Black Order (9 page)

“Ukufa…,”
Khamisi mumbled.

“Did you say something?” Dr. Fairfield asked. She was still bent down by the dead calf.

It was the Zulu name for the monster, one that was whispered around campfires and kraal huts.

Ukufa.

Death.

He knew why such a beast came to mind now. Five months ago, an old tribesman claimed to have seen an
ukufa
near here.
Half beast, half ghost, with eyes of fire,
the old man had railed with dead certainty. Only those as old as the leathery elder took heed. The others, like Khamisi, pretended to humor the tribesman.

But here in the dark shadows…

“We should go,” Khamisi said.

“But we don’t know what killed her.”

“Not poachers.” That’s all Khamisi needed or wanted to know. He waved his rifle toward the Jeep. He would radio the head warden, get the matter signed off and settled. Predator kill. No poaching. They’d leave the carcass to the carrion. The cycle of life.

Dr. Fairfield reluctantly rose.

Off to the right, a drawn-out call split through the shadowy jungle—
hoo eeee OOOO
—punctuated by a high-pitched feral scream.

Khamisi trembled where he stood. He recognized the cry, not so much with his head as with his bone marrow. It echoed back to midnight campfires, to stories of terror and bloodshed, and even further back, to something primeval, to a time before speech, where life was instinct.

Ukufa.

Death.

As the scream faded away, silence again fell heavily over them.

Khamisi mentally measured the distance between them and the Jeep. They needed to retreat, but not in a panic. A fearful flight would only whet a predator’s bloodlust.

Out in the jungle, another scream growled.

Then another.

And another.

All from different directions.

In the sudden quiet afterward, Khamisi knew they had only one chance. “Run.”

9:31
A.M
.
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

Gray lay on his belly across the roof tiles, head down, sprawled where he’d missed grabbing Fiona. The image of her tumbling over the smoky edge of the roof seared into his mind’s eye. His heart thudded in his chest.

Oh, God…what’ve I done…?

Over his shoulder, a fresh spat of flames burst out the attic dormer, accompanied by a growled rush of heat and smoke. Despite his distress, he had to move.

Gray willed himself up onto his elbows, then hands, pushing up.

To the side, the fire took a momentary breath, falling back. In the lull, he heard voices below, urgent, furtive. Also closer to him…. a low moan. Just beyond the roofline.

Fiona…?

Gray dropped back to his belly and scooted in a controlled slide to the roof’s edge. Smoke choked up from the shattered windows directly below. He used the pall to cloak his approach.

Reaching the guttered edge, he glanced down.

Directly under him stretched a wrought-iron balcony…no,
not
a balcony. It was a landing to a staircase. The exterior stairs that Fiona had mentioned.

Sprawled across the landing was the girl.

With a second groggy groan, Fiona rolled over and began to haul herself up, using the railing posts.

Others noted her movement.

Out in the courtyard below, Gray spotted two figures. One stood in the middle of the flagstones, a rifle raised to his shoulder, searching for a clear shot. Black smoke belched out the broken apartment door window, obscuring Fiona from view. The sniper waited for the girl to get her head above the landing’s railing.

“Stay down,” he hissed at Fiona.

She glanced up. Bright blood dribbled across her brow.

The second gunman circled, a black pistol clutched double-fisted. He aimed for the stairs, intent to block any escape.

Gray motioned Fiona to remain crouched, then rolled along the roofline until he was above the second gunman. The churning smoke continued to keep him hidden. Most of the assassins’ attention remained focused on the stairs. Once in position, Gray waited. He clutched a heavy roof tile in his right hand, one of the stone tiles Fiona had loosened during her tumble.

He would have only one shot.

Below, the man held his pistol at the ready and placed one foot on the lowermost stair.

Gray leaned over the edge, arm raised.

He whistled sharply.

The gunman glanced up, swiveling his weapon and dropping to a knee. Damned fast…

But gravity was faster.

Gray chucked the tile. It spun through the air like an ax and struck the gunman in his upraised face. Blood spurted from the man’s nose. He fell back hard. His head hit the flagstones, bounced, then didn’t move.

