Boss Takes All

Boss Takes All

Book Three of the African Trilogy

Carl Hancock

Carl Hancock
was born in Aberdare, then a mining valley town in South Wales. After seven years in the local grammar school, he moved on to university where he studied for degrees in classics and in English and became a teacher.

His career took him to secondary schools in Britain, Cyprus and Malta. Latterly, he enjoyed six years in Pembroke House, a preparatory school up-country in the Kenya part of the Great Rift Valley, sometimes known as the White Highlands.

He has two grown-up children and currently lives on a small farm in the Adelaide Hills.

Published in Australia by Sid Harta Publishers Pty Ltd,

ABN: 46 119 415 842

23 Stirling Crescent, Glen Waverley, Victoria

3150 Australia

Telephone: +61 3 9560 9920, Facsimile: +61 3 9545 1742

E-mail:
[email protected]

First published in Australia July 2011

This edition published July 2011

Copyright © Carl Hancock 2011

Cover design, typesetting: Chameleon Print Design

The right of Carl Hancock to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to that of people living or dead are purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Hancock, Carl

Boss Takes All — African Trilogy Book Three

ISBN: 978-1-921829-28-4

Digital edition published by

Port Campbell Press

www.portcampbellpress.com.au

ISBN: 9781742980928 (ePub)

Conversion by Winking Billy

Land of a million pathways, land of the silken cords that bind the stranger and hold her in thrall, may you enjoy a future blessed with universal prosperity, harmony and justice.

saac Mumbo was up late, as usual. He sat close to the open fire that burned night and day in the heart of the rondavel village. His only company was the night askari. He thanked Luka for bringing fresh wood as he moved his fingers along the lines of his braille Bible.

‘Luka, would you like me to read something out of the good book?'

‘Maybe, when I get back from checking up at Big House.

Isaac, why is it I never see you without that Bible in your hands. Two hours in the church on Sunday is plenty religion for me.'

‘My friend, to worship in the temple of the Lord is a great honour.'

‘This place don't look like much of a temple to me!'

‘So peaceful out here at this time. I can't see the stars, Luka, but I know they are there. God never fails. And the moon is full tonight. I can feel her silvery glow on my face.'

‘Yes, you are right, brother. She's up there. Yes indeed. But tell me, Isaac, if she is a she, how come we hear folks talk about the
man
in the moon?'

The two friends sat chuckling together by the fireside. The new wood crackled as the flames took hold, sending a rush of sparks up into the darkness above them.

‘Yes indeed, Isaac. I bet you and me are the only people awake for miles around. Man, I do love this peace and quiet!'

A second later, a huge explosion cracked the night sky. The sound of it rolled out along the lakeside villages. By the time two further explosions rang out, the little group of houses encircling the gathering place where a bewildered Isaac sat clutching his Bible to his chest was pouring out a great noise of its own, screams mingled with terrified wailing and angry shouts. Big House was ablaze. Less than ten days before the flower fields and the plastic and cotton tents had been destroyed and the acrid smell had not been completely blown away by the breezes wafting in off the lake. Now Londiani itself was lighting up the night sky, a beacon that was visible for miles around.

In minutes South Lake Road was alive with the hundreds of Naivasha people rushing along in confusion to witness close up this second catastrophe to strike the McCall estate. There had been many deaths when the flames and the thick smoke had engulfed the work places of the young people who had just begun a new day cultivating their rows of flowers and vegetables. Surely, more lives had been lost in this new merciless inferno. It was not until long after dawn that the mass of people discovered that not a single person had died in the blaze that had destroyed the beautiful farmhouse. Fifty metres away one man had been wounded, not by fire but by a bullet.

Careful planning and not a chance miracle had been the saving of the people who lived on the farm. Nor had the fire itself been a random happening. Alfredo Rossi, a young American known to the McCalls of Londiani as Alfred Ross, had been employed, for a huge fee, to wipe out the very family who, in their only meeting with him, had shown him true up-country kindness. He had been the paid tool of another man's longing for vengeance, but he and his employer had been outwitted. As soon as he realised that the job had gone badly wrong, Rossi had fled in panic for the anonymity of Jomo Kenyatta Airport and from there had flown out to the safety of his New York home.

