Breeders
Authors: Arno Joubert
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Suspense, #Thrillers
CHAPTER ONE
Betty’s Bay,
Cape Town, South Africa
The wind was blowing like a bastard, but Eddie Nel felt cozy in the sunroom of his small house overlooking the cold Atlantic. He had the gas heater on high as he watched the stragglers on the beach run for cover. The weather was fickle in the Cape; her mood swings were worse than his beloved Norah’s, bless her soul.
Some die-hard fishermen strolled on the beach, rods over their shoulders and plastic buckets in their hands. The howling wind blasted sand against their legs, but they soldiered on dutifully, heads tucked into their shoulders, heading toward the larger boulders; it would be high tide soon. They wore jeans and thick, woolen sweaters, hand-knitted by their doting wives, Eddie guessed. Norah had knitted him one a long time ago, but when she passed away it had become bedding for the dogs. He had hated the awful, scratchy thing.
Seagulls circled high in the grey clouds, and the weather looked ominous. Then fat drops of rain splatted against the window, slowly at first but increasing in intensity until the nice, clean panes became a hazy blur. Eddie squinted, trying to peer through the downpour. Where was that stupid mutt?
Eddie watched with a smile as Sinjin, his black water spaniel, came bounding up the footpath that led to the beach. The dog enjoyed playing with the kids on the beach, and everyone knew him well. On fairer days Eddie usually joined Sinjin on a walk; it was a nice way to meet new people, and the pretty young lasses seemed to enjoy playing with the mutt. How could an old man with a cute dog not be attractive?
“Stop saying that, you dirty old man,” he heard Norah chide him. He chuckled. Norah used to like his jokes.
He couldn’t believe that people said spaniels were antisocial animals. Sinjin loved people. He had been named after the pilot that flew the Airwolf helicopter on the television show—Sinjin somebody—because the dog’s jet-black hair had reminded Eddie of the chopper. The dog hurdled over a log, then he scampered through the fynbos, heading home. Eddie loved the smell of the fynbos, an Afrikaans name that literally translated into “fine bush.” The small leaves emitted an aromatic, herby smell when they brushed against your legs. The mutt would smell like a damp herb garden.
Sinjin quickened his pace as the storm intensified. He charged up the inclined lawn then jumped up the porch terrace, not bothering to take the stairs. He was carrying something in his mouth, and as he trotted toward the dog flap, Eddie noticed that it was a white sneaker. Shit, not again. He would have to go look for the owner. The damn mutt was always raiding towels and beach bags.
Wind swirled into the room as Sinjin squeezed through the flap, and Eddie managed to grab the newspaper before it was swept off his lap. Sinjin trotted toward the older man, the dog’s whole body gyrating happily. He dropped the sneaker in front of Eddie, his tail swishing on the floor, then he sat down and panted happily as if to say, “Look, I brought you a toy, old man. I want you to be happy too.”
Eddie leaned over and scooped up the sneaker. It was heavier than he had expected, probably waterlogged or filled with sand. He examined it closely then tossed it to the floor with a shriek, wiping his hand on his chest.
Inside the sneaker were the remains of a severed human foot.
Interpol Headquarters
Lyon, France
Alexa stood casually outside the ring, her arms resting on the padded post in Neil’s corner. Neil and Alexa had been attending a national training week on hand-to-hand combat, and soldiers and cops from around the globe had gathered to be instructed by the best fighters in their respective disciplines.
Neil had been selected to demonstrate various Krav Maga grappling techniques and, true to form, had gotten into a heated exchange with a boxing trainer regarding the merits of teaching soldiers boxing as a form of hand-to-hand combat. Neil argued that Krav Maga contained enough boxing techniques to equip any soldier in any form of combat with the skills necessary to emerge the victor. So the instructor had challenged Neil to a fight to prove him wrong.
Alexa sighed. Men.
Lieutenant Ben Harris was the US Army’s welterweight boxing champion, and Alexa could see why. Standing at six foot five, he was tough as nails, sinewy and lean, and super fit. Neil had already connected with a couple of telling blows, but now the man kept Neil at bay with a series of jabs, using his superior reach advantage to good effect.
Lieutenant Ben Harris danced around Neil, threw a mock punch, and feinted to the left, then he followed it up with a right-hand hook aimed at Neil’s jaw. Neil swayed back a fraction of a second before impact, shot a boot out, and connected with Harris in the stomach. The man doubled over, clutching his stomach, coughing and wheezing but not going down. Harris stood up as the bell rang then sauntered to his corner, casting Neil an accusing glance over his shoulder.
Neil ambled toward Alexa and leaned on the rope. “He’s tough. I thought I would have nailed him by now.”
Alexa nodded. “Work on his legs, they’re his weak point,” she said, wiping the sweat off his brow with a towel.
Neil glanced back. “You think?”
“His stance was low when the fight started. He’s standing more upright at the end of the rounds. His legs are aching.”
