The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,86

pitched. The sound danced among the rocks for a moment then died. Clay tensed, scanned the tree line in a three-sixty-degree arc. No one. Silence. He glanced at his watch. Just gone two. The first shot was definitely Koevoet’s Beretta. The second was a big charge, high velocity. Clay sprang to his feet, sprinted towards the base of the ridge.

He made it to the top about ten minutes later, quads screaming, chest heaving. He’d heard nothing since the two shots, just the jackhammering of his heart, the rail of his breathing, the loose rock tumbling behind him.

Crowbar was sitting with his back up against a slab of weathered rhyolite, hand pressed over a bloodied compress bandage that covered his lower abdomen. He opened his eyes as Clay approached. ‘Kak, Straker,’ he growled. ‘Bastard surprised me. Fokken stupid.’ Crowbar raised his hand and pointed towards the back slope. ‘That way.’

Clay pulled out the Beretta, sprinted to a break in the slope and scanned the valley. No movement. Nothing. Clay ran back, crouched at Crowbar’s side. ‘Let me look.’

‘I’m good,’ said Crowbar. ‘He had a Dragunov, if you can fokken believe it. Must have been one of Medved’s people. Surprised each other.’ Crowbar pointed to the edge of the slope. ‘He came up right there. I was side on. The round passed right through, didn’t open up.’ He pulled the compress away from his gut, looked down. A trough about three inches long had been sliced across his belly. The wound oozed blood. Crowbar tugged at the roll of fat that covered his midsection, stifled a laugh, winced. ‘Fokken asshole did me a favour, ja. Wanted to get rid of this anyway.’

‘Jesus, Koevoet, hold still,’ said Clay, fishing in Crowbar’s pack. He pulled out a fresh compress, gauze, disinfectant. ‘We’re going to have to get you sewn up, broer. Can you walk?’

‘Unless you’ve got a Puma handy,’ grunted Crowbar.

‘No Puma.’

‘Then ja. Guess I’ll have to.’

‘Was he alone?’

‘Didn’t see anyone else.’

‘Rania?’ Clay doused the wound with antiseptic.

Crowbar winced, shook his head.

‘Did you get a look at the guy?’

Crowbar shook his head again.

‘Did you hit him?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘Easy shot from here for that Dragunov.’

‘Good thing I came along to look after you, soutpiele.’

Clay ripped open a new compress with his teeth, spat out the paper and pushed it down onto the wound. ‘Who’s looking after whom right now, oom?’

Crowbar pushed him away. ‘Fok that, Straker. Go after the bastard. He can’t be far, lugging that bloody great commie sniper rifle.’

‘No way, Koevoet. Now hold still, for Christ’s sake.’

‘If that bastard has Rania…’ Crowbar tailed off. ‘Look, it’s just a clip. I’m good. Just don’t forget to come back for me, ja?’

Clay pushed the compress down hard on the wound.

Crowbar grabbed his wrist, held it tight. ‘Go.’

Clay knelt a moment, looking into Koevoet’s eyes. He knew that look. Clay stood, pulled out his Glock. ‘Okay, oom. You win. Stay put.’

32

Twelve Years of Silence

Clay stood at the edge of the backslope and scanned the place where Crowbar’s assailant had stood. Bootscuff marks in the loose, rocky soil. A brass shell casing, 7.62mm, long, fresh. And there, like moss blooming on rock, a spray of blood, viscous red drops scattered over the burnished stone, more footmarks leading downslope. Clay looked back at Crowbar, gave him a thumbs-up. ‘Spoor, oom. Blood trail.’

‘Short little draadtrekker. I knew I’d hit him. Go get the fucker.’

Clay reached down, touched a drop of blood onto his finger tip, raised it to his nose, inhaled the scent. He’d grown up doing this, on the veldt as a boy with his father and uncle, tracking the prey on foot, a springbok or a kudu, hours and sometimes days, the old way. Make the kill, eat the heart.

And then in Angola with Crowbar and the Battalion he’d tracked and killed human beings.

Clay checked his watch and started down the slope. Twenty minutes now since he’d heard the shots. Moving over rough country like this, carrying a heavy weapon, a strong, fit man might cover two, maybe three kilometres in that time. Judging by the amount of blood on the trail, he was also carrying a 9mm slug inside him somewhere. Clay guessed the guy had maybe a kilometre head start on him, not much more.

He moved quickly through the trees, following the increasingly ragged trail to the break in slope, then east into a valley bottom dense with black pine and remnant Cyprus cedar. Clay could tell from the scuffing of the footmarks that