Abel Rubai, the very rich Mister Big of Kenya politics, had insisted on watching his enemies go down and nearly paid the price with his life. He had witnessed the explosion and the fire in a state of high excitement and just when he began to rejoice that at last he was free from a burden that he had been carrying for far too long was stunned by a horrendous shock. The McCalls who had caused him and his family so much pain, who had been behind the death of his beloved son, Julius, were part of history, or so he believed.

Rossi, against his better judgement, had given in to pressure from Rubai and set up a vantage point from where his paymaster would have a clear view of Londiani down to his left. But it was from the farmhouse to his right, Rusinga, the home of Bertie Briggs, that they came running. In the bright moonlight the rolling gait of Tom McCall was unmistakable as he ran towards his dying home, leading a dozen or more friends and family across the open plain.

With a massive effort Abel Rubai suppressed a scream of agony and blessed himself for bringing along his loaded Andrews repeating rifle. He shouted the McCall name as he pushed the smooth oak butt into his shoulder. There would be one chance on a certain kill. He had the blond-haired leader of the pack in his sights. A fraction of a second before he squeezed the trigger, he felt the searing pain in the small of his back and lost consciousness.

here was confusion in the small group of family and friends who had had rushed out of Rusinga Farm. They wanted to be close to Londiani however painful it would be to stand powerlessly by and watch the home of three generations of McCalls cracking and crumbling in the fierce heat. Before they had gone fifty metres the angry scream from a familiar voice and the muffled sound of a rifle shot drew their attention inland, to a grassy rise close to a farm fence. Tom had seen the barrel of the gun pointing at him from point-blank range, felt the pain as his shoulder struck the hard earth, watched Bertie Briggs calmly lower his rifle and bow his head.

Against the background roar, the small group changed direction. Rebecca Kamau was relieved to see Tom scrambling to his feet and, with their arms linked, the pair rushed towards two silent figures on the rise up ahead, one prostrate, one kneeling in a solemn pose bowed forward as if in prayer.

Reuben Rubai was not aware of their coming. He was in a state of deep shock. He passed his hands along the chest and face of his dead father, as if he were searching out some magical key place where he could press and restore life. He turned and looked up to see all ‘round him the faces of those who had no business to be alive. They were watching him and barely containing their anger. In his eyes he was the more offended.

He rose, trembling, and looked into the eyes of each of the hostile faces of those surrounding him before exploding into a fit of ice-cold rage.

‘You murdering bastards, you will pay for this! You have robbed me, my family, our country of a great man. McCall, your life is finished. You and your whore will soon be rotting in your own private hell. I swear to God, Papa, that they will not escape.'

Hosea Kabari, in his sergeant's uniform and his wife, Maria, were hurrying towards the rise from the direction of the fire. Reuben saw a first sign of help.

‘Just in time! Sergeant, arrest every one of these animals. Look! My father, Abel Rubai. You know him. You know him! Now do your duty by him. There's his gun. Use it.'

Maria Kabari paid no attention to the distraught young man's anger. Instead she knelt by Abel's side. She, too, ran her hands along the body. She was not looking for some magic place. She bent low and listened at the chest. With her husband's help she lifted Abel's limp body to a sitting position and examined the back.

All the while, Reuben watched her. His dazed stare was the outward sign of the turmoil that was churning inside him. He was overwhelmed by the succession of shocks that had bombarded him in the previous half hour. And then he remembered. He had seen this woman before. It was at the Daniels' house on the evening of the funeral of Simon Mboya. He had come face to face with her while on an errand for his father looking out for the woman, Lydia Smith. Father Rubai had made a serious error with this street girl and it was Reuben's task to get her to his father double quick. She had heard things, very private things. If she blabbed, there could be danger. Abel could take no chances. She would have to be moved on, permanently.

His encounter with this woman weeks before had been over in seconds. No words had been spoken, but the look of cold contempt in those dark eyes had stayed with him. In spite of this and against all the hostile instincts he knew he should be feeling towards this person meddling with his father's body, something about her was giving him hope.