Let the River Run
Copyright© 2026 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 25
Punda Maria, Kruger National Park.
For a moment, I stood perfectly still outside the open doorway of the unit.
Nadia was on my left. Darya on my right.
Three shadows in the darkness, rifles raised, breaths controlled, waiting at the edge of violence.
The night air carried the smell of dust, diesel, and old rain baked into concrete. Somewhere behind us, generators hummed with a low mechanical growl, and floodlights washed the camp in sickly yellow pools that left hard black shadows between the buildings.
The curtain hanging over the entrance shifted gently in the warm breeze. Beyond it, muted voices drifted through the thin fabric. Calm voices. Men discussing murder and revolution over cigarettes and cheap whiskey.
I leaned slightly closer and listened.
“What do you think you were up to?”
The voice carried a clean South African English accent. Educated. Controlled. Older. Delport.
A politician’s voice.
A man used to speaking calmly while standing ankle-deep in blood.
“I want my money back,” another voice answered.
Russian.
Cold and rough around the edges. Reznikov. Even hearing him made something tighten in my chest.
Delport sighed heavily from inside the room.
“We could have helped,” he said. “You know we have a vested interest in it.”
“You thought I took the funds...”
“It was clearly a set-up. You know it.” Delport’s tone sharpened slightly. “From what I gather, they baited you into the open and you fell for it hook, line, and sinker.”
Silence followed.
I imagined Reznikov standing there glowering with that predator stare of his, jaw clenched, pride wounded. Men like him could survive bullets and prison cells, but humiliation? That cut deeper than knives.
The room creaked softly. A glass clinked against a table. Then Delport continued.
“Do you even know who this woman is that you took?”
No answer.
“No,” Delport said flatly. “Of course you don’t. You don’t watch local television.”
“What has that got to do with it?”
The irritation in Reznikov’s voice was unmistakable now.
“She’s Kaitlyn Fourie,” Delport replied. “A television presenter. Wildlife documentaries. Safari broadcasts. Her face is known internationally. You abducted a woman the entire world recognises. She’s better known worldwide than the King of Britain or the Princes of Wales.”
The silence that followed was heavier this time.
“If this gets out,” Delport continued carefully, “you’ll be hunted by every law enforcement agency on the planet. Even your friends won’t protect you. Not in Mozambique. Not in Russia.”
“But I need my money,” Reznikov snarled. “And I terminate all ties to me and ... and that damn prosecutor.”
“There is only one man trying to tie you to that prosecutor,” Delport replied. “And he is speculating. He has no evidence. No proof.”
I could almost hear my own name hanging unspoken in the room.
“That bush pilot...” Reznikov growled.
My fingers tightened around my rifle.
“I will kill him.”
Then his voice darkened even further.
“And this woman.”
A muffled whimper drifted from somewhere deeper inside the unit.
Kaitlyn.
Alive.
Fear does strange things to time. In that moment, everything sharpened. Every sound. Every movement. I could hear the soft rustle of Nadia shifting her grip on her weapon beside me. I could hear Darya’s slow breathing.
I looked at them.
Their eyes met mine.
Hard. Ready. Predatory.
Nadia leaned slightly toward me, her lips almost brushing my ear.
“Let’s go join the pow-wow,” she whispered. There was amusement in her voice. Cold amusement.
Inside the room, Delport spoke again, slower now. Persuasive.
“Listen to me, Sergei. Leave this woman here and walk out with me. We’ve built a good arrangement together. The movement is close now. The government in Mozambique is weakening. We are finally ready to take control after decades of waiting.”
His tone hardened. “Don’t sabotage everything because of panic.”
No response.
“Walk out with me,” Delport said, “and I will see to it that your funds are restored. Let the dust settle.”
I had heard enough.
A calm settled over me then. Ice-cold and absolute. The kind that comes right before gunfire.
I reached forward slowly and wrapped my fingers around the edge of the curtain. Then I ripped it aside. The fabric snapped violently against the rail as we stormed through the doorway in perfect synchronisation.
Weapons up. All angles covered instantly. Pure controlled aggression.
The room exploded into frozen chaos.
A harsh fluorescent tube flickered overhead, casting pale white light across maps, crates, cigarette smoke, and terrified faces. A folding table stood in the center littered with whiskey glasses, documents, and ammunition magazines. The air smelled of sweat, tobacco, and fear.
Reznikov spun first.
Massive. Broad-shouldered. Eyes wild with fury.
His hand twitched instinctively toward the pistol near the table — then stopped dead when he saw three rifles aimed directly at him from three separate angles.
Mine centered on his chest.
Nadia’s covering his head.
