Hank tilted the control stick backwards and saluted. ‘Whatever you say, Mr van Rok.’

  Grant felt sick as the helicopter plunged towards the park – and not just from the rush and pitch of their descent. On the run again, he thought. Different faces, but still the same dangers.

  The helicopter touched down in Magnolia Dell Park, its rotors blowing the hell out of the weeping willows nearby. The green, open space connected four neighbourhoods; them landing there might slow down pursuers trying to work out where they were headed. At least the van Roks aren’t wanted for crimes against humanity, Grant reflected. Stick behind them; let them lead the way.

  They put on surgical masks and headed north‑east out of the park, Luke and his father walking either side of Grant as he hurried to the safe house.

  Through the stiff blue fabric covering his mask, Grant muttered, ‘Here goes everything.’

  As the nocturnal river noises rose up around him, Ralph couldn’t help but wish he was back in the helicopter. He’d watched it recede in the sky over Crocodile Lodge, the fading noise of the rotors like a drowning man’s final shout for help.

  Now darkness had fallen, a second‑rate pretender to Ralph’s black mood. He’d spent so long desperate to get home, and now here they were, leaving almost as soon as they’d arrived.

  ‘Our best chance of escape is by river,’ his dad had announced ten minutes ago. ‘There’s good cover to hide us from above, and I don’t think they’d expect us to choose the slow option. We’ll take Xai’s old boat – it’s moored under camouflage netting a hundred metres downriver – and follow the river down to Malelane. From there we’ll call Grant, who’ll hopefully have made it to the city by then, and see what his father can do for us, then we’ll steal transport and take the N4 straight into Pretoria with Tanky. Any questions?’

  The question Ralph had wanted to ask was ‘Are you all right, Dad?’

  All his life, he’d thought of his dad as supremely capable – invincible, even. But since learning of Xai’s death, Ralph could see desperation behind his dad’s eyes as he fought to hold things together. When their mum had died, he and Robyn had been too young and absorbed in their own grief to consider how their father must be feeling. He had always seemed so strong and assured, striding through life, watching out for his family. The idea that he could be vulnerable or feel low seemed ridiculous . . .

  Until today.

  Ralph had felt a sense of impending tragedy as Roland raided his own depleted stores for arms and equipment. At one point, he started packing guns for which he didn’t even have ammo.

  ‘I’ll get hold of some on the way,’ Roland blustered.

  Ralph had played along, making encouraging noises. But losing the comfort of trusting in his dad’s infallibility hurt like hell. He felt a bit like Tanky must have, being forced aboard in his crate, roaring in fear and frustration, with no choice but to comply.

  Now, the dark water made Ralph shiver as they progressed cautiously downriver. A red lamp glowed on deck; red so it didn’t stop their eyes adjusting to the dark. The motor was running at low speed so that its low electric purr was difficult to hear over the steady chirrup of cicadas and night birds. Roland stood at the tiller, gazing silently into the night. He gave no sign that he’d heard Ralph approach, just stared down at something in his hand.

  ‘Dad, where’s Robyn?’ Ralph asked softly. ‘And Niko?’

  ‘Seeing to the rhino,’ Roland replied distantly.

  Ralph realised what his dad was holding. It was a cigar cutter with an inbuilt lighter. Xai had bought it for him on the first anniversary of Roland making the Recces, and Ralph knew it was a treasured gift.

  Roland looked so sad. Get your father out of this for me, my little rogue, Xai had said.

  If only I knew how, Ralph thought.

  ‘We had a tradition, Xai and I,’ Roland said. ‘After a successful mission, we’d share a drink and a cigar together.’ He weighed the lighter. ‘We had to use this, for luck. And the drink could only be a beer. Not a whisky or rum or a vintage cognac. It had to be –’

  ‘A beer.’ Ralph smiled to see his dad brightening. ‘Any in particular?’

  ‘Oh, that depended on the cigar.’ Roland chuckled. ‘See, Xai would say, the trick of it is to match the colour of the cigar wrapper to the colour of the beer. A mild cigar pairs with a light beer, but if you’re going for a full‑bodied Cuban, then . . .’ He trailed off. ‘I’m sorry, Ralph. Not a story you can really relate to.’

  ‘I’m sure they pair well with a good Fanta,’ Ralph joked. ‘That lighter brought you a lot of luck over the years. I’m glad you brought it with you.’

