The Hunter by Tony Park

the cost plus a tip. He stood and nodded, ‘Fine, and you, Koos?’ Not that he really cared.
    Koos stopped in the courtyard, between Brand and the exit. The conversations around the pub had fallen away. ‘I’m fine, but my boet Patrick is not so lekker , man. He’s lost his job. That poepol friend of yours, Gert, just fired him. He didn’t even wait for the investigation.’
    Brand shrugged. ‘Sorry to hear that, Koos.’ Brand took a step towards him, stopping just out of swinging range, but Koos didn’t move aside. Brand sighed.
    ‘My brother says you didn’t back him up.’
    Brand didn’t really want to get into the detail of how much Koos’s little brother had fucked up that day, but he did think it worth explaining some of his own actions for the slow learners like the farmers, and the gossipmongers at the surrounding tables.
    ‘Your brother put his own life and, more importantly, the lives of our clients at risk by following the poachers’ tracks. We should have just pulled back and called it in.’
    ‘He’s a brave oke and you put him in danger by not going with him.’
    Brand could see there was no way he was going to win this argument, but he pressed on anyway for the sake of his audience. ‘He was stupid. He panicked and ran when the poacher fired at him and he dropped his weapon. He’s only alive because I killed a man.’
    ‘He lost his job because of your cowardice.’
    Brand squared up to the rough-hewn farmer. ‘I’ve got no beef with you, Koos.’ As Brand tried to get around him Koos sidestepped to block him and shoved him in the chest. So this was how it was going to be , Brand thought. ‘I do not want to fight you, Koos.’
    ‘Typical American; you start a war then you don’t know how to end it. You’re not leaving without a broken bone.’
    Brand considered arguing the toss with him; the only war he had been in had been a largely South African one, in Angola, but he guessed the irony would be lost on Koos. The farmer had bully written all over him, and Brand had encountered his fair share of them over the years. Koos was bigger than him, and maybe twenty years younger, but Brand had learned a trick or two in the border war, and in more than a few bar-room brawls since.
    ‘Let me past, Koos,’ he said, giving the man one more chance.
    ‘Make me get out of the way, boy ,’ Koos said.
    Brand took a deep breath and clenched his fists beside him. ‘Let’s take this outside.’
    Koos backed to the gate that led out to the dusty car park. Several of the bush bar patrons rose from their seats to follow the two men out and enjoy the spectacle.
    ‘Where’s your chicken-shit brother?’ Brand asked Koos. He was ready for him and he wanted him angry. Hopefully he would lash out with a predictable sucker punch that Brand would dodge before kicking him in the balls.
    ‘Here.’
    Brand made the cardinal mistake of turning towards the sound of the voice. As he did so a massive fist collided with the left side of his face. Brand glimpsed Patrick as Koos’s blow felled him. As they said in the South African Army, no plan survived the first contact with the enemy.
    Rolling in the dirt to get away from the kick he knew was coming, Brand scooped up a handful of gravel. When Patrick danced over to him he reared up like a black mamba and flung the grit in his eyes. It was an afternoon for falling for old tricks so Brand made the most of this one and smashed Patrick square in the nose. As satisfying as that was he could not fight on two fronts at once, and Brand screamed as Koos’s fist slammed into his kidneys.
    Patrick spat blood. As Brand squared up, painfully, to Koos, he saw Patrick pull something from the back pocket of his shorts. Brand hoped it wasn’t a gun, as he had left his at home. Koos lashed out with a hook that Brand managed to dodge, but Koos escaped Brand’s cross as well. The farmer’s next punch was quicker than Brand’s and Brand’s head snapped back as Koos’s fist