Darya locking down the rest of the room.
No gaps. No escape.
Delport froze beside the table mid-motion, the colour draining from his face so quickly it looked almost unreal. The polished confidence he carried moments earlier vanished instantly, replaced by naked survival instinct.
And then there was the guard. Poor bastard.
He stood near the back wall with an AK hanging lazily against his chest, completely unprepared for hell to kick the door open. His eyes widened so far I could see the whites glowing in the fluorescent light. Every instinct screamed at him to raise the rifle, but terror rooted him to the floor.
He looked from me ... to Nadia ... to Darya ... Realising with horrifying clarity that every direction he turned ended with a bullet.
The room went dead silent. Not a breath. Not a movement. Just the metallic vibration of the lights overhead and the heavy smell of gun oil hanging in the air.
I could see the calculations happening behind Reznikov’s eyes. Fight? Run? Reach for the weapon?
No.
He knew.
The instant we entered that room, the balance of power shattered completely.
For the first time since this whole nightmare began ... Sergei Reznikov looked afraid.
I smiled thinly and tightened my grip on the rifle.
“Starting the party without us,” I said.
Suddenly the tension in the room became so thick it felt alive. Not metaphorically. Physically. Like breathing through hot syrup.
Nobody moved. Nobody even seemed willing to blink. The fluorescent tube overhead buzzed faintly, washing the cramped room in a sickly white glow that made everyone look half-dead already. Cigarette smoke drifted lazily through the air, hanging beneath the ceiling like storm clouds trapped indoors.
“Keep your hands and feet where I can see them,” Darya hissed in a low, dangerous voice, “and don’t make stupid moves.”
She moved carefully toward Kaitlyn, never once crossing Nadia’s or my line of fire. Professional. Controlled. Every step measured.
I stepped toward the table and picked up Reznikov’s pistol. A heavy black Makarov. The metal was still warm from his hand.
It had been lying within easy reach — temptation sitting right beside him like a loyal dog waiting for permission to bite. I removed that temptation calmly and slipped the weapon behind my back into a back pocket.
“Nobody dies tonight, except Reznikov,” I said quietly, “unless you do something stupid.”
The words settled over the room like a death sentence disguised as mercy.
Delport stared at me across the table. His dark eyes looked almost black beneath the harsh light, calculating constantly. Unlike Reznikov, he wasn’t panicking. Not outwardly. Men like Delport survived by adapting faster than everyone else around them.
“What do you want?” he asked finally. His voice was low now. Careful.
I kept my MP7 trained squarely at Reznikov’s chest.
“I came for two things,” I replied. “Miss Fourie ... and to terminate Reznikov’s miserable life.”
Reznikov visibly flinched at the word terminate.
Interesting. The mighty Russian gangster suddenly looked painfully human when death stopped being theoretical.
“It would be unwise,” Delport replied.
I almost smiled. “I have no fish to fry with you,” I said. “You can leave this place alive. Go tell your uncle and your grieving mother you are still alive and breathing.”
Delport’s expression changed instantly. Shock. Tiny, but real.
“But Reznikov...” I continued slowly, “that’s another matter.”
“What do you know about me?” Delport asked quietly.
“Enough,” My voice cracked through the room like a whip. “Now shut up and either leave ... or die beside this scumbag asshole.”
The silence afterward felt enormous.
Delport studied me carefully now, reassessing everything.
“You don’t know me,” he said at last with the faintest smirk. “If you did, you wouldn’t be so cocky. My men will come through that door any moment now.”
I chuckled softly. It sounded ugly even to my own ears.
“You mean the five men you left outside?” I asked. “I’d say they’re otherwise entertained right now.”
For the first time, Delport’s confidence cracked.
“The three of you took them out?” His eyes flicked quickly between me, Nadia, and Darya. “Impossible.”
“Who said we’re only three?” That landed exactly how I wanted.
Uncertainty spread through the room immediately. The human mind always imagines worse than reality. Now Delport had to wonder if there were more operators outside. Snipers. Backup teams. A perimeter already locked down.
Fear multiplies best in silence.
Nadia stepped toward the door behind us and casually slid the curtain closed again before locking the sliding door shut with a metallic click. The sound echoed sharply through the room. Final. Deliberate. Like sealing a tomb.
“Do we terminate them here,” she asked coolly, “or take them outside?”
God, she played the role beautifully. The expression on her face was pure ice. No hesitation. No humanity. Just calm predatory intent.
“We terminate them here,” I replied evenly. “Otherwise the bad boys outside might drag Reznikov away and burn his evil body before sunrise.”
Reznikov made a strange sound then. A tiny whimper. I looked at him properly for the first time since entering the room.
