Temple of the Gods (3 page)

‘Let me worry about that,’ said Eddie. He prodded him again, far from gently, with the machete’s point. ‘Come on, shift your arse.’

Making an angry sound, Boodu stepped over the rubble littering the floor and moved down the passage, Eddie a few paces behind. Another explosion outside: a secondary detonation, one of the vehicles inside the compound. There would be a last round of shelling, then after that everything depended on getting the main gate open . . .

Frantic yelling and thumping came from a cell as they passed it, a man inside begging in the Shona language. Eddie checked the door, but it needed a key. Shit! He should have taken the set from the dead guard—

Another guard ran out from a junction ahead, gun in hand. He looked relieved to see Boodu – then realised that the militia leader was not alone and whipped up his pistol.

Eddie was quicker. A single shot, and the guard fell backwards, blood gushing from a bullet wound in his forehead.

Boodu spun, intending to take advantage of the distraction and tackle Eddie, but the Englishman had already brought the gun back to cover him. ‘Get his keys and open the cell,’ he ordered.

Boodu glared venomously at him, then after a moment a calculating expression formed on his face. ‘Why don’t you just kill me?’ he asked, more rhetorically than in concern. Cunning replaced calculation. ‘You can’t, can you? You need me alive.’

‘Not quite,’ said Eddie. ‘I
want
you alive, ’cause I’ll get paid extra.’

‘And you said you weren’t a mercenary any more,’ Boodu scoffed, before the implications of Eddie’s words sank in. ‘Paid? By who?’

‘Oh, just the people I got across the border last time I was here. And some other Zimbabweans who escaped.’ His voice hardened. ‘People who had to leave family behind. Family you got hold of. They’re pretty keen to see you again – on their terms.’ A flicker of genuine fear replaced arrogance in Boodu’s eyes. ‘Strutter’s the main reason I’m here, but giving you to them’s a bonus. But don’t get me wrong – if you try anything again, I’ll blow your fucking head off and give ’em what’s left of it in a carrier bag. Now open the door.’

Boodu did as he was told. The door swung open and a haggard man, face swollen with bruises, rushed out – only to retreat in fear when he saw who had released him.

‘It’s okay, come out,’ said Eddie, bringing his gun to the back of Boodu’s head to show the terrified prisoner that the balance of power had changed. He glanced into the cell and saw that the man was not alone; there were five others, all showing signs of recent beatings, in the cramped, sweltering space. He tossed the keys into the room. ‘Get everyone out, and be ready to run when you see the signal.’

‘What signal?’ a prisoner asked.

Eddie grinned. ‘You won’t miss it.’ He swatted Boodu with the machete as the men in the cell hesitantly emerged, as if expecting some cruel trick. ‘Keep moving.’

‘You are setting these traitors, these
scum
, free?’ Boodu hissed through clenched teeth. ‘You’ll die for this, Chase!’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Eddie replied with a shrug. ‘But first, let’s set another scumbag free and get Strutter, eh?’

Trying to mask his concern, Boodu continued down the passageway, Eddie behind him. More people were quickly released from other cells. Another series of explosions shook the old fort: the final mortar attack. If things were going to plan, the prison would now be in chaos, with communications and most of the defences smashed. The next phase – creating an escape route – should now be under way.

But while freeing Zimbabwean political prisoners would be a great humanitarian feat, it wasn’t why Eddie was there. Only one prisoner concerned him.

The man behind the steel door they had just reached.

Keeping Boodu at gunpoint, Eddie listened at the grille set into it, straining to make out anything over the clamour of alarm bells. That the opening was there at all spoke volumes. Torture chambers designed for the purpose of extracting information were generally soundproofed, the atrocities committed within witnessed only by the torturers and their victims. This, though, let everyone in the cells hear the screams. Another form of torture, more insidious, one that didn’t even require the abusers to lay a hand on their other victims.

Through the door, he heard muted gasping. Anything else was masked by the bells and his own less than perfect hearing, damaged by years of exposure to gunfire and explosions. ‘Open it,’ he muttered to Boodu.

The Zimbabwean glowered, but pushed the door open. ‘It’s Boodu,’ he announced.

