Rogue Prey: A Leon Cazador Thriller by Nik Morton

Author:Nik Morton [Morton, Nik]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781685490966
Publisher: Rough Edges Press
Published: 2022-08-08T16:00:00+00:00

Mina appeared to be in a dream world, happy to be steered by Leon and Daraja. Her eyes were open but vacant. Almost like an automaton, she placed one foot in front of the other, oblivious to the surface she trod. If Daraja didn’t hold her, guide her, God knows where she’d end up, Leon thought.

Shortly after the last shot, he had exchanged a look with Daraja.

She nodded. She’d heard. Like him, she’d been counting. “Is that four?” she whispered.

“I think so.”

Their concerns didn’t seem to affect Mina at all.

Leon whispered to Daraja: “Back there, it seemed personal with Rudolf.”

“It was,” she replied. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Denial. It was one way to cope with the act of murder, whether the deceased deserved it or not.

Birds chattered, now uncaring about the interlopers in their territory. Cicadas persisted, sometimes deafening.

They walked on. Leon attempted to conceal their tracks, but it seemed hopeless as Mina couldn’t be left to walk by herself and being chained to Daraja seriously impeded his freedom of movement. But he kept trying, and on some occasions he believed he’d managed to get them both co-ordinated to the point where their spoor was confusing and even a couple of times nigh on invisible. But being cunning with deception techniques slowed them down.

By now it was hot and humid. Their clothing clung, soaked in sweat.

They’d started their run shortly after dawn, which was about six-fifty, so he estimated it was now roughly nine. It was relatively early. A long hot dehydrating day stretched ahead. If they were lucky enough to live through it.

Then he noticed that the sound of birds had ceased abruptly.

The next second they stepped into a large clearing.

An open space meant exposure.

Urgently, he tapped Daraja’s upper arm, and then held a finger to his lips. “Stop,” he whispered.

He stood still, and Daraja came to a halt. Mina’s feet scuffled for a second as Daraja steadied her. The Iraqi stood rigid, staring ahead, as if unaware of her surroundings.

At the far side of the clearing was a derelict two-door red Wrangler Jeep and further beyond that an ancient Elddis caravan. No sign of life. Near the door of the caravan was a pile of black ash, the remains of a campfire. To the right was a considerable pile of empty tin cans, empty whiskey bottles, plastic bottles and milk cartons. A black cloud of flies hovered over it.

Everywhere he looked, it was still.

Not a leaf moved.

No birds chirped.

No recognisable life, save for the constant stridulation of male cicadas, as if the hotter the temperature got, the more manic their courtship cacophony became.

Taking his time, he scanned the foliage that surrounded the clearing.

Nothing untoward.

“It’s all clear,” he said softly. Gesturing to Daraja, he added, “Maybe we can find something to rid us of these chains.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Daraja guiding Mina, they walked up to the jeep. The Spanish sun had infected the vehicle’s red paint with a serious case of alopecia. The two wheels on the driver’s

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