Thunderbolt Wilbur Smith (surface ebook reader .TXT) 📖

I was grinding my teeth. ‘The longer we leave it, the more of a risk we’re taking. The little ones could give something away.’

‘But we need to stockpile water, what little food we can spare or steal, and we need to neutralise General Sir, Liban and Kayd,’ Amelia said, adding, ‘as best we can, at least.’

‘We’ve discussed that. There’s no perfect moment,’ I replied. ‘The important thing is not to miss our chance entirely by waiting too long.’

The fact was, we couldn’t make our move until Mo gave the go-ahead: without his say-so the little ones wouldn’t come and the enforcers, even with bribes, wouldn’t stand down. I was therefore relieved when he said, ‘Jack’s right, the sooner the better, I suppose.’

‘The dogs are already onside, at least,’ said Xander. ‘When the snares next come up trumps, we should take that as a sign.’

‘That makes no actual sense,’ murmured Amelia. Then she surprised me by adding, ‘But I know what you mean. Here,’ she went on, taking off her watch. ‘You might as well have this now, and this too.’ From I don’t know where, she’d already magicked up the smallest of the rings, a simple gold band that caught what little moonlight there was in the tent. She handed both over to Mo, saying, ‘You too, Xander. Give him your glasses so he can buy off the boy guards. May as well sweeten them in advance.’

We talked on into the night, mostly about silly stuff – like what we’d eat when we had the chance to choose again (me: a cheeseburger and chips; Xander: fish pie; Amelia, weirdly specific: half an avocado filled with balsamic vinegar, followed by the other half; and Mo: a glass of cold milk). The thought of these things was delicious and a torment at the same time. Still, it was a diversion, just for a bit. Before long, with the others already asleep, I was back wondering when we could risk bolting. As it happened, a factor none of us had considered came into play sooner than I had imagined possible.

45.

That night I dreamed of Pete floundering in the distant wake of his dive boat, and of the man I called Dad for fourteen years turning his back on me, and – as ever – of my poor brother Mark dying on the pavement at my feet.

I sat bolt upright, blinking in the pitch dark. For a second I had no idea where I was. The tent was flapping hard. A gale had got up. The air tasted funny, burnt almost, charged with something. I assumed the others were still asleep beneath their blankets but it turned out Mo was awake and he somehow sensed I’d woken up.

‘Wind storm,’ he whispered. ‘It will soon pass.’

In fact it didn’t. The canvas was still whip-cracking when daybreak turned it grey. I got up ahead of the others and staggered outside. The wind wasn’t actually as wild outside as it had sounded in the tent, but it was full of grit and smelled of fireworks.

Though I washed my face at the water butt I felt instantly grimy again as I set off with Mo to check the traps. The scrubland hissed and buzzed in the gloom. We walked the zigzag route between our snares in silence. I thought they’d all be empty, that the commotion of the wind would have driven all the foraging animals back to their burrows, but I was wrong. We’d set two new snares the day before, bringing our total to seventeen, and three of them – our biggest haul yet – had worked. The sky was a rushing purple bruise as we made our way back to camp. I put my head down against the wind-grit and trudged on, then felt Mo’s hand on my arm.

‘Look.’

Ahead of us, standing stock still between two thorn bushes, stood a huge goat-like animal. Its horns were scimitars, a metre long at least, as thick as my thigh at the base and dagger-sharp at the tip. The creature was so pale in the half-light it looked like a marble ghost, its stillness accentuated by the rushing wind.

We stared at it and it stared at us and the wind rose and fell and rose again and for what seemed an age nothing moved. At length the goat turned and picked its way through the bush.

‘Ibex,’ said Mo.

‘It was huge!’ I said. ‘I’ve not seen one before.’

‘Neither have I, not an albino.’

The ibex had radiated a calm that stayed with me as we trudged back to Amelia and Xander. It made me bury our snare-spoils rather than feed them to the dogs immediately.

Mo understood why. Neither of us said anything.

We went to work in the field as usual that day, attacked the stump roots as we always did, but although the wind raged the steadiness of the white ibex stayed with me. It helped me think clearly. The wind was tiring, but it could still be a good thing. Every time it dropped for a moment my spirits slumped, but happily the next gust always seemed harder than the last.

By the afternoon it was howling. Heading back to camp, filthy with the usual sweat and dirt, we were all coated in fine red dust as well. The stuff had got up my nose and into my ears and my hair was thick with it. But I didn’t mind. Mo caught my eye and returned my smile.

Seeing this, Amelia said, ‘This is worse than normal, and yet you’re grinning about it. Why?’

Xander had cottoned on. He said, ‘If the wind is like this tonight it could provide a diversion.’

‘You’re thinking we might go today!’ she said. I couldn’t quite tell whether the lightness in her voice was excitement or trepidation.

As calmly as I could I replied, ‘Yes. We’ll go tonight.’

46.

We arrived back in camp, ate our slop, and waited for the sun to set.