There was no answer. Surprised, Boodu stepped cautiously into the chamber. Eddie followed a couple of steps behind. On the far side of the shadowed room he saw the man he had come to rescue: Johnny Strutter, an overweight Kenyan man in his forties. Strutter was shackled face-first against the wall, his bare back marked with savage weals and bleeding lines where he had been whipped. There was also a strong, sickly smell like scorched meat. Burn marks dotted across Strutter’s shoulders and upper back told Eddie that it wasn’t from a barbecue. A bench beside him was home to numerous instruments of torture, some of which had been demonstrated to – and upon – Eddie the previous day.

Their user was gone, however. The torturer had fled like a coward at the first sign of danger. Whips and hooks and soldering irons were no defence against bombs and bullets.

Eddie gestured at Strutter. ‘Get him down.’

At gunpoint, Boodu unlocked the shackles. The overweight man collapsed when the last one was released, moaning. ‘Into the corner,’ snapped Eddie, signalling for Boodu to back away as he checked the prisoner.

Strutter forced open his pain-clenched eyes. ‘Chase?’ he rasped in disbelief. ‘Eddie Chase! God above, it
is
you! I almost didn’t recognise you with the beard . . .’

‘Can you walk?’ Eddie demanded curtly.

Strutter flexed his legs and grimaced. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been through a lot since I was arrested, old friend. You’ll have to carry me.’

Eddie fixed him with a cold glare. ‘Let’s get this straight, Strutter. I’m not your “old friend”, and I’m not fucking carrying your fat arse anywhere. I want one thing out of you – information – and if you can’t move I’ll chain you back to that wall and carry on where the last guy left off to get it.’

Strutter hurriedly got up. ‘On the other hand, I could walk.’

‘Glad we’re on the same page.’ Eddie turned back to Boodu. ‘All right, dickhead, let’s go. Strutter, take this machete. If he tries anything, stab him.’

Strutter took the blade and eyed Boodu. ‘It would be a grand thing for the entire world if I just stabbed him anyway.’

‘I know, but I’ll get a few quid for handing him over.’

‘You are back in the mercenary business? I thought you left for good.’

‘It’s just temporary,’ Eddie said as he returned to the door. The only people he saw outside were prisoners, a few of whom had acquired weapons from the guards and were exchanging intermittent fire through a door to the courtyard. Fort Helena was still in turmoil.

But even with the governor dead, there was a chain of command. Somebody would soon take charge; every minute brought a counter-attack closer. The armoury might have been destroyed, but the guards still had firepower on their side.

Boodu knew this too. ‘You can’t get out,’ he said, sneering at the prisoners. ‘You think these starving dogs can break through the gate?’

‘Nope,’ said Eddie, heading for the exit. ‘But I know someone who can.’

As if on cue, more gunfire erupted outside – but from the prisoners’ confusion, it was clear that it wasn’t being aimed at them. Eddie cautiously peered into the courtyard. The watch-towers were smouldering wrecks, and a column of black smoke rose from the remains of the administration block. A car nearby was also ablaze. But what about the guards?

He saw several uniformed men race across the courtyard to scale the steps built into the fort’s thick defensive wall, joining others along the ramparts – and firing on something outside the prison.

Something getting closer.

A deep rumbling growl filled the air. Boodu’s eyes went wide. ‘You
have
got a tank!’

‘Not quite,’ said Eddie, ‘but the next best thing.’ He smiled. ‘Check out my killdozer.’

The great gates burst apart.

Roaring through a cloud of dust and black diesel smoke was a large bulldozer, its front blade raised like a battering ram – but this was no ordinary construction vehicle. The engine compartment and cabin were covered by steel plates. The guards’ bullets clanked harmlessly off the armour as the behemoth ground over the ruined gates into the courtyard.

The killdozer was not simply an impenetrable bullet magnet, however. It had weapons of its own. Slots in the cabin’s shields dropped open – and the muzzles of machine guns poked out, firing up at the fort’s defenders. Guards flailed and fell under the hail of fire. The machine rumbled on, flattening a car into unrecognisable scrap.

Eddie called to the prisoners. ‘Okay! That’s your way out of here – there are trucks coming to the gate. When I tell you, run for it!’

