Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze) (22 page)

The guard jumped, walking faster, clasping his rifle into firing position. It was now or never. His time on earth was up.

I charged from my hiding spot, my black Lycra pants and top shrouding me with the night. I ran low, my arm held outward, my gleaming blade ready to be bathed in blood.

The man's eyes went wide as my machete collided with his flesh. A loud gurgle sounded as his heavy body slid toward me on my blade, blood streaming from his open lips. I sliced his oesophagus.

He was dead.

It was a simple matter of pushing him off me. I smiled at the heavy thud of his carcass against the ground. One down. Three to go.

On tiptoe, I ran behind the tents, whispering through the shadows to launch predator-quick, onto my next victim. A slash to his jugular and he was dead. No sound. No warning. A life stolen in silence.

What would Callan think of me now? Would he see a ruthless woman saving sixteen girls from rape and illness, or a criminal committing mass murder? I shouldn’t care what he thought. But I did. I shouldn’t still be thinking about him. But I was.
Ocean, focus!

I was a midnight silhouette as I bolted for the third guard. He suffered a full arm swing; my machete sliced his head clean off. I’d have to thank Maurice for such a sharp weapon. Maurice was so useful, even if he was a secretive old man. He granted me the knowledge of languages, gave me a home, and an ultra-sharp arsenal. God, I loved that man.  

I collapsed.

The wet grass seeped into my Lycra clothing as I huddled into a ball. Blazing heat burned my spine. One, two, three pinpoints of torture branded me. Scorching me with new marks. The heat morphed into bone-chilling cold as it seeped from my spine to my soul. It was as if ice cubes were inserted into my very essence—perpetually cold, never to melt, clanking around inside me, slowly growing larger and larger into the Icelandic wasteland I would finally become.

The branding was over as soon as it began.

I clambered to my feet, breathing hard through my nose, wiping away rogue tears on my cheeks. Three more pieces of my soul were taken. I wanted to scream and curse. What was happening to me?

The last remaining guard walked away from his post across the fire, weaving between tents, patrolling. If he found his fellow soldiers dead, he’d raise the alarm. Clenching my machete, I stalked him; dancing behind blocks of shadowy tents, closing the distance between us with stealth. 

A lion roared somewhere in the blackness. The guard spun on his heel and came face to face with me.

I smiled. “Hi.” I swung my blade in an arc of steel and it lodged sickeningly in the crease where his neck met his shoulders, severing his arteries, inducing instant death. A spray of warm scarlet splattered my face. Swiping it away with my hand, I cringed at the metallic stench.

I didn't wait for the burning of the fourth-scorch mark. Instead, I dashed toward the fire light, toward the twelve men who wanted to rape virgins to heal them of their horrible inflictions. Living with a disease cannot be easy, but it gave them no right to rape and contaminate young women.

The men were huddled together, taking turns eating something from a ritual bowl.

I waited until I was illuminated by the fire before saying, “For those of you who wish to die a certain death, stay where you are. I promise you a clean and fast end to your suffering. For those who are deluded enough to think they can escape a game reserve in the middle of the night”— my eyes narrowed— “be my guest and run. The hyenas can have you.”

Everyone froze. The heavy silence was broken only by the crackling of burning wood. Men looked from one to the other. One laughed nervously; his French accent was strong as he spoke. “You are a little girl. You threaten us with death. It is
you
who should run.”

A burst of rage, similar to what happened in my bedroom with Callan, took me by surprise. It seeped from some unknown part of myself, filling me with a red fog that was focused on one thing: blood.

“Tu mouras d'une mort lente et douloureuse,”
I hissed. For the rest who didn’t understand, I added, “You will die a slow and painful death.”

Fear lit faces. Some men moved toward the perimeter of the camp. The leader who still held a dead chicken, shouted, “Guards! Kill this intruder.”

