The Devil's Breath (36 page)

“You can put that down, Max. I don’t fight boys. I’ve got a couple of dozen men who can walk in here and take a beating before they truss you up like a turkey. You’ve done well, I admire you. No, no, I do, don’t look surprised.”

Max felt sure he hadn’t given away his reaction but Shaka Chang was a man who watched every flicker of emotion in a person’s face, and if Max’s ego had been stroked then the pupils in his eyes would have enlarged slightly at the subtle shift of pleasure from the killer’s comments. Max kept his eyes on Chang as he would a prowling lion. Chang was unconcerned.

“What might keep you and your father, your very stubborn father, alive is whether you have found the information that I need.”

Static electricity seemed to crackle through Max’s mind.

Shaka Chang still needed this evidence. And he would know if Max lied. He averted his eyes, looking at his father slumped against the wall—a perfectly natural reaction, but also a disguise. Max was really using his peripheral vision to look at Zhernastyn, half hidden behind Chang, who was moving in deceptively languid fashion.

A shadow of fear clouded Zhernastyn’s eyes.

Max knew.

Zhernastyn hadn’t told Chang about the computer. He was trying to save his own neck.

Max looked back at Chang, straight into his eyes, so he would know the truth. “I found it,” he said, knowing that if he had denied finding the disc, and with only hours to go before the dam gates were opened, their lives would be worthless, or Chang would torture his father in front of him until he confessed. Telling Chang might buy them only minutes of life, but those minutes gave hope, and if you had hope you could climb out of the darkest pit.

Shaka Chang stopped pacing and looked directly into Max’s face, a blast of power from those eyes. Max could see why people were so afraid of him. It wasn’t just the size of the man—his eyes were portals into a dark soul.

“Where is it?” The question had no more resonance than a breath being exhaled. But it was like a blade being dragged down Max’s spine. Almost supernatural.

Their eyes locked.

Did Shaka Chang see something inside Max? Could he see the shadowed place he traveled to when the
BaKoko’s
spirit entwined his own?

“I put it in the water. In the pump room. I dropped it through the grid.”

Chang didn’t have to work too hard to figure it out. “So that’s how you got inside Skeleton Rock. That’s admirable.” He paused. “Why into water? Why would you risk corrupting the disc? Ah! Of course. It had been hidden in water, or something similar. The fuel tank of the Land Rover? My men checked.”

“No, the water bag.”

“The water bag. How clever.” He looked at Max’s dad, who managed a smile. A small victory.

But Shaka Chang did not allow victories of any size. In one brutal movement he bent down and backhanded Max’s father, slamming him into the wall. In the instant it happened, Max, consumed by a frightening anger, hurled himself at Chang. He saw a blur of jade and gold as Chang sidestepped and swung an open hand, catching Max across the back of his head.

Max felt as though he’d been hit by a baseball. Down he went, right next to his dad, who had blood seeping from a split lip.

“Mr. Slye, get one of the men to retrieve the disc.” Slye melted back into the shadows, relieved to escape the turmoil and ugly violence. Better to be out of sight in moments of extreme conflict.

Max helped his dad prop his back against the wall. Father and son looked at each other; a brief, almost sad smile crossed Tom Gordon’s face. “I don’t believe in giving up, you know that, but there’s a time for everything. Even when
it doesn’t work out the way you’d hoped. I’m sorry, son. I love you.”

“Me too, Dad.”

Max put an arm around his father and kissed him. He hadn’t done that since he was about eight. But it felt right. As he hugged him, Max pushed the ignition key into his palm.

It wasn’t over yet.

The wind, roaring its urgency, caught the mouth of the hangar, surged inside, then, beaten by the voluminous space, subsided into a whisper.

Out of the brewing storm two 4×4 pickups pulled in. The men, covered in dust, lowered a body to the floor. It was the unconscious !Koga. A line of dried blood was traced across the back of his head—the injury from the blow Max had witnessed on the television screen when they hunted the Bushman boy down. Blood leaked from his right ear.

Shaka Chang nodded to one of the men nearby, who whistled the hunters to bring the boy’s body closer.

