Chapter 12

Pilgrim’s Nest, on the hill to the north of the farm.

“You guys can try, but you won’t poach any game on this farm!” Another female voice spoke up. This time from Sloan’s back. Crap, he was surrounded.

“I’m not a poacher ... I only came to camp out here in nature. This is a nature reserve, ain’t it?” Sloan hit back, but the girls were not deterred in any way.

“You did not come to poach, then why are your buddies carrying high calibre guns?” the German-sounding voice asked again, this time with a cold smirk in her tone.

Sloan’s pulse pounded in his ears as he took stock of the situation. The cold dirt under his palms anchored him, though his mind raced to find a way out. He couldn’t see them, just heard their voices circling like predators. It was maddening. The German-sounding woman who had first spoken was precise and calm, her accent slicing through the night like a blade. The other, with an American twang, seemed to enjoy this, a game she was playing and winning.

Sloan’s heart dropped. They had caught his comrades — probably without a fight, too. Now he was alone and trapped. Crap, crap, crap. He cursed under his breath, his eyes darting around for any possible escape route. But they had the high ground, and probably night vision. He saw the dull glow of the infra-red beam emitter. He was a sitting duck.

The faint rustle of leaves and the creak of boots on gravel told him they were closing in. Sloan had never felt so vulnerable. Crap! How many of these women were there? He squinted into the dark, desperate to spot their shapes. But all he could see were shadows moving in the moonlight, lit only by the faint glow of their high-tech gear. He could imagine them, night vision goggles covering their eyes, their weapons held at the ready, ready for anything. And his buddies? They’d been ambushed. Taken by surprise like prey. How could he have been so careless?

Sweat dripped down his temple, mingling with the dirt on his face as he tried to figure his next move. His mind flashed through options, fight? Flee? Negotiate? He had nothing, and he knew it.

The American voice piped up, playful yet sharp, like a blade dipped in honey. “Get up slowly and keep your hands where I can see them. We’ve got eyes on you, buddy. Any fast move, and it’s lights out.”

Sloan moved cautiously, his hands raised. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he realized they had him completely under control. His legs felt like they were moving through wet cement as he slowly rose to his feet. His body screamed for him to run, but his brain knew better. These weren’t amateurs.

Suddenly, the sharp plopping sound of a suppressed handgun echoed through the air. The sound tore through the night, followed by a gut-wrenching scream of pain, off in the nearby vicinity. Sloan flinched. The gunfire wasn’t aimed at him, but someone nearby, on the other side of the hill, a buddy, maybe? It was impossible to know.

The American’s voice rang out again, cold and detached. “Hmm ... seems like one of your pals wanted to be a hero. Guess he just earned himself a new nickname — Fruit bat. Sorry, but we don’t take crap from poachers.”

“Yeah, you see, when innocent people die, they become angels. When you scum die, you become fruit bats. So, any intention from your side to go that way? We will oblige to help you along,” The German accented voice spoke.

Sloan knew he was in a corner, and he has to bide his time. There’s only two of these security girls here. If only he could see them and not just their shadows. And why are they foreigners? Don’t these game lodges only employ local nitwits that can’t think for themselves?

Sloan’s mind raced. He felt the weight of the situation crushing down on him. The scream told him everything, his friend had just been shot, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do. Tension thrummed in the air, thick, and suffocating. He gritted his teeth, his hands shaking. How had it all gone so wrong?

“Okay, buddy, la-la time,” the American voice said with a twisted kind of glee.

The words barely registered before something struck him hard in the back of the neck, a shock of pain exploded at the base of his skull. The world tilted, spinning out of control as his legs buckled beneath him. His knees hit the ground first, sharp rocks digging into them as his body crumpled. He barely registered the taste of dirt as his face slammed into the ground, the sensation of the rocky soil against his skin fading as the darkness swallowed him whole.

The last thing he heard before his consciousness slipped away was the two women laughing behind him.

“Now why did you go and do that, Girlfriend?” The voice sounded amused. “Now we have to carry him off this hill.”

“Just roll him down the slope,” the American voice replied, her voice edged with a snicker. “We can always say he ran and slipped on the loose rocks.” She giggled, a sound that sent shivers down Sloan’s spine, even though he was barely conscious.

