The Heretic's Treasure by Scott Mariani

Author:Scott Mariani [Mariani, Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Adventure, Suspense, Thriller, Crime, Contemporary, Mystery
ISBN: 9781847560827
Google: uDGb9a-KlJcC
Amazon: 1847560822
Barnesnoble: 1847560822
Goodreads: 6450320
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-05-31T23:00:00+00:00

strong>Chapter Thirty-One

Ben drove the twenty minutes to the underground parking lot in a daze, and was barely conscious of parking the Mini and stumbling up the concrete steps to his safehouse. He managed to key in the code for the door, and staggered into the flat. The pistol was a hard lump against his hip. He tore it out of his belt and flung it away.

Heading straight for the kitchen, he tore open the cupboard door and snatched one of the bottles of table wine. He stood there balancing it in his hand, for a moment unable to decide whether to open it or hurl it through the window. He opened it. Filled a glass. Paced up and down, fists clenched, wanting to smash something. Wanting to punch the wall until his knuckles were a bleeding mess.

Then he slumped at the table and downed one glass after another. The bottle seemed to empty itself in seconds. He grabbed another and started on that one.

His head was spinning feverishly. It wasn’t the wine or even the fact that he hadn’t slept properly for days. He felt completely overwhelmed by the things he’d just been told.

After a while, he walked in a stupor to the bedroom, fell back on the bed and closed his eyes. He lay there, trying to shut down his thoughts and relax the cramping tension in his muscles.

Slowly, he began to drift. Thoughts blurred. He slept, but it wasn’t a restful sleep. He was back reliving the horror of Makapela Creek once again.

The nightmare unfolded in slow motion. Ben saw the figure walk out of the fire, gun in hand as he gazed down at the man he was about to kill.

But something had changed. Now there were two men standing over Ben and, instead of the faceless, nebulous forms that normally visited him in his dreams, now he could see them vividly. Two men, one African and one European. The black man was powerfully built, wearing khaki fatigues, and the ArmaLite rifle cradled in his arms looked shiny and new and glittered in the firelight.

It was Kananga. He was glancing nervously this way and that, up at the helicopters that were closing in on the mission complex, then across at the dark jungle as though anxious to follow his fleeing men. Let’s get this done, his expression said.

Beside him stood a tall, thin white man in SAS tropical combat uniform. Paxton. Ben was suddenly seeing him for the first time-that face so familiar and yet so alien, half bathed in the red glow of the burning mission. The eyes filled with a strange and terrifying light. The pistol in his fist rose up to point at Ben.

Ben tried to say something, but his words were a muffled echo lost in the thump of the choppers. He saw Paxton smile.

And, behind Paxton, lying in the bloody dirt, propped up on one elbow, his face pale, shaking with the effort of raising his gun one last time, Ben saw Smith.

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