Gray rolled again—back toward Fiona.

A shout rose from the rifleman.

Gray kept his gaze fixed on him. He had hoped downing the man’s partner would chase the other off. No such luck. The rifleman fled to the opposite side, finding shelter near a trash bin but leaving him a clear shot still. His sniping position was close to the burning rear of the shop, taking advantage of the smoke billowing out a neighboring window.

Gray reached Fiona again. He waved her to stay low. It would be their deaths to attempt to haul Fiona up. Both would be exposed too long.

That left only one choice.

Gripping the gutter with one hand, Gray lunged and swung down. He dropped to the landing with a ring of steel, then ducked low.

A brick above his head shattered.

Rifle shot.

Gray reached to his ankle sheath and pulled his dagger free.

Fiona eyed it. “What are we—?”

“
You
are going to stay here,” he ordered.

Gray reached a hand to the railing above. All he had was the element of surprise. No body armor, no weapon except his dagger.

“Run when I tell you,” he said. “Straight down the stairs and over your neighbor’s fence. Find the first policeman or firefighter. Can you do that?”

Fiona met his eyes. It looked as if she were about to argue, but her lips tightened and she nodded.

Good girl.

Gray balanced the dagger in his hand. One chance again. Taking a deep breath, Gray leaped up, pinioned off the railing, and vaulted over it. As he fell toward the flagstones, he did two things at the same time.

“Run!” he hollered and tossed the dagger toward the sniper’s hiding place. He didn’t hope for a kill, just a distraction long enough to close quarters with the man. A rifle was ungainly in tight situations.

As he landed, he noted two things.

One good, one bad.

He heard Fiona’s ringing footsteps down the metal staircase.

She was fleeing.

Good.

At the same time, Gray watched his dagger wing through the smoky air, bang the trash bin, and bounce off. His toss hadn’t even been close.

That was bad.

The sniper rose from his spot unfazed, rifle ready, aimed straight at Gray’s chest.

“No!” Fiona screamed as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

The rifleman didn’t even smile as he pulled the trigger.

11:05
A.M
.
HLUHLUWE-UMFOLOZI GAME PRESERVE
ZULULAND, SOUTH AFRICA

“Run!” Khamisi repeated.

Dr. Fairfield needed no further prodding. They fled in the direction of their waiting Jeep. Reaching the watering hole, Khamisi waved Dr. Fairfield ahead of him. She shouldered through the tall reeds—but not before silently meeting his gaze. Horror shone in her eyes, mirroring his own.

Whatever creatures had screamed in the forest had sounded large, massive, and whetted from the recent kill. Khamisi glanced back at the rhino’s macerated carcass. Monsters or not, he needed no other information about what might be hidden in the maze of heavy forest, trickling streams, and shadowed gullies.

Twisting back around, Khamisi followed the biologist. He checked over his shoulder frequently, ears straining for any sound of pursuit. Something splashed into the neighboring pond. Khamisi ignored it. It was a small splash. Too small. His brain teased out extraneous details, sifting through the buzz of insects and crunch of reeds. He concentrated upon real danger signals. Khamisi’s father had taught him how to hunt when he was only six years old, drilling into him the signs to watch when stalking prey.

Only now, he was the hunted.

The panicked whir of wings drew his ear and eye.

A flick of movement.

Off to the left.

In the sky.

A single shrike took wing.

Something had frightened it.

Something on the move.

Khamisi closed the distance with Dr. Fairfield as they cleared the reeds. “Hurry,” he whispered, senses straining.

Dr. Fairfield craned her neck, her rifle swiveling. She was breathing hard, face ashen. Khamisi followed her gaze. Their Jeep stood at the ridgeline above, parked in the shade of the baobab tree at the edge of the deep hollow. The slope seemed steeper and longer than it had coming down.

“Keep moving,” he urged.

Glancing back, Khamisi spotted a tawny klipspringer doe leap from the forest edge and skip-hop its way up the far slope, kicking up dirt.

Then it was gone.

They needed to heed its example.

Dr. Fairfield headed up the slope. Khamisi followed, sidestepping, fixing his double-barreled rifle toward the forest behind them.

