Dark Intent by Brian Reeve Page A

let go, back pedaling hurriedly, a swell of paranoia throttling him. ‘Someone’s freed the tape,’ he shouted, snatching the pistol and fanning the hammer.
    As Shozi took the gun, Krige came out, alternating the Beretta between the two men. ‘Leave it,’ he said.
    Shozi kept the revolver vertical, calming himself now that the intruder had exposed himself. ‘Who are you?’ he asked in English. ‘Why have you broken into my house like a common thief? You’re white.’
    ‘Makes no difference,’ said Krige. ‘Your rule of terror is over. You got away with it.
    Welcome to hell.’ He hesitated fractionally then pulled the trigger.
    But Shozi’s native reactions were untarnished and he was already ducking when the pin on the Beretta detonated the first charge. The bullets pierced the balustrade, decelerating as they tore at the grain. Like the canny fighter he was he weaved to avoid the succeeding shots, getting closer to Krige all the time.
    Seizing a chance to kill Setlaba, Krige fired at the lieutenant before leaping out of Shozi’s path. The lead blew Setlaba’s head apart, sending him nervelessly into one of his master’s speakers, speckling the box with blood.
    Heckling crazily Sho zi changed his line and lunged. The two men collided, wrestlers, the gangster immediately feeling the power of his extra weight. He threw away the Webley in a fit of confidence, enjoying the combat and wanting to see the white subdued before a prisoner’s death. Artfully he trapped the Beretta between them and got hold of it, then letting it go as he swept Krige’s feet from under him.
    They fell as one, the black on top, emptying Krige’s lungs like a punctured balloon.
    For long seconds Krige lay still, his mind wandering in a maze, his mouth open, ready for his lungs to pull in precious air. It came like a charge of new life and then Krige saw the gloating black. With a Herculean effort, his spirit suddenly inflamed, he came up, driving his fist at the grizzled skull.
    Taken by the blow Shozi howled like a dog , his head feeling as if it had been split by an axe. He fell near the chair where he had left Ngubane’s knife. Then he remembered it. Through half-shut eyes he saw the hilt overlapping the edge. The guns were somewhere else and the knife was a weapon he loved, if he could get it. Reaching out, he was nearly there when his arm was kicked aside, unrewarded. Towering over him was Krige. ‘You nearly got it,’ said Krige. ‘But that against this is no match. You should’ve made sure I couldn’t get it.’ He revealed the Beretta, removing himself from the Zulu with the chilled articulations of a judge in a barbarian court about to pronounce sentence.
    ‘Why does a white want to kill a Zulu?’ said Shozi, recovering. ‘We have a common enemy. Unkhonto we Sizwe will never give up until Zulu and white lick the filth from their boots. Chris Hani was their supreme commander, a folk hero, a communist to his bones. His followers want revenge and nothing less than absolute control of this country. Being part of a new government is trivial.’
    ‘I have orders,’ said Krige tersely. ‘Your death is one of them.’
    Shozi wrinkled his nose. ‘For what cause do you say that white man? I’ll call off my men and let you go in peace. We are brothers.’
    ‘You’re a murderer,’ said Krige quietly, as if trying to justify taking the Zulu’s life. ‘You should have been hanged.’
    ‘Without Inkatha you’ll be destroyed by ANC militants,’ said Shozi, noting how Krige hesitated and feeling a vestige of hope. ‘They’re your killers. You haven’t told me who you work for.’
    ‘It’s not important,’ said Krige. ‘This is the end.’ A bullet ran with the words. For a terrifying infinitesimal moment Shozi knew it was coming but he couldn’t avoid it and he collapsed onto his chest, his nose reconfigured by the green pile, the tiniest secretion of blood innocently irrigating his skin from behind his ear onto