Deon Meyer - Dead at Daybreak

“He’s mine, Brits.”

“The two of you stay here with him. If he doesn’t behave, kneecap him.” He lifted a two-way radio to his mouth. “Alpha, are you ready?”

“Alpha ready.”

“Bravo ready?”

“Bravo ready.”

“Let’s go in.”

“I hope you have armored-car backup and air support, Brits.”

“If he’s going to lie here talking shit, put a bullet through his knee,” Bester said, and then they were gone, down the steep gravel road, the sharp sound of assault rifles being cocked. Van Heerden looked up at the two soldiers staring down at him, sharp, watchful faces. He waited for the rifle shots from the house, angry. He should’ve thought, but what could he do? It wouldn’t have helped to change the number. Jesus, what a first-class cunt. Why was it so quiet at the house, Schlebusch still sleeping? Minutes ticked past, he sat up, the soldiers kept their weapons trained on him.

“Since when have you been on alert?”

They ignored him.

“Could I have my cell phone back?”

No reply.

He got up, looked down the road, shifted a few steps to see better.

“Stand still.”

He stood still. He could see the truck, the garden area. Soldiers kneeling at the front door, at the truck, all at the ready, the door open. Why didn’t they shoot? Why didn’t Schlebusch shoot? Someone came out, a soldier came up the road, comfortable jog, no hurry – something wasn’t right. The soldier came up to them.

“Van Heerden?”

“Yes.”

“The colonel wants you down there.”

He started walking, only the one soldier accompanying him. “You let Schlebusch get away.”

Silence. Crunch-crunch on the unpaved road, the soldier’s boots loud, his trainers soft. The smallholding opened out ahead of him, neglected, the white paint on an outside building peeling off, long grass, climbing plants growing wildly against a stone wall, weeds in the orchard. As he walked past the truck, he looked. Something wasn’t right with the fucking truck? What was it? The soldier walked to the veranda, nodded at the front door.

“First door to the right.”

He walked in. Bester Brits stood there, arms folded. On the carpet lay Bushy Schlebusch, half on his face, or what was left of it, the blood a reddish brown irregular pool on the parquet floor, eye and nose lost in the exit wound, hole in the back of the head, hands tied behind the back.

He looked, flabbergasted, made the connections, one shot, execution-style, in the back of the head, and then he knew what was wrong with the truck as he remembered it on the N7. Schlebusch had climbed out on the left-hand side. He had assumed it was a left-hand drive, like Kemp’s imported Ford, but Schlebusch wasn’t the driver: there was another one, or more than one. He swore, he should’ve thought, it wasn’t the neighbor who phoned – how the fuck could a neighbor remain anonymous? It was –

“You killed him, Van Heerden.”

“What?”

“The photo in the newspaper this morning. They couldn’t afford to let him live.”

He stuttered, a thousand thoughts in his head. Nothing made sense. Schlebusch was the one, the leader, that was how he’d seen it. Schlebusch was his prey. He struggled with the new information. “They. Who are ‘they,’ Bester?”

“Do you think I would be standing here if I knew?”

He took a step forward, drew a finger through the blood – it was thick and sticky but it wasn’t dry. Lord, it must’ve happened a few hours ago. And then he saw the events in his own head: they must’ve waited for the newspaper, somewhere, waiting to see, every morning since the first copy, made plans. They must’ve shot Schlebusch this morning and then phoned, the voice on the phone, so calm, so innocent. They knew he would come – and then the fear came like a paralysis, his mother, his mother, his mother, and he screamed, “Jesus!” and he ran, out of the door, back to the soldiers who had his cell phone, swearing furiously at his own lack of insight.

“Van Heerden,” Bester called after him.

“My mother, Bester,” he screamed, hearing this morning’s call in his ears, that calm, assured voice. Not the voice of a hate-filled psychopath, but of a calm strategist, which was worse, much worse.