I smiled. “So be it.” I didn't run—I flew. Digging my toes into the soft earth, I launched myself over the raging fire. My machete sunk deep into the leader’s neck, and I watched in detachment as he crumbled to the dirt. “Anyone else?” I snarled, hiding the tremors still wracking me from my new marks.

The men watched me with wide eyes; mouths gaped open, followed by a flurry of movement. Grown men whimpered and floundered, bumping into each other as they ran away from the glowing warmth of the fire and into the perpetual depth of night.

I bit my tongue hard as two more brands burned my back. Erupting flames scorched me, then morphing into ice fingers stealing two more parts of my soul. I shivered. I was so cold.

At least the pain chased away the red fog and I settled back into my own thoughts, no longer plagued by the thirst for mayhem.

I blinked. One purchaser remained. He was on his knees, twisting his hands. The fire illuminated the planes of his face, playing with his sunken cheeks and haggard eyes.

“Why are you still here?” I asked, unable to stop the tremble in my voice. Every inch of me was drained. The whip-marks on my back bled, sending droplets of warmth through my top.

“I want a clean death,” the man sobbed hard. “I didn't want to do this. My brother organized it all. My HIV is too far gone. I don't believe raping a virgin will cure me. I want to die without that on my conscience. Please.”

How could I kill a man who confessed his innocence? I only killed monsters. This man was sick, no doubt, and who knew if he would’ve gone through with the rape, but I couldn't kill him. Not now.

I dropped to his level, resting my bloody weapon across my knees. “I'm sorry. But I won't kill you.”

He buckled, tears streaming. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” He rocked, holding his skeletal chest. “Please, forgive me.”

I reached out to touch his head, but pulled back. Maurice's warning came back to mind:
They could contaminate you.

“Only you can forgive yourself.” I stood. This man was no danger.

I ran to the undergrowth and hacked at a branch holding green leaves. Rushing back, I threw it on the fire. Almost instantly, black smoke rose. It mingled with the dark sky, blotting out the stars. How Maurice's men with the Jeeps would see it in the gloom, I didn’t know, but I did my part.

Even though the area was secured, I didn’t let my guard down. Taking a deep breath, I investigated tent after tent.

Blondes, redheads, and brunettes. Girls ranging from Thembi’s age to late teens were bound to camp beds, drugged into oblivion. Their hair was brushed and draped angelically over the pillow; their gowns were pristinely pure. I had a terrible urge to cry. Thanks to Maurice’s research, these girls would wake up in a few hours none the wiser—healthy and untouched.

In the distance, a rumble of tires on gravel and 4WD engines drifted on the breeze. Help was here. I was free.

I waited till six pairs of headlights appeared. A man from each vehicle exited and ran toward the tents.

That was my cue to leave.

Maurice expected me to go home. To rest, heal, and allow him to dote on me for a few days. But I had other ideas. I agreed that it was too soon to go after Bazeer again, but it didn’t mean I was going to sit at home and twiddle my thumbs. I had certain matters to attend to.

Things involving a certain cop and some money.

Operation Counter-Attack had commenced.

*****

It was easy to find where Callan Bliss lived. The cop didn't guard his online footprint. Ten minutes spent on a Google search yielded his building address. And he called himself a cop. Did he not value his privacy? Was he not worried a disgruntled criminal would search him out for payback?

Pleased my plan had sailed so smoothly, I exited the small internet cafe on Hall Street, Bondi, and headed straight to a takeaway shop. After inhaling a chicken kebab and devouring too many pieces of Turkish delight, I was ready to hunt.

Luckily, no one noticed the black machete strapped to my back, merging with my black Lycra outfit. That would have been rather hard to explain.

Callan's building was in North Bondi, not far from the local town hub, but far enough away from the backpacking bar scene. The sun slowly set, dappling shadows on the beach-bunnies and tanned men playing soccer. Bondi curved around a gentle bay with icing sugar sand and old architecture that was run down but added to the seaside appeal. Shades of dove blue and pastel pink gave the town an almost whimsical air.