“Okay, let’s cuff him,” the German voice added, her tone all business now. “He’s going to sleep for a while, but we need to make sure he doesn’t wake up before we’re ready.”

The sound of metal cuffs snapping shut around Sloan’s wrists and the faint smell of feminine perfume was the last thing he felt before the full weight of unconsciousness dragged him under. The shadows of the night closed in, and he disappeared into the darkness, a pawn in a game he hadn’t realized he was playing.

Pilgrim’s Nest farm, at the braai.

The night had a strange stillness, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Laura sat just outside the direct light of the flames, her face half-illuminated by the flickering glow. The fire painted shifting patterns on her features, highlighting the tension in her furrowed brow and the set line of her mouth. Her eyes, catching the fire’s reflection, glowed faintly, like tiny embers hiding in the shadows. She had that calm, seasoned look about her, the kind of expression worn by someone who had seen far too much and had learned to keep her cool when everything else felt like it was hanging by a thread.

“They’re taking a long time...” I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking too loudly might break whatever invisible tether was holding things together.

Laura’s gaze shifted toward me, the pinpricks of light in her eyes flickering. “Don’t worry. It’s not easy going in the dark,” she replied, her voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of thoughtfulness.

“But they have night vision equipment,” I countered, feeling the tightness of impatience winding in my chest.

She didn’t react immediately, taking a slow breath before answering. “Still, moving without making a sound is not easy. Even with the gear.”

I glanced at her, narrowing my eyes. “Have you done it before?” I asked, more out of curiosity than scepticism.

She nodded, her eyes drifting back to the fire, the flames playing off the taut lines in her face. “A few times.”

“In the dark?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?” she said with a hint of amusement, the faintest trace of a smile curling one corner of her lips. “Our team was successful. Always got our objective.”

“Good...” I mumbled, though the reply didn’t really do much to ease the weight in my gut. I leaned forward and poked at the fire with a stick, sending a shower of glowing sparks spiralling into the night. The silence between us thickened again, broken only by the occasional crackle of burning wood and the distant murmur of the wind rustling through the trees. The wait was gnawing at me.

I stared out into the darkness beyond the firelight, my eyes searching the black void where the hill rose up like a shadowy giant. Somewhere out there, the Angels were moving through the night, silent and unseen. No gunfire. No alarms. Nothing. It was eerie. The more time that passed, the more the tension in my chest tightened, coiling like a spring ready to snap.

“They should have been there already,” I muttered under my breath, though loud enough for Laura to hear.

She didn’t look at me this time. Her eyes remained fixed on the flames, her voice calm and unflinching. “Be patient, Alex. Remember, a hasty dog burns its mouth...”

I let out a heavy sigh, leaning back against my chair. “It’s just the sitting and waiting. I’m used to going in at four hundred knots, unloading my rockets, and – boom! It’s done. Mission accomplished. Then, I’m back at base with a cold frosty ale in my hand, sitting in the comfort of air conditioning.”

Laura finally glanced at me, her expression softening into something between amusement and exasperation. “That’s the problem with you fighter pilots,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “You’re always on the run, always chasing that next target, that next thrill.”

I shrugged, trying to mask the restless energy pulsing beneath my skin. “Oh, well ... Let’s wait.” But the words felt hollow, like I was saying them more for her benefit than for myself. My nerves were fraying by the second.

I stared at the glowing coals beneath the fire, feeling my stomach growl in protest.

“I’m putting the meat on the fire. The coals are ready, and I’m hungry!”

“Yeah. Me too,” she replied, rising from her chair with the same steady grace she always had. “Go on, get the meat cooked. I’ll go find something to put it in once it’s done.”

“Thanks, Laura.” I watched her slip into the shadows beyond the firelight, her figure becoming a silhouette before vanishing entirely. My gaze lingered on the spot where she’d disappeared, my mind drifting back to the mission.

Were they still on their way up? Had they run into trouble? I chewed on my lip, trying to shake the feeling creeping over me — the kind of gnawing uncertainty that starts small, but spreads like wildfire if you let it.

No shots fired meant either they were still moving, or something had gone very wrong. The fire hissed and popped in front of me, but it felt distant, like a weak distraction from the far more pressing weight in my chest. Every sound out in the night felt amplified, the rustling of leaves, the whisper of wind, the crack of a branch somewhere in the distance.

