Let the River Run
Copyright© 2026 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 26
Punda Maria, Kruger National Park.
Punda Maria lay wrapped in darkness and silence.
At the far corner of the overnight camp, Unit Number One stood dark and quiet. The family occupying it had long since switched off their lights and retreated beneath blankets, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding on the opposite side of the camp. Their dreams remained undisturbed while, less than two hundred metres away, armed men, spies, kidnappers, and hunters of men moved through the shadows.
It was one of those cool, clear summer nights towards the end of April that only the northern reaches of the Kruger National Park seemed capable of producing. The heat of the day had finally surrendered to a pleasant chill that lingered in the air, carrying with it the faint scent of dust, dry grass, and distant mopane trees.
Above, the African sky stretched from horizon to horizon, impossibly vast and crowded with stars. The Milky Way spilled across the heavens like a river of silver dust, bright enough to cast the faintest suggestion of shadow on the ground below.
A handful of ageing camp lights stood guard over the two dirt roads that wound between the accommodation units. Their dull yellow glow did little to challenge the darkness. Instead, the light seemed to surrender to it, creating islands of pale illumination surrounded by oceans of blackness. Shadows pooled beneath trees and buildings, merging into a landscape of uncertain shapes and hidden corners. The camp appeared deserted, abandoned even, as if everyone had quietly slipped away and left it to the night.
Beyond the perimeter fence, Africa was awake.
The distant whoop of a hyena drifted through the darkness from somewhere out on the plains. An owl called from a tree near the camp boundary. Insects sang their endless nocturnal chorus while, now and then, the bush itself seemed to breathe. Leaves rustled. Branches cracked. Unseen creatures moved through the darkness beyond the fence, following ancient paths older than any road built by man.
The game wardens were nowhere to be seen. They were probably gathered around a television at the reception building, watching some late-night rugby or most likely a soccer match replay, or perhaps half asleep at the entrance gate, nursing mugs of coffee while the hours crawled toward dawn. Whatever they were doing, none of them had the slightest idea that a Russian criminal, a deep-cover CIA operative, a kidnapped television presenter, and a heavily armed rescue team were currently sharing the same patch of ground within their quiet little camp.
For now, Punda Maria slept.
And in that uneasy stillness, beneath the stars and the watchful darkness of the African bush, events were unfolding that would leave some men changed forever.
Nadia and Darya were unsuccessfully trying to wrench Kait away from me.
In their minds, they needed to get her somewhere quiet, get water into her, sit her down, wrap her in a blanket and start tending to the psychological wounds left by the last few days. Both women had seen enough violence to know that sometimes the injuries you couldn’t see were far worse than the ones you could.
The problem was that Kait wasn’t cooperating. She simply refused to let go. Not that I minded.
Her arms remained wrapped around me as if I was the only solid object left in her world. Every time Nadia or Darya tried to gently persuade her to move away, Kait tightened her grip and ignored them completely.
What struck me was that she wasn’t crying anymore. She wasn’t hysterical. She wasn’t shaking. There was no panic in her eyes.
A few hours ago, she had been a kidnapped woman tied up in a remote camp deep in the northern reaches of the Kruger National Park. Now she stood under the pale yellow glow of the camp lights looking remarkably composed.
Too composed.
The bruising on her face told a different story. There was a dark mark along her cheekbone. Her split lip had started swelling. Dust clung to her clothes and there were scrapes on her arms where she had clearly fought back at some point.
Yet she stood upright. Alert. Focused. Almost calm. And that bothered me.
In my experience people either broke during an ordeal or shortly afterwards. Kait seemed to be doing neither. Instead, she appeared to be holding herself together with almost frightening determination.
As if she had locked something away behind a door in her mind and wasn’t planning on opening it until much later.
TC and Delport approached from the darkness between the units. The floodlights caught them as they walked toward us, casting long shadows across the dirt roadway.
“Miss Fourie, are you okay?” TC asked. “I can have my medic check you out, but only if you will let him...”
Kait finally loosened her grip on me enough to look toward him.
“I’m fine, thank you, TC.”
Nadia immediately snorted.
The sound was loud enough to make several of TC’s operators grin.
“Girlfriend, you went through a meat grinder and still manage to smile...” Nadia said. “How come?”
Kait’s smile was small. Tired. But genuine. “I’ve been through worse...”
The answer surprised everyone. Including me.
Nadia opened her mouth to ask more questions but thought better of it.
For a second an uncomfortable silence settled over the group. The cool night breeze moved through the camp. Somewhere beyond the perimeter fence a hyena called in the darkness.
TC broke the moment.
“Well,” he said, clapping his hands together once. “I think we can clear out now. For the time being me and my men will tend to the captives.”
My eyes immediately moved toward the unit behind us. “Reznikov...”
TC cut me off before I could continue. “We will safeguard him and his two cronies until Interpol can deliver him to Germany for trial.”
“Germany?” I asked. The word hit me like a bucket of cold water. “What about the CIA?”
“Yes, why Germany?” Delport cut in immediately. “I have full arrest authority on him.”
