared at her, willing her to respond, to do something.

  She refused to look at him.

  Fuming, without waiting for an answer, Simon walked away before he lost his cool. He went to the bar and ordered a coke. No more alcohol tonight, and the caffeine-sugar hit would help him focus. He noticed a young blonde nursing a cocktail next to him, checking him out. “Hi” she said with a pretty smile.

  “Hi,” Simon said with a returned grin. He considered how best to brush off her flirtations without offending her. But then again, if he was chatting up this woman, she would provide the perfect cover minimizing his chances of being spotted by the enemy. “You been in Arusha long?” he asked.

  She shook her head as she sipped her cocktail through a straw. Like almost everyone else in the club, she had enjoyed several drinks tonight. “Arrived this morning. Hoping to climb Mount Kilimanjaro tomorrow. Have you done that?”

  He tried to pick her accent. French? Italian? Something Mediterranean for sure. “No. I hope to though.”

  “You have a name?”

  “John.”

  “That accent, you Australian?”

  “Yep, all the way from sunny Perth—”

  A scream erupted over the Afro-beats, high pitched and long, then another, and another until several women were wailing with fear.

  The young blonde forgotten, Simon looked towards the noise. One poacher was stumbling, gasping with shallow breaths. Blood gushed from his mouth. His men tried to hold him upright, but he was a goner. Holding his hand to a wound in his gut, Simon guessed someone had stabbed him with a knife.

  Blam! A gunshot fired.

  The crowd dispersed chaotically, screaming with fear. The girl beside Simon disappeared, and he was glad to have her out of his way. He drew his Glock, holding the pistol out in front as he advanced towards the poachers. The strobing lights and near darkness made it difficult to see anything through the panicking crowds.

  Blam! Blam! Two more shots and more of the poachers were falling. Someone was taking them out, one at a time.

  In the semi-darkness, amidst the fleeing, screaming crowd, he spotted one poacher being dragged outside by the killer, a pistol pressed up against his head. Simon couldn’t make out the face of the man because it was too dark, but he knew who he was looking at. This had to be the vigilante assassin everyone else believed was a myth.

  Without waiting for Isengwe or Orszak, he gave chase.

  CHAPTER 4

  Outside, Simon scanned the busy, late-night streets, crowded with pedestrians in bright clothing. Sedans and off-road vehicles pushed through the congested traffic. Maasai in their red robe shukas congregated in groups. Construction workers mixed concrete to fix broken pavers, despite the late hour. Street vendors fried food and hawked their offerings. Evangelists preached the righteousness of their Christian god. Simon looked past these distractions until his eyes fell upon the silhouetted man a hundred meters down and on the opposite side of the road. He watched, powerless as the assassin’s fist clobbered the back of the poacher’s head, then dropped him like a sack of yams into the back seat of a four-wheel drive.

  Simon sprinted towards the killer. Gun in hand, he lined up the target then hesitated — there was no doubt he would hit a civilian if he shot from this distance. Dodging and weaving around both people and cars, Simon slowed as the car pulled away, knowing he wouldn’t be fast enough for a safe shot. His foe vanished. Simon cursed as he realized he was too far to even read the license plate.

  As the four-wheel drive disappeared, Simon had a thought. He checked his cell phone app. One phone was back at the Mango Express but the other was moving fast, away from his current position.

  He called Isengwe. She answered after five long rings.

  “Where are you?” There was unexpected concern in her tone.

  “Outside, tracking the assass
in.”

  “You identified him?”

  “Not yet, too dark to see. I need a car, ASAP.”

  “Sorry, no can do. We’re locking down the bar until the police can investigate.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I don’t make these decisions.”

  “Right. Of course you don’t.”

  “You better get back here—”

  In no mood to argue, Simon ended the call and raced for the nearest parked motorcycle. It had a small 250cc engine, like most bikes in developing nations, but it suited his purpose. Hot-wiring the engine, he started the bike and sped after the four-wheel drive. He didn’t need to keep it in visual range, the app would do that for him.

