The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,89
it all in place, winding the gauze around Koevoet’s midsection and tying it off. He laid Crowbar back down, set his pack under his head and ran him an IV.
Crowbar closed his eyes. ‘It was proof, Straker. That’s why I…’
‘Rest now, oom. Tomorrow, we walk.’
33
Honoris Crux
It was a long way out.
They rose early, before the sun. Clay kicked out the fire he’d kept burning all night to warm Crowbar, wedged himself under the big man’s shoulder, helped him up and started walking.
By the time they reached the old mining road the sun was over the mountains and the cold was gone. They walked through a stand of gnarled pines, the trees here tall, wide at the base, somehow protected from centuries of cutting. A gust of wind blew down through the valley and Clay could hear the sound of it in the treetops. He stopped, steadied himself against Crowbar’s weight and looked up. High above, the crowns of the pines swayed like mourners in the wind and the charred black trunks groaned and creaked and the air was filled with the smell of burning and pine sap as shadow branches danced on their upturned faces and over the dry haematite gravel under their boots. They kept going.
After a while, Crowbar pulled up and sat on the bench of dirt on the upslope side of the old mining track. He was breathing heavily. ‘This turtle woman,’ he asked pulling out his water bottle and taking three gulps. ‘She married?’
‘Divorced.’
Crowbar grunted and handed Clay the bottle. ‘Kids?’
‘A boy.’ Clay drank.
‘It didn’t seem like much, that place we wrecked.’
‘Her life’s work.’
Crowbar sat there with the pine shadow moving over him, the sun streaming between the patches of grey coolness, his hand pushed down on the compress, his fingers red with the blood. After a couple of minutes he looked up at Clay and said: ‘I needed to do that job to get Medved’s trust. That’s why I did it.’
Clay said nothing.
‘Didn’t seem like much.’
It never does. ‘Shut up and walk, oom.’
It took them another hour to climb the back ridge that led to the western approach, the two of them bumping along like some semi-articulated vehicle, the sun hot now in a clear sky. The Pajero was still another two hours away.
When they reached the ridge line, Crowbar sat on a spur of rock and looked out across the next valley. ‘Not much of a life, is it?’
Clay said nothing.
‘This business we do.’
‘Not, we, Koevoet.’
‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Never leaves you.’
This was a conversation Clay did not want to have. ‘Let’s ontrek.’
Crowbar didn’t move, just sat gazing out over the deep green of the cedars, the browned oxides of barren ridges and rock slides, the silver clumps of oak. ‘No life for a family,’ he said.
Clay laced his good arm under his friend’s shoulder and pulled him to his feet. ‘There is always a choice,’ he said.
Crowbar grunted as he got to his feet. ‘We’re doing a job in Angola right now. Fighting UNITA, if you can believe it. Helping the now-legitimate government of Angola, same bastards we spent ten years fighting.’
Clay shook his head. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ UNITA, supposedly their allies during the war, had turned out to be the worst of the lot.
‘I’m going there when this is done,’ said Crowbar. ‘You should join us. Get some payback.’
‘Shut up and walk, oom.’
They made the Pajero just as the sun reached its zenith, Crowbar sweating and cursing his way over the last kilometre as a few of the stitches Clay had put in broke open.
It was nearly dark when they rolled up to Hope’s place. Clay helped Crowbar from the car to Hope’s front door. She greeted them in an elegant, high-necked, knee-length turquoise dress that set off her eyes. Her hair was up and a pair of silver filigree earrings shone at her neck. Her smile turned to a frown at the sight of Crowbar’s blood-stained midriff.
‘My God,’ she said, holding the door. ‘Bring him here, lie him down.’ She led them through to a spare bedroom just off the main hallway. ‘What happened?’
‘It wasn’t Rania,’ grunted Crowbar.
‘Your friend has a penchant for the obvious,’ Hope said to Clay. ‘Is he alright?’
‘The bullet grazed him, went right through. He’s lost blood.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Do you know a good doctor? One who won’t ask questions?’ asked Clay, lying Crowbar on the bed. ‘Hot water would be good. Towels. Maybe some food.’