The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,11

weapon. His eyes widened. Clay could see his body tensing, preparing itself for a grab at the gun. Clay pushed the muzzle of the G21 into the gap between the window glass and the frame. The man froze.

‘Move and you die,’ Clay said. And then in Afrikaans: ‘Verstaan jy?’ Do you understand?

The man nodded once. Of course he understood.

‘I don’t want to kill you,’ Clay said, again in Afrikaans. ‘Don’t give me a reason.’ Please, don’t give me a reason.

Another nod.

‘Get out of the car.’

The man sat, unmoving.

‘Do it.’

The man nodded again.

Clay was about to step back when the man jerked forward in his seat, pushing his head down towards the door. As he did, the window motor engaged and the glass started coming up. A fraction of a second later the car’s engine gunned. Clay just had time to pull the Glock free and jump back as the car lurched forward. Clay fired. The bullet blew out the side window. The car swerved right, stabilised for a moment then surged away, the engine screaming. It had travelled about fifty metres along the lane when suddenly it jagged hard left and ploughed up into the hedgerow.

Clay ran to the car and peered inside. The driver was unconscious, slumped over the steering wheel. Clay scanned the laneway right and left. No one, no lights anywhere. He opened the door and dragged the man free. Then he got into the driver’s seat, restarted the engine and backed the car down the lane and into the pullout. The rain had stopped now and faint moonlight shone on the wet tarmac and danced in the rivulets flowing down the gutters. Clay got out and ran back to where the man was lying, grabbed him under one shoulder and levered him up so that he could slide his stump under the other arm. As quickly as he could, he dragged the man back to the car and laid him in the grass of the verge. From here, the car would screen him from anyone who happened to drive past.

Clay dropped his pack, pulled out his torch and ran it over the man’s body. He was thin, wiry, with a closely shaved head. Clay pulled away the man’s jacket and tore away his shirt, exposing the wounds. There was a lot of blood. It looked as if the bullet had passed through the meat of the shoulder and then grazed the side of the neck, not deep enough to hit an artery. The oke had been lucky.

Using the supplies from his pack, Clay bandaged the wounds as best he could. It took valuable moments, but by the time he was done he was pretty sure he’d stopped the bleeding. If the man received proper medical attention in the next couple of hours, he’d be okay. Clay checked the man’s pockets but found nothing. He stood by the car, the rain pelting his skull again, running rivulets over his face, and looked down at the man’s motionless body, and he felt it come: the empty horror, the physical pain, the shaking, the buzz. His hand was trembling, his heart rate spiking, irregular. He felt the cold rain snaking down his spine, and the dark chasm between now and then, the infinity that separated one moment from the next, one living and one not.

He threw his pack onto the passenger seat, jumped behind the wheel, reached across the centre console, grabbed the H&K from the passenger-side footwell and stashed it in the glove box. It wouldn’t be long before Medved’s people were notified of the failure. For these were Medved’s people, here for the reward. Of that he had no doubt. And soon they would be coming after him.

In Angola he had always been among the hunters, tracking SWAPO through the bush, chasing them across the miles, assaulting them from the air, deep inside the border. Now, he was the prey.

Clay grabbed the steering wheel, closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing and tried to calm himself. He adjusted the seat, the mirrors, got comfortable. It was a beautiful automobile.

He was about to start towards the A38 when he saw a blinking green light under his feet. He reached down into the footwell and retrieved a mobile phone. It was open, paused in mid dial, active. Clay scrolled through the recent call numbers, but saw nothing familiar. He was about to close the phone when his thumb stopped, hung twitching on its tendons. A string of digits burned