Chapter 15

After the girls left, I sat around messing on my laptop. The hours dragged on, and with Klara out of the picture, my only pressing concern was the whereabouts of the elusive shooter. Lorenzo was in custody, but the shooter was still on the loose, and I remained apprehensive about Melanie’s safety. Yes, Don had brought in a management team and a few security personnel, but did they truly grasp the gravity of the situation at iSigodi?

I was lost in these anxious thoughts when I sensed a presence outside the door. A peculiar feeling washed over me—not fear, but an uncanny awareness. I lifted my gaze from the screen, and a shadow fell across the threshold, accompanied by a faint, musky scent that I instinctively recognized.

Moments later, a massive feline face appeared in the doorway, its yellow eyes fixed intently on me. Nalo, the semi-domesticated lion! He sniffed the air, raising his huge head to capture the myriad scents wafting through the room. He was searching for something, or rather someone.

“Nalo, come here boy,” I called softly, trying to project calmness and familiarity. “She is inside.”

The large cat remained motionless, his golden eyes unblinking as they bore into mine. With deliberate slowness, I rose from my seat and took a few steps deeper into the lounge, never breaking eye contact with the lion.

“Come, Nalo ... Come see...” I coaxed again, my voice gentle yet insistent. Whether he understood my words or merely my tone, he hesitated only a moment longer then padded silently into the room. His massive paws, each the size of a dinner plate, made barely a sound on the hardwood floor.

“Melanie is in here,” I said, and at the mention of her name, his huge cat-ears pricked up. He seemed to understand, or perhaps it was just a trick of the light. I led him to the door of the second bedroom, opening it slowly.

Inside, Melanie lay in a deep sleep, her breathing even and serene. As Nalo approached the bed, the floorboards creaked ominously under his immense weight. He moved with surprising grace for a creature of his size, every muscle rippling beneath his tawny fur.

Melanie mumbled something incoherent in her sleep, and Nalo’s ears twitched in response. He leaned in and sniffed her face gently with his broad, damp nose. There was an unmistakable recognition in his eyes. He glanced back at me, and at that moment, I could have sworn I saw a flicker of gratitude in his gaze.

He then turned and with a deep rumbling sigh, settled himself at the foot of the bed. His huge body seemed to melt into the carpet, his eyes half-closed but still alert. Though he was a formidable beast weighing over four hundred kilograms, at that moment he was just a cat—a very large, very protective cat.

The sight of Nalo, this magnificent lion, lying peacefully at Melanie’s feet, filled me with an unexpected sense of reassurance. Despite the danger that still lurked beyond the walls of iSigodi, here in this room with Nalo standing guard, I felt a flicker of comfort. The bond between Melanie and Nalo was something beyond the ordinary, a testament to the strange and wondrous connections that can form between humans and animals, even those as wild and majestic as an African lion.

At about 14:00, Alicia, Helen, and Nita returned to my suite. Alphonse and Sam were still at reception, and were confident they could handle any unexpected arrivals at iSigodi. No one was expected, but it was always good to be prepared.

“Is Melanie still sleeping?” Helen asked, her voice a mix of concern and curiosity.

“Yeah, but if I were you I wouldn’t bother her. Nalo is standing guard,” I replied.

“Oh, Lord! I wondered what happened to that old fleabag. I haven’t seen him for three days.”

“Where does he usually go if he’s not with Melanie?” I asked, curious about the cat’s escapades.

“Oh, he strolls around the resort. He has a girlfriend or three out towards St. Mary’s Hill, around Leven Canyon.”

“Oh, and he comes here to visit Melanie?”

“Maybe he regards her as his fourth wife,” Helen giggled. “Ever since she rescued him out of a snare and treated his paw, he’s taken to her like a duck to water.”

“Goes to show that even animals have feelings,” I chuckled.

“Go stretch your legs a bit,” Nita suggested. “We’ll take care of Melanie for a while.”

“Thanks, I might just do that,” I said, and rose from my chair.

Outside, the sun was warm but not too hot, thanks to the steady breeze from the south that cooled the environment just enough. I stepped onto the patio and then onto the walkway, deciding to see what Don and the gang were up to.

It was a perfect day at the resort. The breeze gently ruffled the tree branches and the leaves of the lower foliage, creating a soothing rustle. High up in the sky, a patchwork of clouds could be seen, forming what is known as a mackerel sky.