I crouched down by the fire, arranging the strips of meat on the grill, but my mind wasn’t on the task. The mission — the silence — it was eating at me. I could feel the anxiety curling up in my gut, and I had to fight to keep it at bay. Fighters like me, we’re used to action, to the immediacy of it all. Sitting here with nothing but the darkness and my thoughts, was a different kind of battle.

I thought of the Angels up there climbing through the night, every step calculated, every movement silent. I tried to picture it in my mind — the shadows moving across the terrain, the quiet breath of anticipation just before they reached their target. I had to believe they’d make it. I had to believe they were up there right now, setting up to capture the observer, that at any moment we’d hear a signal, see some sign of their success.

But in the pit of my stomach a knot tightened, and I couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that something — anything — might have gone wrong.

Then I imagined I heard as shout of a voice, carried on the wind from somewhere out in the darkness on the hill. But it could only be my over-active mind hearing things.

The soft glow of the coals bathed the rib-eyes in an orange halo, the meat sizzling as it hit the hot grill with a satisfying hiss. Under different circumstances, the sound would have been music to my ears, a prelude to the smoky aromas that would fill the air. But tonight, the melody was lost on me. My mind was too tangled in knots to appreciate it. Every nerve in my body was strung tight, my senses heightened as I stared into the glow of the fire, waiting for something – anything - that would signal the end of this agonizing suspense.

The darkness beyond the firelight felt impenetrable. My night vision had taken a hit from the fire, leaving me straining to see past the flickering flames. But then, something shifted. Just beyond the circle of light, in the shadows where the bush met the hillside, movement. A flicker of shapes against the inky blackness. I squinted, trying to focus, my pulse quickening as the shadows took form, silhouetted against the faint silver glow of the moon that bathed the landscape in a ghostly sheen.

At first the figures were indistinct, merging with the shadows that stretched across the ground. But they moved with purpose, gliding through the night with an eerie silence that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Slowly, as my night vision began to return, I started picking out details. Dark forms, moving with a deliberate pace, closer and closer. Friend or foe?

The tension in my chest tightened, and I felt my hand grip the tongs a little too tightly, the metal cold against my palm. It was them. The Angels were coming back. And they weren’t alone.

As they drew nearer, more shapes emerged from the darkness. Three additional figures were being pushed ahead of the group — shadows being herded like prey, their movements less controlled, almost stumbling. My breath caught in my throat as the firelight finally caught the leading figure, casting a warm glow over her familiar face.

Nadia emerged first, her expression unreadable in the shifting light, but there was a fierce determination in her posture. Behind her, Ronny and the others followed, their faces set with grim resolve. The tension in the air felt like it could snap at any second.

I stood, still gripping the tongs, as they entered the circle of light. The fire threw strange, dancing shadows across their faces, highlighting the exhaustion but also the victory in their eyes. They had succeeded, but whatever triumph they felt was tempered by the sight of the captives being dragged forward.

Ronny gave a rough shove to one of the men in front of him, sending the figure stumbling to his knees. “Get down on your knees and stay there!” he barked, his voice rough from the climb, but steady, with the edge of authority.

The man he pushed hit the ground hard, his hands instinctively catching himself before he fully toppled over. The other two captives followed suit, their knees hitting the dirt, their faces hidden in the shadow cast by the fire.

And then I saw him.

The last man, the one Ronny had just shoved, raised his head ever so slightly, enough for the firelight to catch his features. My stomach twisted. The dull ache of unease I’d been carrying all night turned into a cold, hard knot in my gut.

Sloan Thornton.

There he was, bruised, dirt smeared across his face, and his once-pristine appearance now a mess. His normally arrogant posture was gone, replaced by the weary slump of a man who had been cornered and captured. I stared at him, unable to tear my eyes away as the realization hit me like a punch to the gut.

They got him. Sloan Thornton was the observer...

Relief washed over me, sudden and unexpected, breaking through the tension that had been coiling tighter with each passing minute. But it wasn’t a clean relief, it was bitter and heavy, tainted by the sight of the man in front of me. The observer. The man responsible for more than we had even begun to unravel.

“Looks like we caught ourselves a big fish,” Ronny said, his voice gruff but carrying a hint of satisfaction. He glanced at me, and I saw the flicker of a smirk pull at the corners of his lips.