Tom Gordon put a restraining hand on his son’s arm. Uncontrollable anger was a weapon that could work against you.

!Koga’s body lay on the polished concrete floor, like a corpse on a mortuary slab. The hunters backed away
respectfully as Shaka Chang nudged the boy’s body with his foot. “Doctor!” he snapped.

Zhernastyn, who, like Mr. Slye, had tried to keep out of Shaka Chang’s line of vision, gasped and made an unconscious gesture of easing his collar’s tightness.

“Is he dead?” Chang asked.

Dr. Zhernastyn knelt down and examined !Koga.

“He’s alive, Mr. Chang, but I would say his skull has been fractured. I don’t think he’ll live without hospitalization.”

Max could hardly bear it. His friend’s crumpled figure lay only a couple of meters away, but he couldn’t touch or help him.

“You can’t let him die!” he shouted.

Shaka Chang barely glanced at him. Slye had returned, the sealed computer disc in his hand. “It’s here, sir,” he said.

“Good!” Chang beamed. “Let’s check it. If it’s everything we expected, we can destroy it.” He paused, then strode towards the lift and glanced back at Max, his father and !Koga. “And them.”

Shaka Chang and Slye moved out of sight. Zhernastyn wiped the sweat from his face. He was walking a fine line with Chang.

“Can’t you do something?” Max begged him.

“No. I don’t have the facilities.”

“You must be able to do something.”

“I can’t!” Zhernastyn hissed. “Another few hours and he’ll be dead. Anyway, why should I? He means nothing to me.”

“He’s my friend. He’s just a boy. You’ve gotta help him! You’re a doctor!”

Zhernastyn sneered as he glanced at Max’s dad. “I use my skills for other purposes.”

He turned away with a nod towards the armed guard, but Max shouted after him. “I can still tell Shaka Chang that I sent that information. He won’t like the fact that you lied to him. There must be a hospital somewhere!”

Zhernastyn was back in control of his own life again; nothing Max could do or say now could harm him. “The nearest hospital is on a military base, a day’s drive from here, and Mr. Chang is hardly going to let him go there. Besides, you have no means of talking to Mr. Chang now, and in a couple of minutes, after he’s checked that disc, this man will shoot you. The vultures will pick your bones clean in hours. Why do you think they call this place Skeleton Rock?”

Zhernastyn walked away.

Max immediately slid across to his friend, his father at his shoulder. The armed guard kept his distance; these two were no threat.

Max touched !Koga’s clammy face.

“Dad, what do we do?”

His father eased open !Koga’s eyelids.

“The pupils are a different size, Max. I reckon that quack was right. His skull is fractured.”

Tom Gordon helped to raise !Koga’s shoulders so that they were supported on Max’s lap and chest. “That’s it,” his dad showed him. “Support his head against your chest. Keep it turned away from where the blood’s coming from.” As
Tom Gordon kept a couple of fingers on the pulse in !Koga’s neck, he whispered, “Is there any other way out of here?”

Max’s back was to the armed guard, muffling his own whispered reply. “There’s another smaller hangar, but there’s only motorbikes and stuff in there. Dad, we can’t let him die.”

The Humvee’s key appeared magically in his dad’s fingers. “I don’t know how we could get him into that and escape. It’s a fair way to the doors, and they’d stop us as soon as they heard the engine start. Max, think, is there anything in there you could use to get !Koga away?”

It took only a heartbeat for Max to realize what his father meant.

“Dad, we’re all getting out of here together. I’m not leaving you. Not now.”

Max felt the warmth of his father’s hand on his shoulder. “Every moment we’re alive, we’re beating the odds. I can’t move fast enough. I’m too weak. If you can get him out and make a run for that hospital, you have to take it, or he’s going to die. He may even die in the attempt. But we can’t just sit here and let them kill us. Then it will all have been in vain. Understand?” He nodded at his son, emphasizing the near finality of their lives. “You have to make the decision. Save him. If you can.”

Max fought the swell of tears. Then he nodded. “I think there’s a way. It’s a one-off chance, but I’ve got to get him to the next hangar, through that passage.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” His father took !Koga’s weight, allowing Max to prepare for the most important run
of his life. “This kid’s been banged about so much, but we have to risk carrying him. Can you get him there?”