A “mackerel sky” refers to a sky pattern with rows of small, white, fleecy clouds that resemble the pattern on a mackerel’s back. These clouds are typically cirrocumulus or altocumulus clouds, and their undulating, rippling pattern is caused by high-altitude atmospheric waves. This type of sky is often associated with changeable weather and can indicate that precipitation may be on its way within the next six to twelve hours. The term “mackerel sky” is also sometimes known as a “buttermilk sky,” especially when the clouds are in the early cirrocumulus stage and have a “curdled” appearance.

The phrase has been part of weather lore for centuries, with sayings like “Mackerel sky, not twenty-four hours dry” and “Mares’ tails and mackerel scales make lofty ships to carry low sails,” which suggest that such skies are a sign of impending weather change. We had just emerged from the grip of the outer reaches of a cyclone, and it seemed we might be in for either a cold front or some light to medium rain.

As I walked, the ambiance of the resort enveloped me. The sweet scent of blooming flowers mingled with the salty tang of the ocean breeze. The trees swayed gently, their leaves whispering secrets to one another. The sunlight filtered through the branches, casting dappled shadows on the ground. It was a scene right out of a postcard, the kind that made you want to pause and breathe it all in, capturing the tranquillity and beauty of the moment.

High above, the mackerel sky added a touch of drama to the serene landscape. It was as if nature itself was painting a masterpiece, each cloud a brush stroke on the vast canvas of the sky. The sight was mesmerizing, a reminder of the ever-changing and unpredictable nature of the world around us.

I continued my stroll, feeling a sense of peace and contentment trying to wash over me. The resort, with its natural beauty and soothing atmosphere, was the perfect place to unwind and reconnect with the simple joys of life ... or would have been if I wasn’t worried about the shooter. But even with that turmoil, as I made my way towards Don and the gang, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for this little slice of paradise. Here, where even the clouds told a story and every breeze carried a whisper of wonder.

For a third time in as many days, the gods smiled at me. I saw a low-hanging tree branch and instinctively turned sideways, ducking my head out of the way of the branch swaying gently in the south south-easterly breeze.

As I ducked my head, the sound of an angry bee passed my left ear, and something struck the trunk of the tree to my left. Splinters and pieces of bark flew from the tree trunk, showering me in debris.

Adrenaline pumped through my veins, and I dove for cover on the paving pathway, rolling sideways towards the right side of the path and crawling into the foliage. A second shot sent cement chips and dust over me. Someone was shooting at me with a heavy-calibre gun!

As I moved to duck behind a thick palm tree, I looked for the shooter, but I could not see where the shot came from. All I knew was that I was on the other side from where the shots came from, and I was relatively screened from the line of fire and sight of the shooter.

With my heart pounding in my chest, I forced myself to take deep breaths to stabilize my heartbeat. All around, it was quiet. Even the birds had stopped their ever-present chatter.

The shooter was still around iSigodi! Colonel Danny had told me that the SAPS investigation team had a lead on his whereabouts, but I was not convinced that they had any real lead.

Seconds passed that felt like minutes. I knew the shooter was a long way off, as I did not hear the report of any gun being fired. I doubt that he would have had a silencer fitted.

After about four or five minutes, I started to look for a way out that would screen me from the shooter.

Slowly I lifted my head and started to scan the lay of the land to my right, my left, and straight ahead.

A thunderous report from a gun fired not very far from me had me ducking down again. The sound of the shot assailed my ears as if it was next to me. It deafened me instantly, like the crash of a cannon and I could swear the hairs on my arms flittered in the concussion wave that washed over me. It echoed through the resort and faded away across the waters of the lake.

High up on the awning where two thatched roofs of the iSigodi resort met, hidden in the shadow of a huge akasia tree, there was a heap of tree leaves that merged seamlessly with the tree, the roof, and the landscape. Completely natural in its appearance, as if deposited there by the storm, the heap of leaves had no discernible shape. It just lay there where it had been blown by the wind, unmoving in the slight breeze off the lake and sheltered in the lee of the slightly rounded thatched roof.

There was no indication of any animal life in or around the heap of leaves. A mockingbird came and sat for a brief moment on the heap, tilting its head inquisitively before fluttering off. Inside the heap of leaves, however, a pair of keen eyes were scanning the surrounding landscape to the north of the resort. These eyes had a full three-hundred-degree view of the resort and the walkways leading to the guest suites and rooms.