I strolled along the beach, soaking up the atmosphere, before I crossed the road and stood in front of Callan Bliss's apartment building. I scanned the buzzers, looking for the small plaque stating who lived where.

Got him. He lived on the top floor: 8D: C Bliss.

Silly man. He should never have his real name on these things—way too easy for people like me to find him. I didn't bother to buzz. He was, after all, on a plane, flying back from England after his romantic but idiotic attempt to see me—or at least, I thought he was.

With a full stomach, making sure no one was around, I ported into the foyer of the building.

I was welcomed by headache, cracked plaster-work, and crumbling bricks. For an expensive suburb, the buildings sure needed an overhaul.

The staircase was a joke of bland tiles, and scattered letters dotted the floor. I wasn’t touching the banister for all the money in the royal family. I didn't need a microscope to see it crawled with germs.

Gingerly making my way upstairs, I passed two apartments per floor, a total of four floors. I stopped outside 8D.

I was pleased to see Callan looked after his place. A fresh lick of blue paint brightened his front door. The color was exactly like the sea on a summer's morning. I had the right apartment: it screamed ‘surfer’.

I ported again—the short distance didn’t hurt too much, and invaded Callan's private world.

The port amplified the cold seepage in my soul. It was a constant chill. My night of killing earned me five new marks. How many more could I endure before I was no longer me? Something was muted, emotion shaded with shadows, I was missing a spark—the spark who was Ocean Breeze. I was terrified that I was close to the end.

But to hell with all of that. I was in Callan's apartment! Snooping time.

He'd left his sliding door open to his balcony, and the air was fresh and salty. The view looked down the beach toward the crashing waves and seaside buildings of Bondi. His kitchen and living room were all open-concept with a surfboard in a rack by the breakfast bar. I didn't know what I expected, but a sleek black kitchen and chunky wooden counter-top was not it. His sense of style was bachelor but modern. It suited him.

A flat screen graced one wall, along with a massive painting of a rolling wave and tropical palm trees. His couch was comfy cream leather with throw pillows obviously from Bali judging by the thread and bead work.

There was a bathroom with a separate bath and shower; nothing flash, but it was clean, which was surprising.

I followed the corridor to his bedroom, not feeling guilty in the slightest for snooping.

The king-sized bed was decorated with a black and white checked bedspread. A stack of books was on the floor, with a pair of socks strewn beside it. I didn't want to admit, but I was looking for evidence of women. I knew he was single by how he pursued me, but it didn't mean he was averse to tumbling with a replacement until he found his ever-after love.

What was I?
Ocean, stop it. You're nothing. Not even a minor diversion, certainly not his ever-after love.
And if he had any disillusions about that, I set him straight in England
.
Pity I wasn’t listening to my own advice to stay away.

There was no evidence of female company. Not in the drawers, the bathroom, or the fridge. My nose wrinkled. There was only a moldy piece of cheese. He definitely hadn't had dates around in a while. I didn't know why that pleased me so much.
You're a terrible liar, Ocean.

During my forage in his apartment, I hunted for my money. That was why I was here, after all. Not to see Callan, but to retrieve what was right-fully mine. If I could find my cash, I could leave, and he'd never know I was here. But no luck. I looked in all the obvious places—under the mattress, under the couch, in the oven. Nothing.

Night stole the dusk, and the shadows were too deep to do anything more than sit on the couch and scowl at the front door. I could turn on the light and keep hunting, but he’d see it when he came home. And I wanted this to be a surprise. Let's see how he liked being sprung upon when he was tired and jet-lagged, and most likely pissed at me for the way I treated him.

Another hour ticked past. How long till he came home? How long must I wait before I could get my money back? Sleepiness fought with incessant anxiety that any moment he would walk through his door. He’d come home and find me here. I swallowed hard as I imagined myself launching into his arms and kissing him. My mouth watered. Would he taste like the sea he lived in? 

Chapter Twenty-one: Callan