And there it was. Fear. Real fear. Not anger. Not bravado. Terror.
His face had gone pale beneath the stubble. Sweat glistened across his forehead despite the cool night air. His breathing had become shallow and uneven, chest rising too fast beneath his shirt. He kept staring into the black barrel of my MP7 as though hypnotised by it.
Mister big shot. Mister untouchable. Now reduced to a frightened old gangster trying not to piss himself.
“You don’t know who you are dealing with...” Reznikov muttered weakly.
It was the first thing he’d said since we entered.
I took one slow step closer. “I’m dealing with the piece of shit who ordered the murder of my friend Elsabe Coetzee,” I hissed, “and then tried to take another friend from me.”
The room felt smaller with every word.
“Your account is full and unpaid, Sergei.”
I could hear Kaitlyn breathing somewhere behind Darya now. Ragged. Uneven.
“But fear not,” I whispered. “I’m about to let you settle that account in full. Tonight. Right here.”
I raised the MP7 slowly and aligned the sight directly between Reznikov’s eyes.
The room froze. Even the fluorescent buzz overhead suddenly sounded deafening.
“WAIT!”
Delport’s voice cracked across the room sharply. For the first time, real urgency entered his tone.
“Let’s discuss this first.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” I replied without taking my eyes off Reznikov. “Take your sorry carcass and walk away.”
“I can’t.”
That made me pause. Not because of the words. Because of the way he said them. Not defiant. Resigned.
“Not until we discuss the matter.”
“Reznikov dies,” I said coldly. “No discussion.”
“You’ll be making a grave mistake.”
“The only grave mistake I’ll make tonight is not putting him in one.”
Delport exhaled heavily. “Let the two of us step outside,” he said quietly. “I’ll explain. Then you’ll understand.”
I spat onto the concrete floor beside the table.
“What? That you’re the kingpin behind this circus? That you plan to take over Mozambique with your ISIS mercenaries?”
Delport said nothing. But his eyes changed. That was the moment I noticed it. Not hatred. Not fear. Something else. Conflict.
As though there was another layer beneath everything he’d said so far. Something he could not reveal in front of Reznikov. And that bothered me more than threats did.
Behind me, Darya finally reached Kaitlyn.
The sight of her hit me harder than I expected.
She was sitting on a wooden chair against the wall with her wrists bound tightly behind her back and duct tape residue still clinging to one side of her face where they had ripped the gag away earlier. Her safari shirt was torn near the collar, smeared with dirt and dried blood. One sleeve hung partly off her shoulder where someone had grabbed her violently.
Her beautiful blonde hair — normally neat and sunlit on television screens across the world — hung tangled and dirty around her face in exhausted knots.
And her eyes ... Jesus. Those eyes. Red from crying. Wide with shock. Trying desperately to stay strong.
There was bruising along one cheekbone, ugly purple fingerprints around one wrist, and a split in her lower lip where she must have fought back at some point. She looked dehydrated, exhausted, and freezing despite the humid heat.
But she was alive. Barely holding herself together ... but alive.
Darya cut the restraints quickly and carefully helped her upright. Kaitlyn almost collapsed immediately. Her legs shook violently beneath her own weight after being restrained for so long. Darya caught her before she hit the floor.
Kaitlyn’s eyes found mine then. Half relief. Half horror. Because of what she saw in me.
I realised in that moment I probably looked terrifying — black tactical gear, blood on my sleeve, MP7 aimed at a man’s face with full intent to kill him.
She still hadn’t spoken. Not one word. And somehow that silence hurt more than screaming would have.
I couldn’t even hold her gaze for long. She needed medical help, very soon.
Meanwhile Nadia moved smoothly behind the remaining guard, forcing him to his knees before relieving him of his rifle and sidearm with casual efficiency. Cable ties hissed tight around his wrists while he stared blankly ahead, too terrified to resist.
Then Nadia stepped behind Delport holding another set of restraints. A wicked little smirk played across her face.
“Your hands behind your back,” she said sweetly. Then her smile sharpened.
“If you please...” It was not a request, but a command.
As Nadia moved behind Delport with the cable ties, I had to physically resist the urge to put a round through Reznikov’s skull right there and then.
Every instinct in me screamed for it. Every image of Kait’s bloodied body. Every sleepless night. Every kilometre I had travelled hunting this animal across borders and bodies and lies.
It would have been easy. One squeeze of the trigger. One sharp crack. Done.
Instead, I stepped forward, grabbed a fistful of Reznikov’s collar and yanked him violently out of the chair. The Russian stumbled awkwardly, fear and outrage flashing across his face at the same time.
