well back, taking advantage of whatever cover was available. Tate was fit. The heat and the climb didn't bother him although he would have liked to take off his jacket. Couldn't because of the knife sheath. Never mind. The woman was doing it hard, carrying too much weight. The minder was okay. If he took her bag, had both hands occupied, the opportunity might be too good to pass up. He won't, Tate thought. He knows his business.
They sat down in the shade. The woman smoked and looked ready for a doze. The man chewed gum and looked alert. Tate circled away to the left. His practised jungle-fighter's eye swept over the ground, taking in the thickness of the undergrowth, assessing where passage was easy and hard. He moved without noise. The earth and the vegetation were soft and yielding, no branches to snap, no rocks to dislodge. He was in his element, breathing easily,sensitised to everything, totally in tune. The hunter. He moved behind a thick, prickly hedge, crouched below the level of a clump of grass—almost close enough for a shot with anything but a .22.
Suddenly, the woman was almost on top of him. She was alone and moving fast into the derelict garden—hat off, hand up to protect her eyes, elbows tucked in. She knew what she was doing and where she was going. Giving the minder the slip. Tate didn't hesitate. He went after her, plunging forward, ducking branches, quickly adjusting to the changed light. He could have caught her easily but he let her run like a hooked trout, allowing her to think she was safe, tiring her and putting distance between them and Dunlop.
The abandoned garden quickly gave way to land that had never been cultivated, light timber and scrub. He heard her swear as she stumbled and fell. He stopped as she picked herself up and went on. They were going downhill roughly in the direction she'd pointed to back at the crossroads. Soon. Soon.
Tate drew closer. He could hear her harsh breathing and fancied he could smell her sweat. He'd often smelled people's sweat in Africa. You had to be able to do it. It could save your life. Tate was enjoying himself. Automatically, he'd taken off his cap and sunglasses, stowed them safely. He could feel the pistol in his pocket. The few scratches on his face, stinging as the sweat got to them, were nothing. He slipped the knife out. He was only a few strides behind her now, following a rabbit track. She moved suddenly left to avoid a fallen tree. Tate cleared it with a leap and landed with a thud that caused Ava to stop dead. His left arm whipped out, wrappingaround her throat. He showed her the blade, flicked it from right to left in front of her, and then pressed the point into the soft flesh of her neck.
'One squeak, Ava, and you're dead.'
Tate dragged her from the track twenty metres into some shoulder-high scrub. Ava's feet scrabbled for purchase; she writhed and strained against the locked arm, but she had no hope against Tate's greatly superior strength and weight. She did not waste breath in shouting; instead she jerked her head, trying to bite. Tate enjoyed the struggle. He increased the pressure until she went limp from lack of breath. He pushed her down onto the hard, springy grass and expertly straddled her, distributing his weight so that she was totally immobilised.
Tate, usually coolly methodical in his work, was surprised to feel elation, a surge of confidence. After the last fuck-up, this was going fine! Might as well get the answers to those questions. The camera, still around his neck, swung and hit Ava's nose. Tate pulled on the strap so that the camera hung behind him. He let Ava see the knife again and then held it against the taut skin at the corner of her jawbone, where it sliced the flesh.
'The Rankin killing,' Tate said.
Ava's eyes were wide, blazing with hate and fear. Her nostrils flared and her fine white teeth were bared fiercely. 'Don't know who did it,' she gasped.
Tate laughed.
'I
know you don't. I know that. I want to know
They sat down in the shade. The woman smoked and looked ready for a doze. The man chewed gum and looked alert. Tate circled away to the left. His practised jungle-fighter's eye swept over the ground, taking in the thickness of the undergrowth, assessing where passage was easy and hard. He moved without noise. The earth and the vegetation were soft and yielding, no branches to snap, no rocks to dislodge. He was in his element, breathing easily,sensitised to everything, totally in tune. The hunter. He moved behind a thick, prickly hedge, crouched below the level of a clump of grass—almost close enough for a shot with anything but a .22.
Suddenly, the woman was almost on top of him. She was alone and moving fast into the derelict garden—hat off, hand up to protect her eyes, elbows tucked in. She knew what she was doing and where she was going. Giving the minder the slip. Tate didn't hesitate. He went after her, plunging forward, ducking branches, quickly adjusting to the changed light. He could have caught her easily but he let her run like a hooked trout, allowing her to think she was safe, tiring her and putting distance between them and Dunlop.
The abandoned garden quickly gave way to land that had never been cultivated, light timber and scrub. He heard her swear as she stumbled and fell. He stopped as she picked herself up and went on. They were going downhill roughly in the direction she'd pointed to back at the crossroads. Soon. Soon.
Tate drew closer. He could hear her harsh breathing and fancied he could smell her sweat. He'd often smelled people's sweat in Africa. You had to be able to do it. It could save your life. Tate was enjoying himself. Automatically, he'd taken off his cap and sunglasses, stowed them safely. He could feel the pistol in his pocket. The few scratches on his face, stinging as the sweat got to them, were nothing. He slipped the knife out. He was only a few strides behind her now, following a rabbit track. She moved suddenly left to avoid a fallen tree. Tate cleared it with a leap and landed with a thud that caused Ava to stop dead. His left arm whipped out, wrappingaround her throat. He showed her the blade, flicked it from right to left in front of her, and then pressed the point into the soft flesh of her neck.
'One squeak, Ava, and you're dead.'
Tate dragged her from the track twenty metres into some shoulder-high scrub. Ava's feet scrabbled for purchase; she writhed and strained against the locked arm, but she had no hope against Tate's greatly superior strength and weight. She did not waste breath in shouting; instead she jerked her head, trying to bite. Tate enjoyed the struggle. He increased the pressure until she went limp from lack of breath. He pushed her down onto the hard, springy grass and expertly straddled her, distributing his weight so that she was totally immobilised.
Tate, usually coolly methodical in his work, was surprised to feel elation, a surge of confidence. After the last fuck-up, this was going fine! Might as well get the answers to those questions. The camera, still around his neck, swung and hit Ava's nose. Tate pulled on the strap so that the camera hung behind him. He let Ava see the knife again and then held it against the taut skin at the corner of her jawbone, where it sliced the flesh.
'The Rankin killing,' Tate said.
Ava's eyes were wide, blazing with hate and fear. Her nostrils flared and her fine white teeth were bared fiercely. 'Don't know who did it,' she gasped.
Tate laughed.
'I
know you don't. I know that. I want to know
Similar Books
