Peak Oil by Arno Joubert Page A

gardens, talking about love lost and righting the wrongs of life and how only God could be the ultimate judge of our sins. Only God understood why we did the things we did. The general was a firm believer of this.  
    Reg guessed the old man didn’t have much of a choice, admitting murderers and criminals into his revered organization.
    One day, on one of the long walks they so often took, Laiveaux told him about a new recruit who would be arriving soon. A young lady called Natalie Bryden. She would be the first female recruit ever to be accepted into the Legion.  
    The soldiers would rebel against this, Laiveaux had said. But times were changing. France was changing. High-ranking female politicians insisted that the League change as well. Why should only men receive a second chance at a new life, a new identity?  
    Laiveaux then asked Voelkner to keep an eye on her. Look out for her.  
    He remembered the day when the confident young woman strode into the compound. She was a rose among all the thorns, an innocent among all the reprobates and juvenile delinquents.  
    Voelkner took an immediate liking to her. She was tough and mentally stronger than any man in the Legion. She became a mother who nursed their bruised bodies back to health, a sister in whom they would confide their darkest secrets.  
    And she became their leader. Not by choice, but by her own actions.
    They looked to her when the drill master broke their bodies down, when they were forced to scale obstacles with fractured bones and torn ligaments. She would always go on. Hustle men, hustle. One more minute. Don’t stop, it will all be over soon. You are not a failure!
    Grown men would cry, but they wouldn’t stop. If she could do it, they could too. Voelkner’s fondness for her developed into profound respect for Femme Forte , as they used to call her.  
    The Strong Woman.
    She would never leave him behind; he knew he would follow her into any situation. And he often did.
    He sucked in a long and melancholy breath. Since Laiveaux had enrolled him into Interpol, things had changed. He didn’t mind the fighting or the dangerous situations; he wished there were more of them. But he found detective work boring. Much better to laze around the pool.  
    The sun’s rays were warm and comforting, and he felt a slight buzz from the beer. Life was good.
    Voelkner felt an uncomfortable sensation in his gut, as if someone were standing next to him. He opened his eyes and glanced to his side. Mary-Lou stood at his shoulder and smiled at him. She held a small, red booklet and a pencil in her hands.  
    He slid his sunglasses onto his head. “Hello, Mary-Lou,” he said and sat up. “What are you doing?”
    She giggled and handed him the picture she had drawn of him lying on the wooden recliner next to the pool, his eyes closed, sucking on a beer.
    It was really good. “What a handsome guy. You drew this?”  
    She nodded.
    He examined the booklet in his hand and flipped it over. A Canadian passport. He opened the first page. The photo was of a good-looking blonde guy, smiling at him. His name was Andrew Jackson, and he was six foot five. Voelkner’s jaw dropped. He grabbed Mary-Lou by her shoulders. “Where did you get this?” he shouted, shaking her.
    Her lower lip started trembling, and she burst out in tears. She yanked herself loose from his grip and ran away, calling for her grandmother.
    Voelkner jumped up and chased after her. “Wait! Little girl, wait!”

Toby Griff slowed down as he drove into town. He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand and took another drag from the cigarette. He was beat. He had been on the road without a proper rest for more than eighteen hours.
    One of the company regulars, Bubba Bartlett, had gone AWOL. They found his truck parked, out of gas, next to the road. Bubba was supposed to have relieved him for the shift back to Houston. But Bubba had disappeared, and they had a strict schedule to maintain. No check-in, no