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eyes and plastering the lank grey hair down his forehead. The
walkie-talkie set bounced on his back, and the butt of the rifle thumped
rhythmically against his hip.
He ran with grim concentration, trying to ignore the swollen pounding of
his heart and the torture of breath that scalded his lungs. A thorn
branch clawed at his upper arms, raking thin bloody lines through his
skin, but he did not break the pattern of his run.
He turned his red and streaming face to the sky and saw David's
aircraft, circling ahead of him and slightly to his left. That marked
for him Akkers position and it was clear that Conrad was losing ground
in his desperate race to head off the escape.
The radio set on his back buzzed, but he ignored the call, he could not
halt now. To break his run would mean he would only slump down
exhausted. He was a big heavy man, the air was hot and enervating, and
he had run three miles through loose and difficult going he was almost
finished. He was burning the last of his reserves now.
Suddenly the earth seemed to fall away under him, and he pitched forward
and half-slid, half-rolled, down the steep bank of the Luzane stream, to
finish lying on his back in the white river sand, clean and grainy as
sugar. The radio was digging painfully into his flesh and he dragged it
out from under him.
Still lying in the sand he panted like a dog, blinded by sweat and he
fumbled the transmit button of the set.
David - he croaked thickly, I am in the bed of the stream, can you see
me? The aircraft was arcing directly overhead now, and David's answer
came back immediately.
I see you, Co
Akkers is there, Co
back down the river bed at any moment. Painfully, gaspin& choking for
breath, Conrad Berg dragged himself to his knees, and at that moment he
heard the whirr and catch and purr of an engine. He unstrapped the
heavy radio and laid it aside, then he unslung his rifle, snapped open
the breech to check the load, and pulled himself to his feet.
Surprised at the weakness of his own massive body, he staggered into the
centre of the river bed.
The dry river bed was eight feet deep with banks cut sheer by flood
water, and it was fifteen feet wide at this point, and the floor was of
smooth white sand, scattered with small water-rounded stones no bigger
than a baseball. It made a good illegal access road into Jabulani, and
the tracks of Alkkers truck were clearly etched in the sol t sand.
Around a bed in the stream Conrad heard the truck revving and roaring as
it came down a low place in the bank into the smooth bed.
Conrad stood squarely in the middle of the river bed with the rifle held
across his hip, and he fought to control his breathing. The approaching
roar of the truck reached a crescendo as it came skidding wildly around
the bend in the stream, and raced down towards him.
Showers of loose sand were thrown out from under the spi
wheels.
Johan Akkers crouched over the steering wheel, with the black hat pulled
down to his eyebrows, and his face was grey and glistening with sweat,
and he saw Conrad blocking the river bed.
Stop! Conrad shouted, hefting the rifle. Stop or I shoot!
The truck was swaying and sliding, the engine screamed in tortured
protest. Akkers began to laugh, Conrad could see the open mouth and the
shaking shoulders. There was no slackening in the truck's roaring
rocking charge.
Conrad lifted the rifle and sighted down the stubby double barrels, At
that range he could have put a bullet through each of Johan Akkers
deep-set eyes, and the man made no effort to duck or otherwise avoid the
men ace of the levelled rifle. He was still laughing, and Conrad could
clearly see the teeth lying loosely on his s. He steeled himself with
the truck fifty feet away, gum and racing down upon him.
it takes a peculiar state of mind before one man deliberately and
cold-bloodedly shoot down another. It must either be the conditioned
reflex of the soldier or lawenforcement officer, or it must be the
terror of the hunted, or again it must be the unbalanced frenzy of the
criminal lunatic.
None of these was Conrad Berg. Like most big strong men, he was
essentially a gentle person. His whole thinking was centred on
protecting and cherishing life, he could not pull the trigger.
With the truck fifteen feet away, he threw himself aside, and Johan
Akkers swung the wheel wildly, deliberately driving for him.
He caught Berg a glancing blow with the side of the truck, hurling him
into the earthen bank of the stream.
The truck went past him, slewing out of control. It hit the bank
farther down the stream in a burst of earth and loose pebbles, swaying
wildly as Akkers fought the bucking wheel. He got it under control
again, jammed his foot down on the accelerator and went roaring on down
the river bed, leaving Conrad lying in the soft sand below the bank.
As the truck hit him, Conrad felt the bone in his hip shatter like
glass, and the breath driven from his lungs by the heavy blow of metal
against his rib cage.
He lay in the sand on his side and felt the blood well slowly into his
mouth. It had a bitter salt taste, and he knew that one of the broken
ribs had pierced his lung like a lance and that the blood sprang from
deep within his body.
He turned his head and saw the radio set lying ten paces away across the
river bed. He began to drag himself towards it and his shattered leg
slithered after him, twisted at a grotesque angle.
David, he whispered into the microphone. I couldn't stop him. He got
away, and he spat a mouthful of blood into the white sand.
David picked the truck up as it came charging up the river bank below
the concrete bridge of the Luzane, bounced and bumped over the drainage
ditch and swung on to the road. It gathered speed swiftly and raced
westwards towards Bandolier Hill and the highway. Dust boiled out from
behind the green chassis, marking its position clearly for David as he
turned two miles ahead of it.
After crossing the Luzane the road turned sharply to avoid a rocky
outcrop, and then ran arrow-straight for two miles, hedged in with thick
timber and undulating like a switchback, striking across the water shed
and the grain of the land.
As David completed his turn he lowered his landing gear, and throttled
back. The Navajo sank down, lined up on the dusty road as though it was
a landing-strip.
Directly ahead was the dust column of the speeding truck. They were on
a head-on course, but David concentrated coldly on bringing the Navajo
down into the narrow lane between the high walls of timber. He was
speaking quietly to Debra, reassuring her and explaining what he was
going to attempt.
He touched down lightly on the narrow road, letting her float in easily,
and when she was down he opened the throttles again, taking her along
the centre of the road under power but holding her down. He had speed
enough to lift the Navajo off, if Akkers chose a collision rather than
surrender.
Ahead of them was another hump in the road, and as they rolled swiftly
towards it the green truck suddenly burst over the crest, not more than
a hundred yards ahead: Both vehicles were moving fast, coming together
at a combined speed of almost two hundred miles an hour, and the shock