The Watchman

Twenty-Eight

I checked the AK was ready to go and placed the Vektor within easy reach, the safety off. I made sure I had the spare magazines lined up and free of dust and sand. I had a good field of fire and the advantage of higher ground. It wasn’t much, but you work with what you’ve got.

If the Somalis had seen something suspicious, and came up the hill to find out what it was, I’d have to put most or all of them down before they got here. If I let them get behind me or to the flanks, I’d be dead meat.

The problem was if they all began blasting away. A few isolated shots would be ignored as shooting practice or high spirits. But any higher than normal volume of fire would quickly attract attention from the town. Give it ten minutes and I’d have more trouble than I could deal with.

My mouth was dry with tension. I took a sip of water and waited for the men to move.

A shot whipped over my head, the crack following a split second later. I hadn’t seen the shooter throw the rifle to his shoulder, so I was guessing it was a show-off round. The slug hit a rock somewhere behind me and howled off into space. I ducked instinctively, wondering how they had spotted me, and got ready to lay down a few bodies. Spaced as they were, with no direct cover, it would be a turkey-shoot.

Then I heard jeers and laughter. What the hell …?

Another shot went by, clipping the twigs above my head. This time there was a clang and I saw the shadow of a rusted tin can leap into the air and bounce away. Cheers this time, and lots of shouting. But no movement towards me.

Bastards. They hadn’t seen me after all — they were using the trash around me for target practice.

I risked a quick look. One of the figures was walking up the slope. He was carrying a large plastic bottle with a bright red label, being urged on loudly by his friends all throwing hand signals telling him where to place the bottle.

I got ready. He was heading straight for my position. If he spotted me, he’d be the first one down. Then his friends would follow.

But it would mean the end of the mission.

I watched as the newcomer struggled over the rough ground, his sandals slipping on the shale, all the time grumbling and muttering back at the other men. One of them picked up a stone and threw it, hitting him on the back, and the others laughed.

He was young — about sixteen at a guess — and wearing a thin T-shirt and skirt. He wasn’t armed, and I figured he was a general gofer used for menial tasks such as this.

Gofer or not, he had eyes and a mouth and would shout if he saw me. He got to within ten paces of my hide and hesitated. He was looking for a spot to place the bottle, which I could see was half full of water.

Then his eyes flickered past me, ran on for a moment, and settled right back on me.

I breathed easily and centred the sights of the AK on his chest. I was applying the first pressure on the trigger, ready to knock him over, when an ear-splitting roar blasted out of nowhere. Next second the ugly shape of a flying box van passed at about three hundred feet right over our heads, a tremor going through the air and the ground around me.

The kid gave a shrill cry of alarm and dropped the bottle, covering his head with one arm. If he was anywhere near normal, he was probably pissing himself.

The men at the bottom of the slope were staring up in confusion, the shooting practice forgotten. Then they started shouting at the kid, urging him to get back down, and began running towards the house.

The kid didn’t waste any time. He galloped down the slope like a gazelle and within seconds they were all out of sight.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

It meant one thing: somebody important had arrived.