Dark Intent by Brian Reeve Page B

defiantly.
    Krige lined up the crosshairs, the flow of adrenalin pumping through his veins like an opiate. ‘The waiting is over,’ he murmured, firming up on the gun.

Chapter 2 3
     
    Moses Shozi’s house
     
    Moses Shozi was restless, drinking from the stock of bottled beer he kept in the fridge, at times sitting, then prowling around the house. He was angry that only by sheer chance he had been able to avert death and repel the Xhosa guerilla, a man he had come to detest from the depths of his soul. For hours he pondered on suitable retribution, bitter that the men employed to defend him had failed. That he had hurt the guerilla was certain. The solid impact of the first bullet and the agony on his face was evidence. At dawn his men had searched the valley and those to the east and west but by early afternoon they had found no trace, not even a drop of blood.
    After a nap to ward off the effects of the beer, Shozi began to prepare himself for a march on Malakazi where the Xhosas had first been seen. He ordered Setlaba to be ready with the men to move out when the evening meal was over, a ritual he enjoyed as it helped him keep in tune with what was going on in the valleys.
    When the cooking fire had reduced to an orange glow and the rich stew was simmering in the pots, Shozi clad his hefty body in the long shorts and loose-fitting shirt he favoured when not formally on parade before his superiors in Inkatha. Setlaba waited for him in the lounge, annoyed at the slow deliberations of the man to whom he was inextricably bound.
    At last Shozi came down the stairs, routinely suspending his belt and revolver on the balustrade. He was still in a dark mood. Setlaba, above the others, was responsible for his security and therefore he was primarily to blame for the ease with which the guerilla had got into the house. Perhaps Setlaba was only capable when the enemy was as weak as Mrs Mkhize’s sons and he had the others behind him.
    The lieutenant sensed his master’s mood and warned himself to be careful. He did not want to end his days prematurely, left to decay in some hastily dug grave. Shozi held no compunction in quartering the bodies of his opponents and those of his own men who did not meet his standards.
    ‘The men are ready,’ he ventured. ‘Will you kill Dhlamini?’
    Shozi gave a rude belch . ‘Dhlamini’s of little consequence, a puppet. The man I want is the one who was here last night, the guerilla. Only his death and the deaths of his friends will satisfy me.’ He walked to the shattered glass door, the jagged hole temporarily covered by a piece of wood, and gazed out over the veld. ‘It is time to add firearms to our traditional weapons. The Xhosa wasn’t armed but these men have access to Kalashnikovs. If we don’t kill them they’ll come with their guns and we must be adequately prepared.’
    ‘What about tonight?’ Setlaba was unnerved by the thought of going against guns with only a panga.
    ‘There is no time,’ said Shozi, fl ecks of saliva shooting from his mouth. ‘Tonight we’ll rely on the steel of our blades. If we find them, they’re dead.’ He left the doors and went over the carpet on his raft-like feet. Setlaba followed him through the kitchen onto the porch where the guard had been killed, the reddish-brown stain from the large pool of blood still evident.
    For a moment Shozi stood on the porch, absorbing the aroma from the pots. Then he went onto the brushed earth that stretched between the house and the guard’s quarters, feeling the first pangs of hunger. Thick African mats had been laid round the fire and he sat cross-legged facing the house, waiting while one of the men spooned a generous helping of stew onto an enamel plate put before him. Setlaba sat opposite and the guards helped themselves, hungrily piling the food onto their dishes and breaking off chunks of bread on the mat. The men chattered amongst themselves, keeping nothing from the warlord’s ears. They were all