“They didn’t kill to eat,” Dr. Fairfield gasped ahead of him.

Khamisi studied the dark tangle of forest. Why did he know she was right?

“Hunger hadn’t goaded them,” the biologist continued, as if struggling to qualm her panic with deliberation. “Hardly anything was eaten. It was as if they had killed for pleasure. Like a house cat hunting a mouse.”

Khamisi had worked alongside many predators. It wasn’t the way of the natural world. Lions, after a meal, seldom proved a threat, usually lounging about, even approachable, up to a distance. A sated predator would not tear apart a rhino, rip its calf from its belly, just for the sport of it.

Dr. Fairfield continued her litany, as if the present danger were a puzzle to solve. “In the domesticated world, it is the well-fed house cat that hunts
more
often. It has the energy and the time for such play.”

Play?

Khamisi shuddered.

“Just keep moving,” he said, not wanting to hear more.

Dr. Fairfield nodded, but the biologist’s words stayed with Khamisi. What sort of predator kills just for the sport of it? Of course, there was one obvious answer.

Man.

But this was not the work of any human hand.

Movement again captured Khamisi’s gaze. For just a moment, a pale shape shifted behind the fringe of dark forest, caught out of the corner of the eye. It vanished like white smoke as he focused on the spot.

He remembered the words of the wizened Zulu tribesman.

Half beast, half ghost…

Despite the heat, his skin went cold. He increased his pace, almost shouldering the older biologist up the slope. Loose shale and sandy dirt shifted treacherously underfoot. But they were almost at the top. The Jeep was only thirty meters away.

Then Dr. Fairfield slipped.

She went down on a knee and fell backward, knocking into Khamisi.

He took a stumbled step back, missed his footing, and went down hard on his rear. The angle of the slope and momentum tumbled him ass over end. He rolled halfway down the hill before he finally braked his fall using his heels and the butt of his rifle.

Dr. Fairfield still sat where she had fallen, eyes wide with fear, staring back down.

Not at him.

At the forest.

Khamisi twisted around, gaining his knees; his ankle screamed, sprained, maybe broken. He searched and saw nothing, but he raised his rifle.

“Go!” he screamed. He had left the keys in the ignition. “Go!”

He heard Dr. Fairfield scramble to her feet with a crunch of shale.

From the forest edge, another ululating cry arose, cackling and inhuman.

Khamisi aimed blindly and pulled the trigger. The
boom
of his rifle shattered through the hollow. Dr. Fairfield cried out behind him, startled. Khamisi hoped the noise also startled off whatever lurked out there.

“Get to the Jeep!” he bellowed. “Just go! Don’t wait!”

He stood, leaning his weight off his bad ankle. He kept his rifle poised. The forest had gone quiet again.

He heard Dr. Fairfield reach the top of the slope. “Khamisi…,” she called back.

“Take the Jeep!”

He risked a glance behind him, over his shoulder.

Dr. Fairfield turned from the ridgeline and stepped toward the Jeep. Above her, movement in the branches of the baobab drew his eye. A few of the tree’s droopy white flowers swayed gently.

There was no wind.

“Marcia!” he yelled. “Don’t—!”

A savage cry erupted behind him, drowning out the rest of his warning. Dr. Fairfield turned half a step in his direction.

No…

It leaped down from the deep shadows of the giant tree, a pale blur. It struck the biologist and knocked them both out of sight. Khamisi heard a curdling scream from the woman, but it was ripped away in half a breath.

Silence again settled.

Khamisi faced the forest edge again.

Death above and below.

He had only one chance.

Ignoring the pain in his ankle, Khamisi ran.

Down the slope.

He simply let gravity take hold of him. It wasn’t so much a sprint as a freefall. He raced back to the bottom of the hill, legs struggling to keep him upright. Reaching the bottom, he pointed his gun toward the forest and squeezed out a second shot from his double barrel.

Boom.

He had no hope of scaring off the hunters. He sought only to buy himself an extra fraction of life. The rebound of the rifle also helped him keep his feet as the slope leveled out. He kept running, ankle on fire, heart thundering.