“Stand up,” I snarled.
He tried to resist for half a second. Big mistake. I slammed him face-first against the edge of the table hard enough to rattle the whiskey glasses before wrenching his arms behind his back. The cable ties hissed tight around his wrists.
Reznikov groaned through clenched teeth.
Good. I wanted him uncomfortable. Wanted him humiliated. Wanted him to understand that all the money, mercenaries and political connections in the world meant absolutely nothing now.
I dragged him backward and forced him down onto the chair again. The cheap metal frame creaked beneath his weight. Then I crouched quickly, binding his ankles separately to the front legs of the chair with another set of restraints.
Properly secured. No movement. No heroics. No escape. He looked ridiculous now. The mighty Sergei Reznikov reduced to a trussed-up thug sweating beneath fluorescent lights.
“Nadia,” I said without taking my eyes off him, “get Kait some water.”
Nadia immediately moved toward Kaitlyn near the mattress against the wall.
“Darya,” I continued, “watch this asshole. If he so much as farts, shoot him through the kneecaps.”
Darya smiled faintly. A terrifying smile. “With pleasure,” she replied.
She settled beside the table with her rifle aimed squarely at Reznikov’s chest. Calm. Relaxed. Finger resting dangerously close to the trigger.
Reznikov swallowed visibly.
Good.
Then I turned toward Delport.
“You,” I said coldly. “Outside. Move.”
Delport said nothing. No argument. No hesitation. That interested me more than resistance would have.
Nadia grabbed his wrists behind his back and gave him a slight shove toward the door. I pushed the curtain aside and unlocked the steel door, keeping one hand on my MP7 while Delport stepped out into the humid African night ahead of me.
The darkness outside felt almost surreal after the harsh fluorescent lighting inside the unit.
The camp had gone eerily quiet. No voices. No guards.
Only the distant drone of generators and the soft clicking of cooling engines somewhere beyond the buildings. Floodlights cast long pale beams across the dirt yard while moths circled lazily around them like drifting ash.
Delport walked slowly ahead of me toward a black SUV parked near the edge of the compound. Expensive vehicle. Clean. Untouched by the dust coating everything else around it. Of course.
“Let’s walk over to my car,” he said over his shoulder calmly.
“Walk,” I replied. “But no funny shit. Otherwise, you’ll be explaining to Nick at Hell’s gate why you arrived early.”
That actually earned the faintest chuckle from him. Strange man.
We reached the SUV and Delport turned slowly before leaning back against the driver-side door. The floodlights caught half his face while the rest remained buried in shadow. He looked tired suddenly. Older. Like the weight of whatever he carried had finally begun to show.
“Now, Grobler,” he said quietly, “let me explain why you can’t terminate Reznikov.”
I kept the MP7 aimed center mass.
“This ought to be good.”
“What I’m about to tell you stays between you and me,” he continued. “Confidential.”
“Go on,” I said. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
He exhaled slowly before continuing. “I know you want to kill Reznikov. Frankly, under normal circumstances, I would probably help you do it. But it has to wait.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”
“Because if you kill him tonight,” Delport replied carefully, “you could jeopardise over a decade of work. Operations involving multiple governments, intelligence agencies, private military networks and energy interests worth billions.”
I almost laughed. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Delport stared at me with visible irritation now. Like a university professor forced to explain advanced mathematics to a violent idiot with a rifle.
“You think I’m trying to take over the Mozambican government,” he said.
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
His answer came instantly. “I’m trying to prevent it from collapsing.”
I barked out a short laugh.
“Yeah? And I’m Donald John Trump.”
To my surprise, Delport chuckled softly.
“That’s ironic,” he replied, “because the Trump administration is one of the reasons Mozambique still has a chance.”
That made me pause slightly.
Delport noticed. Good politician. He saw every reaction.
“Trump backed American strategic involvement in Mozambique years ago,” he continued. “Especially regarding LNG infrastructure and regional stability. The Cabo Delgado gas developments became too important economically and geopolitically to ignore.”
The wind shifted slightly through the compound, carrying the smell of dirt and dust.
Delport continued speaking quietly.
“TotalEnergies has spent years lobbying Washington to support and secure operations here. Billions are tied up in Mozambique LNG projects. Energy corridors. Infrastructure. Maritime security. Europe wants alternatives to unstable supply chains. America wants influence in Southern Africa before Russia, China, or extremist groups establish permanent footholds.”
“And Reznikov?”
“Reznikov and his ISIS-connected allies have been interfering with those operations for years. Weapons trafficking. Destabilisation. Funding insurgencies. Manipulating militant groups across the north.”
I studied him carefully. He sounded believable. Too believable.