Dictator by Tom Cain Page B

open.
    Ahead of him and to the right, Carver could see Mabeki, dimly illuminated by the light from the hallway. He was bending over the mattress, dragging Zalika Stratten to her feet with one hand while holding a gun in the other. He wasn’t wearing any trousers and the sight of his bare legs only underlined the obscenity of what he’d been about to do to the girl.
    Mabeki let go of her. His head and shoulders were rising back up and turning towards Carver. He was bringing his pistol to bear.
    Carver put his first bullet though Mabeki’s jaw, which exploded, showering Zalika Stratten with blood and fragments of flesh and bone. As the impact sent Mabeki staggering backwards, Carver fired again, hitting him in the upper torso.
    Mabeki was thrown to one side. He lay still as the blood, just one more liquid shade of black, pooled round his body and spread across the floor.
    The girl started screaming. She was huddled on the bed, shaking uncontrollably. Somehow, her pitiful vulnerability affected Carver far more than the shattered body on the floor.
    ‘Time to go,’ he said, his voice sounding far harsher than he intended.
    She looked up, eyes wide with horror at the sight of the masked, faceless figure looming over her.
    ‘Come on!’ Carver insisted.
    Zalika did not move, just pointed at the body and sobbed, ‘Is he dead?’
    ‘I certainly hope so,’ Carver replied, holding out a hand. ‘Now, please, get up. We’ve got to get out of here before his mates arrive. Your uncle’s expecting you.’
    That seemed to do the trick. Zalika took Carver’s hand and let him pull her up. But then she stiffened, unable to move any further, still transfixed by the sight of Mabeki’s body. Carver tightened his grip on her wrist and started running, dragging her with him, forcing her to follow him out of the room, past the body in the corridor towards the outside walkway.
    ‘Stay here,’ he mouthed as they reached the door to the walkway.
    He let go of Zalika’s hand and inched out into the open. People were starting to spill out of the shebeen on to the street. He could not see them, but he could hear them, just as he heard the sound of heavy boots clattering up the concrete stairs. The silhouette of a heavy-set man appeared a few paces down the walkway and swayed slightly as he took his bearings. Carver dropped him with a single headshot. There were no more footfalls on the steps.
    Carver gestured with his cupped left hand, ordering Zalika out on to the walkway. ‘This way,’ he said. ‘Stick tight to the wall.’
    He led her away from the two dead men, through the shadows to the side of the building till they reached the place where he’d jumped on to the walkway less than a minute earlier.
    A shout came from the street below, followed by more excitable, angry voices. They’d been spotted.
    Carver muttered a curse. Then his spirits rose as he heard the coughing and spluttering of the VW van and saw it pull up directly beneath them. Justus got out and dashed to the side of the building. He raised his arms and said, ‘Let her down, I will catch her.’
    Carver manhandled the terrified girl to the balustrade and then, wincing as the pain from his cracked rib sliced through him, lifted her up and over it. He let go of her arms and watched as she fell six or seven feet into Justus’s arms. The African buckled under Zalika’s weight, but kept her from hitting the ground.
    As he pulled himself and the girl to their feet, Justus turned his head then looked back up at Carver and shouted, ‘Quick, they are coming!’
    Carver vaulted over the balustrade and fell to the ground, unable to stifle a sharp cry of pain at the impact. He looked up to see Justus bundling Zalika into the back of the VW and closing the rear passenger door behind her. Beyond them about fifteen or twenty men were rounding the corner of the building, the pitch of their voices rising as they saw the car and its would-be occupants. Their advance slowed as they