TC looked from Delport to me and back again. Then he sighed. The sigh of a man who had already had this argument several times in his head.
“Sorry. Pull a number and take a seat. There’s more countries that would like a word with him and the USA is about fifth in line to the throne.”
Delport’s expression darkened instantly. “The hell we are.”
Several operators glanced toward him.
“The USA gets him first.”
TC folded his arms. “We’ll see about that.”
For a few moments the two men simply stared at each other. CIA versus private military. Government versus government. Neither willing to blink.
Then TC shrugged. “Even Israel is looking for him.”
That got everyone’s attention.
“Something to do with arms deals involving Hamas and the October Seventh attack.”
Silence followed. A heavy silence. The kind that arrives when a man’s crimes suddenly become much larger than anyone imagined.
I found myself looking toward Kait.
At first glance her expression appeared completely blank. Almost detached. As if the conversation had nothing to do with her. But I knew her.
And in the pale camp lighting I caught something. A flicker. A reaction. Her eyes. They weren’t blank at all.
They were alive. Bright. Calculating. Something was happening behind them. Something she was trying very hard not to reveal.
I watched her carefully. The muscles in her jaw tightened for the briefest moment. Then relaxed again. Nobody else seemed to notice. Nobody except me.
A cold sensation crept down my spine. Because suddenly I realised that Kait wasn’t listening to the argument. She was listening to one specific detail. Israel. Hamas. October Seventh. And whatever connection existed between those words and Sergei Reznikov.
The question hit me immediately.
What aren’t you telling us, Kay?
On the way back to Skukuza, Darya sat up front with me while Nadia and Kait occupied the rear seats.
The helicopter’s rotors hammered steadily above us, their rhythmic thumping vibrating through the airframe and into my bones. Outside, the African night rolled beneath us like an endless black ocean. Occasionally, moonlight reflected off a river bend or caught the pale ribbon of a dirt road winding through the bush, but mostly there was only darkness.
Kait appeared to be asleep.
Or at least pretending to be.
Her head rested against the window, blonde hair partially hiding her face as the occasional flash of instrument light illuminated her features. Nadia sat beside her, staring out into the darkness beyond the Perspex canopy. There was nothing to see. The bush below was little more than a featureless black blanket stretching toward the horizon.
Nobody spoke.
The hour-long flight gave me something I hadn’t had for days. Time. Time to think. Time to question. Time to doubt.
Reznikov was safe now. Safe with TC and his squad. The FLO, Interpol, the CIA, Germany, Israel, and probably half a dozen other intelligence agencies could fight amongst themselves over who got him first.
Not my problem anymore. Or at least that’s what I told myself. It felt like a victory. And yet it didn’t. It was a strange, bitter thing.
The Wolf had finally been exposed. Dragged out into the open. No more shadows. No more speculation. No more hunting ghosts through half of Southern Africa.
He was caught. Contained. Defeated. Yet somehow it didn’t feel like winning. Not really. Not the way I had imagined it all those nights lying awake replaying Elsabe’s murder in my mind.
The outcome I had wanted was simple. A bullet. Justice delivered from the muzzle of my Beretta. Final. Permanent.
Instead, politics, intelligence agencies and international courts had stepped in and claimed ownership of my revenge.
But then again ... If I had killed him ... What would it actually have changed?
The thought sat heavily in my mind.
Would it have brought Elsabe back? No.
Would it have allowed me to hear her laugh again? No.
Would it have allowed me to look into those expressive eyes of hers one more time? No.
Would I ever again feel the warmth of her hand finding mine? Never.
The realisation hurt more than I cared to admit.
I stared into the darkness beyond the windscreen.
Besides...
I have Kait. Or did I?
The thought immediately sent my mind down another path. A path that had been bothering me for some time now. Ever since I’d met her.
I thought back to the day Gustav had handed her the R1 rifle.
Most civilians looked at an R1 as if it were some alien artifact. Not Kait. She had accepted it with curiosity and confidence. Then came those words: “Now I can keep my pilot safe... ” At the time I had smiled. Now I wasn’t so sure.
Then there was the way she saw things in the bush. Animals. Tracks. Disturbances. Tiny details most people missed entirely. Her observational skills were frighteningly good. Better than mine on some occasions.
Of course, spending years filming wildlife in remote locations could explain some of that. Could. But not all of it.
Then there was Delport’s journal.
I still couldn’t wrap my head around that one. The invisible ink entries. The way she immediately suspected hidden writing. The way she knew exactly how to reveal it.
I had stood there staring at those pages while she worked as if she’d done it a hundred times before.
But then again ... Invisible ink was an old schoolboy and schoolgirl trick. Wasn’t it? Or was I making excuses?
The helicopter vibrated slightly as we crossed a patch of turbulent air.
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
The questions kept coming.
The subtle hints she dropped during conversations.
Like the time she called Ash out for using me as bait. Most people never would have noticed. She had. Instantly. OR was she just looking out for me like she really cared for me?
I glanced over my shoulder. Kait hadn’t moved. Still asleep. Or pretending remarkably well.