  Roland nodded vaguely. ‘No luck lasts forever.’

  ‘I tried to fight alongside him . . . but he wouldn’t let me.’ Ralph paused, uneasy. ‘When Zuma fired at Xai, he was already firing at her and her troops. He took down two of them as well as the helicopter pilot.’

  ‘Xai was protecting you.’

  ‘I know. And . . . I guess that she was trying to protect her people. The first thing she did was shield her wounded.’

  ‘Or else she was out for revenge.’ Roland looked past the blood‑red glow of the lantern into the inky darkness. ‘Revenge for the lives we took fighting our way out of the mine.’

  ‘It was kill or be killed,’ Ralph said quietly. ‘You didn’t start this battle – none of you did.’

  ‘But I’m going to see it through. Whatever it takes.’ Roland increased the engine speed, staring out over the dark river. ‘I’ve heard that in the field, Zuma’s a real legend. Tactical acumen second to none, with the ability to read the terrain and anticipate the enemy’s moves. She’s the perfect soldier. But if she’s killing civilians on the orders of a corrupt president, then she’s crooked too. She may think that she’s above justice. But like Mbato and Gerhard, she’ll get what’s coming to her.’ He slid Xai’s lighter into the pocket of his tactical vest and buttoned it closed. ‘One way or another, we’ve entered the end game. And whatever it takes, we’re going to win.’

  ‘What it takes is some sleep,’ Ralph said, hoping to shift the subject someplace lighter. ‘I can help? Take over the tiller?’

  ‘I’m fine. Why don’t you get some sleep?’ Roland told him. ‘While you can.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll try.’ Ralph retreated, heavy‑hearted, to the cabin at the back of the boat, which had a small bunk area. He heard a throaty roar from the crate on the deck.

  ‘Robyn, you’ve got to hold the light steady,’ Niko snapped.

  Rob was already speaking over her: ‘Don’t shout – you’ll upset him even more!’

  Rhino care going well, Ralph thought. But he was glad to hear their noise over the sounds of the river; it helped him feel connected to them. His dad, silent and sad, felt lost out there in the darkness, a million miles away.

  But as Ralph settled into his bunk, he knew his sorrow wasn’t just for Xai and his dad. It was for himself too. The boy who’d grown up at Crocodile Lodge, safe and secure with no thought of the future; that boy had been tested and changed for ever. Ralph knew that when he left this boat, he’d be walking through a doorway into the next stage of his life. He would go on learning from his father, and love him, but his faith would never again be unquestioning. The thought made him feel guilty, but he knew it was something that came with age and experience. Like the young lion skirmishing with its father then leaving the pride to face the unknown alone. Every boy went there, sooner or later.

  Another step nearer to claiming my birthright, thought Ralph, as his heavy eyes shut. To becoming an adventurist.

  Justice Mahomed Street would normally have been busy with traffic, but there wasn’t a car or bus in sight as Grant looked out from a side alley. He, Luke and Karl van Rok had lain low in a garage for an hour or more, waiting until closer to curfew, in the hope it would be easier to reach their destination unspotted.

  ‘Shall we give it a go?’ Grant asked his companions.

  ‘Got to be a better bet than this dude’s old garage,’ said Luke.

  ‘Can you remember the way, Grant?’ Mr van Rok asked. ‘I’ve a map on my phone –’

  ‘No need,’ Grant told him. ‘I’ve been working out the quickest route in my head.’ He took a deep breath, put on his mask, and led the way out of the alley, the van Roks just behind him, at a pace he hoped looked comfortable and not suspicious. They jogged across the road and a stretch of parkland to get into the residential area beyond.

  The smaller streets were lush with greenery, tree‑lined and serene, but silent. They walked swiftly between high fences and the trees that flanked the road. Grant watched anxiously for movement, for someone calling out suspiciously, ‘What are you doing?’, but they didn’t see a soul.

  The two‑storey safe house was made of textured stone that had been painted pink – not a garish pink but a light beige‑pink that had delighted Grant as a child: it was the exact shade of the pink‑backed pelican, and had a reddish terracotta tile roof. Grant took a deep breath. The house looked grand, yet comfortable and welcoming at the same time, just as he remembered.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked the other two, then he walked confidently up the paved driveway. His stomach muscles tensed as the front door, sheltered by a small veranda, opened and a man dressed in black stepped out.