  Simon’s route took him through one of the more affluent parts of town, then into the outlying slums found in every African city, where the roads became dirt, litter replaced pavements, and cement and wrought iron sheet buildings held together more by gravity than anything else. Thirty minutes later he passed into a better, but still rundown, neighborhood. Three meter high, stone and cement fences, with broken bottles embedded on their tops protected the houses from thieves. He spotted the four-wheel drive, parked outside one of the fortified houses.

  Simon stopped a short distance up the street. A group of young men approached, pounding fists into their hands, but moved away when Simon showed them his pistol. As soon as they were out of sight, Simon approached the house.

  A quick reconnaissance identified two doors, both of sturdy ebony wood at the front and back, and both locked. He could have forced one open, but his shoulders would have taken a battering and his efforts would have been noisy, no doubt alerting the assassin.

  Another quick search found that the fences between this house and the next had a gap wide enough to allow a man to slip between then. Simon used the torch on his satellite phone to illuminate the space. The fences didn’t go all the way. He found another gap, leading into the backyard of the house with the assassin.

  Pushing himself through, he shuffled inwards, certain that he would become wedged in if he wasn’t careful, but determined to shove through, anyway. Dust filled the air as he rubbed against the walls, tickling his nostrils, almost forcing a sneeze. Simon kept his cool, breathed in and pushed again, stumbling into the dusty, dry back yard. Startled chickens, disturbed by the comings and goings of people in the night, were up and about, pecking at the dust.

  Simon heard a door opening and ducked behind a large pile of broken wood, bricks and rubbish. The poacher appeared, an ivory tusk in his hand. He ran to the door in the fence, unlatched it, then took off into the street. Simon was about to give chase when he heard movement inside the house. The fleeing man was too short to have been the assassin he had glimpsed. The killer must still be nearby.

  He shuffled forward. With his back was against the wall, he edged up to a window and snuck a look inside.

  The interior was more shadow than anything else, but what he saw was very unsettling. The shadowy figure from the Mango Express, nearly invisible in the dark, splashed liquid from a metal can, spreading its contents throughout the house. Ivory stacked up against one wall. Two human bodies — alive or dead, he couldn’t tell — lay on the floor next to the collection. Simon smelled kerosene.

  The window shattered as Simon registered the sound of a gunshot.

  He ducked backwards, shielding his face with his forearms as glass fragments splintered around him and cutting in many places. No wounds were significant.

  More gunshots, two, then two more. The assassin was laying cover fire, keeping Simon pinned down.

  Without looking and keeping his head covered, Simon lifted his Glock 19 through the window and fired back, hoping to startle his foe rather than to hit him.

  There was a loud whooshing noise and everything illuminated in yellow, as bright as daylight.

  Simon moved back from the house, watching as the flames grew brighter.

  Knowing that the foe was escaping out the front, Simon raced around the house, checking all corners as he progressed. A second door was swinging back and forth like a pendulum, each swing less than the previous. He could see a different four-wheel drive disappearing into the night. Again, he’d missed the license plate.

  Simon sprinted down the street, firing his Glock three times at the escaping vehicle. He wasn’t sure if he hit it, but he knew it was getting away. Within seconds it had found a corner and vanished.

  Swearing, Simon went for his satellite phone. The unregistered phone he had tracked to this location was inside the fire-consumed house.

  He turned, the heat of the flames strong against his back. As the inferno grew, the phone signal cut out. There was no chance of saving any evidence or intel inside.

  He dialed Isengwe. This time she answered straight away.

  “Ashcroft, where are you?”

  He gave her the address. “Won’t be hard to find. The place is lit up like pagan effigy. About a hundred kilos of ivory going up with it, and at least two bodies.”

  “Poachers?”

  “I would presume so.”

  “Same here at the Mango Express. Six dead, all Mutunga’s men, or so the two survivors claim.”

  “So, the business card paid off?”

  “Yeah, but did you see the guy bleeding from the mouth?”

  “Knife wound?” he asked.

  “Yes. Probably was Mutunga. DNA test should confirm so in the morning.”

  Simon clenched his jaw. A lot of bad people had died tonight. He wondered if any of the survivors would be of sufficient rank to provide him with the next link in the syndicate’s smuggling routes. He doubted it.