Then another question surfaced.
How did she know the actual mechanics behind the cracking agent?
More importantly ... How did she know how to use it? Most people wouldn’t even recognise the substance. She not only recognized it. She identified it by brand name. Who does that?
Then there was Elsabe. That bothered me too. Any woman interested in a man would have shown something. Jealousy. Discomfort. Curiosity. Something.
Yet Kait had handled every conversation involving Elsabe with grace and understanding. Almost too much understanding. As if she knew about Elsabe before I even told her.
Was she simply mature?
Or was she hiding her feelings exceptionally well?
Then there was that conversation with Ash. The one where she casually announced she’d be the one handing me fresh clips for my R1.
Clips. Not magazines. Most civilians got that wrong. Hell, most journalists got it wrong. How did a television presenter brat know the terminology? More importantly ... How did she know it instinctively?
South African Special Forces use the slang word, “clips”, when referring to magazines. Also, no-one would have noticed, but on field guide duty Kait always carried a 7.62 millimetre hunting rifle or sometimes a .375 magnum. She was completely at ease around firearms, and could use them.
I rubbed my face. The questions just kept multiplying.
And then came the cherry on top. The thing that refused to leave my mind.
“I’ve been through worse... ”
The words echoed in my memory. She had said them so casually. As if being kidnapped, beaten, restrained and threatened wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever experienced. Who says something like that? What exactly had she been through before?
Then there was the Beretta. God. The Beretta. She had known to check the chamber. She had known the pistol wasn’t loaded. She had known exactly what would happen when she pulled that trigger. And then she had executed that dry shot with the precision of someone who understood exactly how a firearm worked. Not a guess. Not luck. Knowledge. Cold, deliberate knowledge.
And her words: “This is for hurting me, Elsabe will come later...”
That words had meaning. If she was about to shoot Reznikov through the head, why would she add; Elsabe would come later? She knew the chamber of the gun was empty!
The helicopter descended through the darkness toward Skukuza. Lights appeared ahead, scattered across the landscape like distant stars. By the time we touched down, I had more questions than answers.
Miss Kaitlyn Fourie was not your average damsel in distress. Not even close.
No. She was operating several moves ahead of everybody around her. Including me. And the question that bothered me most wasn’t who she was. It was what I should do about it.
How do you call someone out when you’re not entirely sure what you’re accusing them of? And if she was hiding something ... Did I really want to know?
At Skukuza, I wasted no time. The moment the helicopter shut down and the rotors wound down into silence, I hurried Kait across the parking area toward the clinic while Nadia and Darya headed for Kait’s old bungalow. Both women were in desperate need of a hot shower, clean clothes, and a chance to strip, clean, and inspect every weapon that had accompanied us through the operation.
The adrenaline was gone now. The mission was over. And the aches and bruises that had been ignored during the rescue were beginning to make themselves known.
The Skukuza clinic was quiet at that hour of the night. The fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the waiting area while somewhere deeper in the building a monitor emitted the occasional electronic chirp.
The nursing sister on duty looked as if she had seen everything the bush could throw at a human being and then some.
Professional. Calm. Unflappable. She took one look at Kait and immediately ushered her into an examination room. The assessment was thorough. Far more thorough than Kait wanted.
I could hear the occasional protest through the partially closed door as the nurse examined bruises, checked joint movement, tested for tenderness, and looked for signs of more serious injuries hidden beneath the obvious scrapes and contusions.
Eventually she ordered X-rays as a precaution.
An hour later the verdict came back. Nothing critical. No fractures. No internal injuries. No damage that would require hospitalisation.
Just a collection of bruises, muscle trauma, abrasions, and the physical aftermath of rough handling. It could have been much worse. Far worse.
The nurse prescribed treatment and produced a tube of Lasonil, also known in some formulations as Reparil Gel.
I knew the stuff well. It wasn’t one of those cosmetic creams people bought because it sounded impressive. It actually worked.
The formulation contains heparinoid or an aescin-diethylamine salicylate formulation that acts as a localised anti-inflammatory while also functioning as a mild anticoagulant. Applied directly to bruised tissue, it penetrates the skin and helps break down stagnant, pooled blood trapped beneath the surface—the very thing responsible for those ugly purple-black bruises.
At the same time it stimulates localised circulation, helping the body drain away the accumulated haematoma and accelerate the healing process.
I’ve carried the same miracle goo in my first-aid kit for years. Anyone who spends enough time in the bush eventually learns to appreciate modern pharmaceutical chemistry.
After all, trees, rocks, vehicle doors, aircraft fuselages, and angry wildlife all seem to possess a unique talent for introducing various parts of one’s anatomy to the laws of physics.
The nurse wasn’t finished. She opened a cabinet and produced a tub of Arnica Gel. Another old favourite. A staple in practically every bush-medic kit, SANParks first-aid box, and field trauma bag I’d ever encountered.
Arnica helps soothe skin tenderness, reduce swelling, and ease the deep muscular ache that often lingers long after the visible bruising starts fading.
The nurse handed both tubes to Kait with a knowing smile.
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