  Security guard, Grant thought.

  The man nodded to them. ‘Master Khumalo?’ He looked at the van Roks but didn’t ask who they were. ‘You’re expected.’

  A short hallway with terracotta floor tiles led to an elegant wooden staircase. Grant glanced at a living room off to one side that was panelled in the same dark reddish timber as the staircase. Stone fireplace, plush sofas, patterned rug on a wooden parquetry floor – everything looked as luxurious as he’d imagined, but somehow lonely as well.

  ‘Where’s my father?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Upstairs,’ said the guard. ‘Waiting for you.’

  The guard gestured them towards the stairs and followed them silently. Weeks of being on the run made Grant’s back prickle at having someone unknown behind him, and he found himself striding faster up the stairs, anticipating the relief of seeing his dad again. Anticipating safety after so long without it.

  Another security guard at the top of the stairs nodded at a door opposite, and Grant almost leaped to open it. He stepped into the room and saw his dad sitting behind an elegant wooden desk. There was a woman beside him, wearing olive drabs and the purple beret of a Special Forces Brigade unit.

  She was pointing a pistol at Max Khumalo’s head.

  Luke swore and turned to run, but his way was blocked by the two security guards. Both of them had drawn weapons and were covering Grant and the van Roks.

  ‘It’s good of you to join us,’ said the woman. ‘I’m Captain Zuma. Perhaps you’d like to tell me where I can find your friends?’

  20

  Zuma, thought Grant, as his guts turned to jelly. Xai’s murderer.

  ‘I’m sorry, Grant,’ said his father. ‘They got to me. Knocked out my guards and took their place. They knew you were coming.’

  ‘How, for heaven’s sake?’ Grant demanded. He knew he sounded petulant, but didn’t care. ‘We used code.’

  ‘And we used intelligence resources, as we always do with terrorists,’ Zuma replied, tapping at a laptop on Max’s desk with her free hand. ‘We had a list of likely safe houses, properties owned or leased by the Green Freedom Party. So when your dad went to ground, we kept tabs on them. This place had been empty for ages, then suddenly it wasn’t.’ She shrugged as a soft ring tone came from the laptop. ‘We started routine observation. Tracked a helicopter that landed not too far away. Didn’t take long to confirm our suspicions.’

  ‘Big Brother is watching you!’ Grant’s dad looked shaken to his core. ‘We are not terrorists! I knew your master was a petty‑minded criminal, but to go to these lengths –’

  ‘My master is the president, and the rule of law,’ Zuma said, her face and voice hardening.

  ‘Yes, have some respect, can’t you?’ came a hateful voice from the laptop, as an imposing figure appeared, sitting in a leather wingback chair behind a desk as big as a limousine.

  ‘Mbato,’ said Mr van Rok quietly.

  ‘Ah, Karl, good to see you and your son back together,’ the president said. ‘I do hope you’ll behave appropriately. If either of you doesn’t, Captain Zuma will ensure that the other regrets it.’ He peered out at Grant. ‘And here is Khumalo Junior. What a stubborn stain you are to remove.’

  Grant wanted to fight back, give some cocky retort. But he was so shaken he couldn’t think of anything to say.

  ‘It was actually Dane Mellanby who told us about your party’s property portfolio,’ Mbato went on coldly. ‘Such a shame he ran out on you all.’

  ‘Ran out? You had him killed,’ Grant sneered.

  ‘Ah, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ Mbato winked. ‘Brainwashed by terrorists. Swallowed all the Ballantyne propaganda . . .’

  ‘Propaganda?’ Grant wanted to smash the screen. He looked beseechingly at Zuma. ‘He’s lying, and we can prove it!’

  ‘Can you indeed?’ said Mbato thoughtfully. ‘Well, I think we’d all like to study this doubtless very convincing evidence. Concocted while you’ve been lying low, perhaps.’ He paused. ‘Where are the Ballantynes and Niko Haart now, Grant? We know they’ve left Crocodile Lodge.’

  ‘Because that little chip in the woolly rhino tells you they’re out of wifi range?’ said Luke.

  ‘For now,’ said Mbato. ‘Where are they trying to get to? The sooner you tell us, the sooner you all go free.’