  Simon remembered the poacher disappearing into the night with the single ivory horn in hand. But he couldn’t understand why, as proficient an assassin as the man had proven himself to be, why had he released a single poacher? Was it to pass on a message to others in the organization that they were being hunted? But if that was the case, why give him a tusk?

  “Simon? You still there?”

  Her words jolted him back to the conversation. “You did good work there, Isengwe.”

  “No, I didn’t. It shouldn’t have been a bloodbath.”

  Simon paused, trying to assemble everything he had witnessed tonight into some kind of logical pattern, but he failed.

  “Isengwe?”

  “What, Ashcroft?”

  “Do you believe me now, about the vigilante killing your poachers? To know what he knew tonight, he must have a contact on the inside.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Early the next morning Simon arrived at the local headquarters of the National and Transnational Serious Crimes Investigation Unit. NTSCIU officers gathered in the briefing room, both uniformed and plain clothed. Orszak sat in a corner nursing a hangover. His headache softened by a black coffee and shielded with a pair of dark sunglasses. Mpenzi Isengwe stood near the front of the group, deep in a hushed discussion with her boss. He was the superior of all those assembled in the room, Head of NTSCIU Intelligence, Christian Kiwango.

  Before the morning’s briefing began, Simon approached Orszak. “Where the hell were you last night?”

  He looked up over his sunglasses at Simon, then smiled. “Getting laid, bud. Fucking honey she was.”

  Simon felt compelled to punch the American in the face, but held himself in check. “You’re a disgrace.”

  “Too right I am. Three times we fucked each other. And you didn’t think I had it in me.”

  Kiwango called the meeting. “Right, gather round people!”

  Everyone grabbed a chair or found a section of wall to lean against. Simon sat next to Orszak because there was nowhere else. Isengwe was at the front, looking at her boss with admiration.

  Kiwango cleared his throat. He was in his fifties. Grey peppered his dark hair and his shirt was too tight around his barrel-chest. “I’m not sure if I should congratulate you or giving you all a serving. Six poachers including the infamous Mutunga are dead, plus one of Mutunga�
��s safe houses with over a hundred kilos of ivory went up in smoke last night, leaving five corpses. Luckily,” he stressed the word, “there were no civilian casualties or injuries at either location. I’d like to think professionalism on your behalf was the reason, but I’m leaning towards this being nothing more than pure, dumb luck.”

  Simon sensed frustration, anger and a little fear permeating the room. The same feelings gripping him. He’d come to Africa for insight into Abu Sayyaf smuggling routes, but after four weeks of hard work, he was getting nothing. He wondered if his visit was a waste of time.

  “Luckily,” Kiwango stressed the word again, “we got one lead out of the night, thanks to Sergeant Orszak. He alone salvaged what would have otherwise been a complete train wreck of an investigation.”

  Simon looked to Orszak, who was grinning ear from ear. He whispered, “She talked in her sleep, bud… when we slept.”

  Simon fumed. Orszak had to be a full-blown alcoholic, able to operate semi-efficiently even when fully-tanked. How else could he have drunk himself into a stupor and still gathered actionable intelligence?

  “Orszak learned that two vehicles with more of Mutunga’s syndicate are heading east this morning. Their destination is Tsavo West National Park in Kenya. Four men per vehicle, armed with AKs and high-powered hunting rifles. One team might have an RPG,” he said referring to the abbreviation for rocket-propelled grenade launcher. “Suspected IDs on some perps and descriptions of their vehicles are with your briefing notes. We’ve issued APBs but don’t hold out waiting for them to turn up anything. This is an opportunity for us, so don’t fuck it up. It’s rare we can get to the poachers before they kill, so let’s make the most of it before they cross the border. We’ve directed custom officers to hold them, but we know money talks. Customs might let them through on an ‘administration error.’ Five minutes, then we move out. Team splits same as normal. Questions? No? Then, get to it.”

  The teams dispersed and went about prepping for the assignment ahead. Being on temporary loan to the NTSCIU, Simon didn’t know what the usual splits were. He approached Kiwango to ask.