As a figure came walking along the path to the restaurant, the eyes inside the heap of leaves instantly recognized Tyron Van Aswegen. The figure in the straw-coloured ghillie suit tracked Tyron’s progress up the pathway. The hidden observer was relaxed, breathing shallowly. Despite the fact that it had not moved for hours, there were no cramps or any discomfort in its body. The ghillie suit was warm and helped to fend off the chill from the southerly breeze.

The observer’s thoughts were disciplined and methodical. Every breath, every heartbeat was controlled, maintaining a state of readiness that few could achieve. About twenty meters from the observer’s position, the pathway curved, and in about thirty seconds, it would bring Tyron into full view from the dense tropical forest to the north of the resort. The figure shifted its gaze toward the forest, as if expecting something to emerge from the dense foliage.

It was when Tyron stepped around a tree branch that hung across the pathway that the figure spotted movement on the edge of the tropical forest. The movement was not that of an animal. Something was glinting, reflecting sunlight off a piece of dull metal. Instincts kicked in, every muscle tensing in preparation. The figure moved slightly, raising a Barrett rifle and looking through the Leupold Mark 5HD 5-25×56 mm scope fitted on it. With practised ease, the figure worked the charging handle and chambered a 12.7×99 mm cartridge. There were still nine left in the magazine.

In the crosshairs of the scope, the figure saw the target. Dressed in a security uniform, the black face was smeared with green camouflage face paint. The distance was eight hundred meters. The wind was blowing from the back, slightly over the left shoulder, at less than a knot. Perfect!

Then there was a muzzle flash from the distant shooter. About half a second later, the projectile impacted nearby wood, but the figure ignored it. The observer concentrated on placing the crosshairs on the shooter in the distance. The figure took a deep breath and held it. Another muzzle flash, and the impact on the cement brick pathway below. Taking the first pressure on the trigger, the shadowy figure thought: distance, windage, bullet drop, and target picture.

The Barrett recoiled into the figure’s right shoulder. Through the scope, it followed the invisible flight path of the 12.7 mm projectile as it sped towards the target and hit with an accuracy of less than 1.2 minute of angle. The projectile struck the distant shooter in the upper chest, practically vaporizing the torso and nearly splitting the body in half. The force of the impact smashed the shooter back against the tree he was sitting under. Red liquid smeared the tree trunk and the ground before the body bounced off the tree and came to rest three meters from where it had sat, now a crumpled heap of raw flesh.

“Stupid sod,” the figure in the ghillie suit up on the roof muttered as it exhaled. “Bringing that peashooter to a gun fight. Expecting to hit what from eight hundred meters? The Empire State Building?”

The figure continued scanning the surrounding landscape for any other threats. Finding all was well, it waited five full minutes before calling out to Tyron, still crouched behind a tree.

There was just a single shot and then all went quiet. Only the rustling of the leaves in the trees and the gentle soft hiss of the breeze was heard.

“Mister Van Aswegen, you can come out now,” a feminine voice with a heavy foreign accent spoke to my right and above me. “Your would-be attacker is consulting with his ancestors for entry into the here-ever-after...” Then she giggled, the sound incongruous with the deadly situation.

I hesitated for a moment, my instincts torn between staying hidden and confronting the unknown voice. I gathered my courage and slowly rose from my crouched position behind the palm tree and peered in the direction of the voice.

A slender figure emerged from the shadows; her silhouette framed by the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. She was dressed in sleek black tactical gear, a sniper rifle slung over her shoulder. Her face was partially obscured by a black balaclava, but her eyes, as black as night — sharp and intelligent — were visible and fixed on me.

“Who are you?” I demanded, trying to keep my voice steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through me.

She tilted her head slightly, as if considering how much to reveal. “Let’s just say I’m someone who has a vested interest in keeping you alive, Mr. Van Aswegen. Here, let me help you up.” And she extended her left gloved hand to help me up. I reached out and took the offered hand, feeling the raw power in her arm as she helped me to my feet. A slight small-framed woman with immense power.

Her cryptic response did little to ease my confusion, but I nodded slowly, recognizing that she had just saved my life.

“Thank you,” I said sincerely, while dusting off my clothes.

She waved her hand dismissively. “No need for thanks. We need to move. Your attacker might not have been working alone, and we’re not safe here.”