Don't Play Dead with Vultures by Jack Leavers

Author:Jack Leavers [Leavers, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thriller
Publisher: Troubador Publishing
Published: 2022-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 47

Five minutes later, the crowd parted and Condé swept through the gap, flanked by the two men in drab clothing. They didn’t look ready to bust out party moves, but their eyes now scanned into the middle distance rather than locking onto us with menace. When Condé opened the driver’s door, his escorts encouraged the obedient onlookers to retreat and give us space.

Manny listened to Condé’s report over the rising din and passed on the highlights.

‘This is Setka village. The chief wants us to visit his home. He thought we were bad men from the north. Now he knows we are from England, he welcomes us.’

I turned to Luke. ‘I guess that makes you an honorary Englishman.’

Luke tapped his pocket. ‘I’ll be quick to show my Canadian passport if it turns out you lot caused any upset in his family tree.’

‘What bad men from the north?’ I asked Manny.

‘I don’t know.’ Then he pointed to the bag at my feet. ‘The chief wants you to bring the gun.’

‘How the hell…?’ I stopped and waved my own question away. Either Condé must have declared our weapons, or a villager had spotted mine through the window and reported it already.

We locked the car and set off on foot behind Condé and one of his new shadows. I trailed Manny and Luke, the rucksack containing the AK-47 on my shoulder. The escort with the hunting rifle brought up the rear.

A crescent Moon symbol on top of a flat-roofed building signified the village mosque. Shortly afterwards, we passed the dark entrance to a similar squat building, the wall next to the doorway adorned with a tatty 2010 World Cup poster advertising Budweiser beer.

Kids darted between us, one of them wearing an England football shirt. I pointed at my chest, gave an exaggerated thumbs-up and said ‘England’ with a wide grin. The ensuing chorus of jeers wasn’t a surprise given the Three Lions poor results in their opening two games.

Our band of followers hung back as we reached the village elders. They were standing in two reception lines outside a large round hut with a colourful conical roof. Condé introduced me to the village chief at the head of the line and Manny translated. Remembering the mosque, I introduced another language into the mix. ‘As salaam aleikum.’

The chief’s eyes widened. ‘Aleikum as salaam,’ he replied, before launching optimistically into more Arabic. We shook hands, each pressing our spare hand on top in a show of desired friendship, before he ushered me into his home.

When I entered, the single room dwelling felt spacious. By the time the chief and the welcoming committee had piled in after us, it was rammed. When the huge horned head of an Ox poked through the open doorway on the other side, a skinny youth bounded across and steered it away before an emergency evacuation became necessary.

We sat cross-legged on dusty carpets. I gripped Manny’s upper arm and pulled him close. ‘Remember we’re here to collect samples, and we don’t have much time.

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