Max nodded.

“OK. You’ll know when to go.”

“I’ll come back for you, Dad. I promise,” Max said with a fierce determination.

His father touched Max’s face tenderly, then the boy saw his father’s expression harden. It was just like the time on the boat when the pirates had attacked. As if another person was in there under the skin. Hard and tough and unyielding.

Before the guard realized what was happening, Tom Gordon heaved !Koga’s weight onto Max’s shoulder, ready to jump up and make the run. As the guard brought the gun to bear, Max had the horrendous realization that his father could never reach the gunman in time, that he would be cut down in seconds. And his father had only made what seemed to be a feeble lurch towards the guard. But neither Max nor the guard had noticed a mechanic’s work trolley, just out of sight under the Humvee’s chassis. Tom Gordon’s lunge was to reach the wheeled inspection trolley and whip it into the guard’s ankles. And that was what happened. The trolley smashed into his ankles, the guard fell backwards, and suddenly his dad’s slithering body was across the floor and using the man’s AK-47 as a club.

He barely looked around as he dragged himself away. “Go, Max!”

Max snapped out of his stupefaction and pushed his legs upwards, gulping air as he ran for the passageway. !Koga was
hardly more than skin and bone, but it was weight to be carried nonetheless. As he was about to plunge through the entrance, he couldn’t resist looking back. He saw that his father had reached the workbench, his hand stretching out for the wall socket that held the cable’s plug. Men were shouting now, their voices echoing around the hangar, their shadows making them giants as they ran to attack.

Max’s dad looked at him, nodded, and a second later a tremendous explosion erupted from the inspection pit where they had stored the petrol cans. He’d obviously pressed the switch and sent a surge of power down the bare-ended wires. The vehicle straddling the pit didn’t move for a moment as flames surged around it, then it too exploded in a muffled
whooomp
. Metal clattered, smoke billowed, men screamed. It was uproar. And Max’s dad had disappeared—consumed by the smoke and flames.

Max ran, !Koga’s body already feeling lighter as adrenaline surged through his limbs.

He reached the second hangar, hit the big red button that said On and heard the whirring blades of the industrial wall fan hum into life. Easing !Koga into the cockpit of the sand yacht, he could already feel the blast of air hitting his back. He climbed in behind him; it was an incredibly tight fit, but he lifted the boy’s body onto his lap, stretched out his legs, made sure !Koga’s head was still nestled down on its uninjured side and gathered in the ropes attached to the sail.

Gunfire echoed behind him from the other hangar; heavy black smoke billowed through the passageway into this area, sucked through the vortex of the narrow passage. It swirled like the turbulence behind a jumbo jet as the fan
whistled into full speed. Max felt the air punch the sail as with a tremendous surge it hurled the sand yacht clear.

They burst out through spiraling smoke into a faceful of wind-lashed sand. With eyes barely open, Max maneuvered the sand yacht, filling the sail with the veering wind as he struggled for control. Rope burns already stung his hands, but once he got the yacht on a course that put the wind across his right shoulder, the wheels skimmed over the baked surface.

He dared a look back. There was plenty of smoke, but no flames. Shaka Chang must have had an extinguishing system that smothered any threat from fire, particularly in those hangars where the planes and vehicles were kept. Max knew he had to sweep around the fort and head back in the direction he and !Koga had come from. Luckily the black smoke curling from Skeleton Rock screened him from searching eyes.

They rattled along, the wind buffeting the lightweight sand yacht. Max almost lost control when one of the wheels lifted clear of the ground, but he leaned into it and it bumped down, spinning for purchase. A plume of sand sprayed behind them as they skimmed along, faster and faster. The speedo needle hovered between 77 and 80 kilometers per hour, and Max could hear the humming of the wing sail, taut with energy. The ropes vibrated between his fingers as he steered for the vast openness that lay before him. His mind raced almost as fast as the wheels. He had to remember where the broken fingers of cracked earth lay waiting to ensnare him—one mistake and he would drive the sand yacht to destruction. And kill them both.