Dictator

18

Four men had been picked to go with Killaman, but twice as many clung on to the Hilux as it set off after the VW van. Many of those who had been left behind then dashed off to their homes to pick up weapons of their own. After a lifetime of conflict, almost all had some form of military experience, either for government or rebel forces, or even both. Many had kept hold of old weapons. They grabbed whatever they could find then started running after the departing vehicles. They didn’t care that the cars had left them far behind. They could run for hours if the need arose. And the tens of thousands of dollars at stake provided all the incentive they required.

Most of the men carried regular knives and guns. One, though, had a long thin tube on his shoulder. At the rear end it flared like the mouth of a trumpet. At the front the tube appeared to swell, before tapering to a point. This was the unmistakable silhouette of an RPG-7 grenade-launcher, a weapon beloved by terrorists, guerrillas and freedom fighters the world over for its ability to take out small buildings, armoured vehicles and even helicopters. It was, by some distance, the most precious single item in the entire village.

As Killaman’s forces converged on Carver, Justus and the girl, a Bell JetRanger was skimming over the hills to the west of the Zambezi.

‘For fuck’s sake, man, can’t you make this heap fly any faster?’ Morrison was shouting at the pilot.

‘Forget it, Flattie, I’m maxing it already,’ he replied. ‘And if you keep yelling in my ear, putting me off my stroke, I will make a mistake and hit a tree or a fucking power line. And then we will all be dead. But I tell you what, boet, it will be worth it just to get a little peace. Ek se, you are one loud item.’