Neil nodded as the bell sounded then turned on his heel to face Harris. He stood calmly, impassively, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. He moved his head from side to side, loosening his neck muscles. Harris sucked in a couple of breaths and continued dancing around Neil, feinting left and right, bobbing and weaving in front of his opponent. Neil walked straight up to Harris, stepped to the side as Harris threw a jab at Neil’s face, then crouched and landed two quick blows to Harris’s thigh. He backed up before Harris could retaliate. A second later the boxer fell to his knee, trying to rub his upper leg with his gloved hands, a pained expression on his face.
“Hey, that’s cheating!” the man’s trainer shouted from Harris’s corner and started climbing through the ropes.
Neil shrugged as Alexa tossed him his T-shirt. “All’s fair in love and war.”
“Screw you, you cheating bastard!” Harris shouted as he was being helped to his feet by a big brawny guy wearing an army shirt with the sleeves cut off.
Harris limped to his corner, and the big guy marched over to Neil and stuck a finger in his face. “You cheated, you prick. I think I need to give you a working over.”
“Who’re you?” Neil asked, looking up at the big man.
“Garber,” he said with a derisive snort. “Captain Daniel Garber, Harris’s platoon leader.”
Neil chuckled. “You should teach your man to expect anything in a battle, Captain. This wasn’t a boxing match, it was hand-to-hand combat, and I taught your boy a lesson.”
Neil started to turn around, but Garber pulled him back by his shoulder. “Now you listen to me, punk—”
Alexa grabbed Garber’s hand, twisting it into a wristlock. “Watch it.”
Garber wrenched his hand free then glared at Alexa, shaking his hand. “Who’re you? His mascot?”
“Captain Alexa Guerra, French special forces.”
Garber scowled at her for a second then said, “We’re equal rank.” He stepped back and folded his arms. “What do they teach you in the French Army except wristlocks?”
Alexa smiled then climbed into the ring. “Well, let’s find out.”
“You’re making a mistake, Garber,” Neil said grabbing Alexa’s arm. “Alexa, don’t.”
Alexa regarded Neil with a smile. “I won’t hurt him badly, Neil,” she said and shrugged. “Besides, he started it.”
Neil sighed and rested his arms on the ropes. “Please be gentle, Alexa.”
Garber snorted. “Oh please. Once you two little lovebirds have decided to stop with the sweet talk, I’ll show Captain Guerra how a real man fights,” he said mockingly.
Alexa turned to face him, her head cocked slightly. “A real man, hey? Ooh la la, this is going to be fun.” She stood comfortably, her weight resting on both legs, arms to the side.
Garber crouched then threw a straight jab, which Alexa slapped away with the palm of her hand. Garber’s eyebrows lifted and he swung a right at Alexa’s ribs, a punch with more power and less control. Alexa took a step backward, and his fist flew by harmlessly.
“Oh, come on Alexa, stop fooling around!” Neil shouted from the corner.
Alexa glanced over her shoulder with a frown. “You said I should be gentle.”
“Well, get it over with, I’m hungry.”
Alexa nodded then turned back to face Garber. She shuffled two steps forward, ducked beneath a right hook, pirouetted around him, and smashed three short jabs into his kidney. He turned around slowly, a pained expression on his face, and Alexa finished him off by driving her palm into his jaw. She had learned long ago that breaking a hand on a man’s jawbone was rarely worth the effort.
Garber slunk to his knees, toppled forward, and slammed onto the ring face-first. Alexa caught the towel that Neil tossed at her and wiped her brow. “Chinese or Italian?” she asked as Neil held the ropes apart.
“You choose,” Neil said. “My treat.”
Alexa smiled. “Let’s do Chinese. I discovered this nice little place down in Gailleton.”
Neil nodded and hopped down from the ring then grabbed Alexa by her hips and picked her up, gently lowering her to the ground. He turned around toward the hapless Lieutenant Harris, who was crouching next to his platoon leader, trying to revive the man by slapping his face. Garber was still out cold. “If he starts pissing blood, you better have that seen to by a professional.”
The guy nodded sheepishly as Neil and Alexa sauntered out of the gym door, their arms around each other’s waists.
Happy Sunshine Clinic
Pattaya, Thailand
“Please roll onto your side, Mrs. Borges.”
Imelda Borges nodded and rolled uncomfortably onto her side. The pain in her lower back had become incessant, and she had high hopes of being rid of it soon.
“Now this will sting a little, Mrs. Borges,” Dr. Nice Sukhon said with a smile before pulling the mask over his face.
Imelda closed her eyes and pursed her lips. She hoped that she was doing the right thing. She had heard about the Happy Sunshine Clinic from her neighbor in Lisbon, a sweet old lady called Susannah Campos. After being healed of skin cancer, the old woman had waxed lyrical about the revolutionary new treatments that the people at Happy Sunshine were testing.
Dr. Nice had guaranteed Imelda a one hundred percent chance of recovery from her condition. She had suffered from lupus since childhood but had managed to keep the disease at bay with aggressive immunosuppressive steroid treatment. Unfortunately, her kidneys had been damaged, and she desperately needed a transplant. According to her doctor, her condition had worsened during the past six months. They had been unable to find a compatible kidney donor. This was her last resort.