Boodu raged impotently. ‘English
bastard
! You’re helping these traitors escape? You’ll die for this – no, you’ll
beg
me to kill you after I’m finished with you!’

The prisoners’ own fury rose as they realised who he was. Eddie reasserted who was in charge by cracking his gun against Boodu’s head. ‘Keep your fucking mouth shut – or I’ll give you to this lot. We’ll see who’s begging then.’ Seeing the vengeance-filled eyes of the men surrounding him, Boodu wisely decided to stay silent.

A thunderous explosion shook the building, and the lights went out. Eddie saw the killdozer backing away from the blazing remains of the prison’s generators. Through the gates, he spotted a pickup truck barrelling down the dusty road to the fort. ‘If you’ve got a gun, get ready to use it!’ he called. ‘If you haven’t, then run for the gate . . .
now
!’

He broke from the doorway into the courtyard, gun at the ready. Strutter followed, forcing Boodu along at machete-point. The prisoners spilled out behind them.

The killdozer was growling back to the gate, but Eddie was only concerned with the remaining guards. A man leaned round a corner and fired into the fleeing crowd – then dropped with a spurting chest wound as Eddie returned the favour.

Another two guards rose from cover behind a wall and opened up with rifles. There were screams as prisoners were hit. Eddie turned to deal with the new threat, but the men in the killdozer beat him to it, the machine guns unleashing furious bursts of automatic fire. The wall pocked and splintered under the barrage, both guards tumbling amidst bright red sprays of blood as bullets ripped into their bodies.

Shots cracked out from the escapees. The other guards realised they were overmatched and tried to retreat. Spitting lines of fire from the killdozer tracked them.

Eddie was almost at the gate. The pickup had stopped outside, other vehicles pulling up behind it. Inside them were resistance members opposed to Zimbabwe’s brutal government, many of whom had been driven to direct action by the imprisonment of family or friends in places like Fort Helena. A man jumped from the pickup and waved frantically to him. Banga Nandoro, one of those with whom Eddie had planned the whole operation.

‘Come on, hurry!’ Banga yelled as Eddie charged through the gate, the prisoners following him. More men jumped from the arriving trucks to help pile the escapees aboard.

Eddie ran to Banga, gun still raised as he watched the fort’s walls for snipers. ‘Glad you could make it,’ he told the Zimbabwean as Boodu and Strutter caught up.

Banga nodded, eyes fixed on the men emerging from the gate. At the sight of one in particular, he gasped. ‘Chinouyazue!’ he cried, running to his brother.

Eddie patted his heart. ‘Makes you feel all warm in here, doesn’t it?’ Boodu’s expression twisted into a glower.

The killdozer reached the gate, the remaining prisoners streaming past as it turned on its tracks to prevent any surviving vehicles from leaving the compound. A steel slab dropped from the cabin’s side, hitting the ground with a bang. Two Zimbabweans holding machine guns emerged, followed by a huge Caucasian man who unfolded himself from the cramped confines and squeezed out. He saw Eddie and gave him a cheery wave, then hopped down and produced a hand grenade, pulling the pin and tossing it over his shoulder into the killdozer as he jogged away. An explosion ripped apart the controls, turning the makeshift tank into an extremely solid barricade.

‘Little man!’ Oleg Maximov called as he approached Eddie. ‘You okay,
da
?’ The bearded Russian scooped him up in a crushing embrace.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Eddie grunted. ‘Okay, okay, that’s hurting now!’ Grinning, Maximov released him. Eddie saw numerous red marks on his face and arms: he had been scorched by the spent bullet casings pinging around inside the cabin. ‘Did you get burned?’

‘
Da
, a little,’ said Maximov, tugging out a pair of silicone earplugs; without protection, the gunfire inside the metal-walled cabin would have been deafening. He smiled. ‘It felt good.’

‘You’re weird, Max.’ Years earlier, the muscular giant had survived a bullet to the head, with the side effect that his pain response had become scrambled. Getting hurt now actually gave him pleasure, making the ex-Spetsnaz mercenary an extremely dangerous opponent, as Eddie had discovered.