  ‘You’re threatening a political rival in front of witnesses,’ Max Khumalo hissed. ‘For pity’s sake, Julius, I can pretend this didn’t happen if you stop now. You can’t seriously plan to have me shot!’

  ‘Well, Max, I just don’t know what you’re capable of,’ Mbato said softly. ‘You’ve been supporting the terrorists who released this virus –’

  ‘It’s a lie!’ Max snapped. ‘And others know it is.’

  ‘The world demands justice,’ Mbato said, ‘and I’m going to get it. Grant, tell me now, boy – where are Roland Ballantyne and the others?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Grant said. ‘I swear, I don’t!’

  ‘We left to get help without them,’ said Mr van Rok. ‘They said it was safer if we didn’t know where they were going.’

  Zuma was watching them closely. ‘Then obviously, they’re going to contact you as soon as they’re able.’

  Luke’s shoulders slumped.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ said Zuma. She turned to a sergeant. ‘All right, I want all phones in this building on the desk, now.’

  ‘Very good, Zuma,’ said Mbato. ‘We’ll just wait for the phone to ring, shall we? You can pretend that everything’s normal. That the safe house remains safe. Let Roland tell us his plans and whereabouts, and then . . .’

  Grant watched as the sergeant began to pat Luke down with professional thoroughness. He knew that next, the sergeant would search him, and no way would his phone not be discovered. Grant pulled it from his pocket and ran to the open window, hoping to throw it as far as he could. But a guard tripped him, and Grant fell to the parquet floor with a thump.

  ‘Captain Zuma,’ said Mbato, ‘inform me when the call comes in, will you? I have business to attend to here at Mahlamba Ndlopfu . . . with Mr Gerhard.’

  ‘Understood, Mr President,’ said Zuma. Her eyes were as dark as the laptop screen as Mbato killed the call.

  Ralph woke with gritty eyes and no idea where he was. It was still dark, but the song outside was one of approaching dawn.

  ‘Rise and shine. We’re nearly at the exit point,’ Robyn told him quietly. She was on her feet, struggling into an old hoodie. She yawned. ‘Dad’s given us vests to wear.’

  For a moment Ralph was baffled. Vests? Then he saw his sister strap herself into an intricate tapestry of nylon and mesh and realised she meant a tactical vest. Of course Dad has, he thought. MOLLE webbing covered its surface, allowing various military accessories to be attached.

  ‘It weighs a ton,’ Robyn complained, tossing Ralph’s vest onto his bunk.

  ‘Plates of boron carbide ceramic sewn in,’ he informed her. ‘Dad is ready for his war. Guess we’ve got to be ready to fight alongside him.’

  ‘Obvs,’ said Robyn. ‘Who prepares, wins. Isn’t that the old motto?’ She climbed up the ladder to the cabin, and he heard her footsteps overhead. Ralph quickly struggled into the vest and followed. While Niko minded the tiller, Roland Ballantyne was telling Robyn what to store where in her webbing.

  ‘Here’s your IFAK.’ He passed her a black pouch. ‘Immediate First Aid Kit. It secures to your vest at the right hip. Get in here, Ralph, and see for yourself.’

  Ralph looked over his dad’s shoulder as Roland opened the pouch and showed them its contents: ‘Bandages and dressings, clotting agents, surgical gloves . . . this syringe contains diazepam in case of seizures or muscle spasms . . .’

  ‘Jeez, Dad,’ said Robyn. ‘We’re not entering an actual war zone, are we?’

  ‘Just a precaution,’ said Roland, pointing to a similar pouch on his own vest. ‘If we’re able to, we can treat our own wounds.’

  ‘You really think things could escalate that way?’ said Niko.

  ‘You and Robyn saw how they escalated at Gauda,’ Roland reminded her. ‘And just ask Ralph how quickly events got out of hand at Gerhard’s complex. If you’d had medical kits then . . .’ Roland looked at Ralph. ‘Who knows how things might have gone?’

  Ralph met his stare. ‘But I didn’t, did I? I’m not a soldier. You’re just making me cosplay as one.’

  Roland seemed about to answer when the cruiser bumped softly against the riverbank.

  ‘We’re getting close to Malelane,’ Niko said. ‘When we get there, we can leave Tanky on the boat and figure out how we move him next.’

  ‘A trailer will be too conspicuous,’ said Robyn. ‘We’ll need to find an alternative.’