♦

Billy September saw them coming and he grabbed the AK-47 and realized he had to protect the women in the house first: Carolina de Jager in the bathroom, Wilna van As in the kitchen, Joan van Heerden outside somewhere, at the stables. Four men coming from the front, from the road, weapons in their hands, openly moving between trees and shrubs, full of self-confidence, blatant, secure in the knowledge that Joan van Heerden was alone. He screamed at Wilna van As, “They’re coming, get to the bedroom, lie flat,” hammered at the bathroom door, “Trouble, now, come on out.” Wilna van As’s eyes white, he pointed at her: “Look there, please stay in the bedroom.” He ran to the kitchen, looked out toward the stables, didn’t see Joan van Heerden, ran to the living room, looked through the big window. They were closer. The bathroom door opened, Carolina de Jager in a pink dressing gown. “What’s the matter?”

“They’re here, madam, four with guns. Go to the bedroom, lock the door, lie flat.”

“No,” said Carolina de Jager. “Get me a gun.”

♦

He ran up the sloping road, Bester Brits pounding behind him. “Van Heerden!” He ran on. Tiny Mpayipheli was on his way here, only September and the women, and they, whoever they were, knew that. He reached the soldiers. “The cell phone.” He grabbed it out of the man’s hand, kept running, heard the soldiers behind him, heard Bester say, “Leave him, let him go,” pressed the buttons, held the instrument against his ear, ran. He realized he needed his weapon, turned, tried to take the Heckler & Koch, but the soldier jerked it away. The telephone ringing, ringing, ringing.

He grabbed at the weapon again. “Give me the fucking thing.” They surrounded him threateningly and he heard Bester’s voice, just as breathless as his: “Give it to him.”

He grabbed, the phone rang, rang, rang. Lord, let them answer. He saw the BMW between the army troop carriers – the fuckers had parked him in. Three soldiers with a big black man, Tiny, the Mercedes-Benz ML 320. Tiny saw him coming.

“We’ve got to move,” he yelled. “Schlebusch is dead. This morning.” Mpayipheli just nodded, couldn’t catch the words, only the urgency. He ran to the car as the telephone rang and rang and rang.

♦

She jumped, startled when the telephone rang. She was working, had fetched her files to work next to the telephone. The phone was quiet this morning and she had thought about Van Heerden’s replies to her questions and then it suddenly rang.

“Hallo.”

“Is that Hope Beneke again?”

She recognized the voice, the same male voice. “Yes.”

“How did you get that photograph of Bushy?”

“We…why do you want to know?”

“Have you got photos of all of us?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to publish them?”

“If it’s necessary.”

“Necessary for what?”

“To get the will.”

“But I have nothing to do with the will.”

“Then you have nothing to fear.”

“It’s not that simple.”

♦

Billy September heard the telephone ringing, ran to the bedroom where he had slept and grabbed his carry bag from under the bed, hauled out the Remington 870 shotgun by its stock, chambered one shell, gripped the gun in his hand, ran back, gave the weapon to Carolina de Jager. “There are four shots in the magazine, one in the breech. Wait until he’s close.” She took the gun, obviously not a first for her. He looked out of the window, the telephone still ringing. Who would phone now? The four armed men were just twenty meters away – he would have to shoot now. Where the fuck was Joan van Heerden? He ran to the back door, looked out toward the stables, saw nothing – wait, there she was, carrying a pail, wearing green gum boots, on her way back to the house, but he couldn’t shout, they were too close. He ran to the living-room window, telephone ringing, aimed the AK over the burglarproofing, lined up the one with the beret, drew a bead on his lower body, pumped out three shots, saw him fall, the others scattering. Suddenly not so calm anymore, suddenly frenetic. He laughed, high and tense, as the window in front of him exploded in a thousand pieces, holes in the plaster, Wilna van As screaming in the bedroom. He fell flat, blood dripping – the glass had cut him. He saw Carolina de Jager behind the couch with a small smile on her lips and the Remington in front of her, putting out her hand to the telephone. He pushed the AK’s barrel through the window, pulled the trigger a few times, crept to the front door, hearing the automatic fire outside. He knew he’d got one. Jesus, Billy September, you’re an expert in unarmed combat, look at you shooting the whiteys now.