Vortex

“All clear, Lieutenant. There’s nobody else here.”

“Good. ” The lieutenant waved Ian and Emily up from the sofa with his pistol.

They rose cautiously, with Ian’s right arm still wrapped around Emily’s shoulders. He could feel her shaking uncontrollably and squeezed gently with his right hand, trying to offer some assurance that all was not lost.

“Take these three to headquarters. I’ll stay here and look for documents.” The lieutenant holstered his pistol and stepped aside as the larger policeman hauled Sibena toward the door.

“And keep an eye on that kaffir! He’s probably had some kind of combat training.”

Ian hid a thin-lipped, humorless smile as he followed Emily out into the hallway with his hands up in the air. They had a small chance after all.

Maybe these two South African policemen weren’t going to be looking the right way at the right time.

MARKET STREET, NEAR JOHN VORSTER SQUARE, JOHANNESBURG

The police minivan wasn’t designed for comfort-just efficiency. The smaller of the two policeman sat behind the wheel, separated from his companion and their three prisoners by the front seat itself. His four passengers perched on fold down plastic benches that ran the length of each side of the vehicle.

Matthew Sibena sat on the right, immediately behind the driver, swaying uncomfortably from side to side as the minivan turned or changed lanes.

Steel handcuffs pinioned his wrists behind his back. The beefy policeman with thinning hair sat next to him, his gaze shifting periodically from

Sibena to Emily to Ian and back again. He cradled a pump-action shotgun in his lap.

Ian sat directly across from the guard, with Emily to his left. Like

Sibena, he was handcuffed, but the policemen had left her hands free. He wasn’t sure if that was because they viewed Emily as just a “helpless” woman or because of her father’s importance in the government. Whatever the reason, he didn’t plan to complain. Only the fact that she could still use her hands made any escape attempt even remotely feasible.

But so far no opportunity had presented itself. Traffic on Johannesburg’s streets was light at this time of night, and their driver was proving dangerously efficient. He’d managed to time every light perfectly-only having to slow gradually without ever coming to a complete stop.

Ian could feel ice-cold sweat beading on his forehead and soaking the shirt under his arms. He shivered. Time was running out.

In five or six minutes at the most, they’d be trapped inside Johannesburg’s heavily fortified police headquarters. And he didn’t have any illusions about the kind of treatment they’d receive at the government’s hands. Men who’d allowed their own countrymen and colleagues to be gunned down by terrorists wouldn’t show any mercy to a foreigner, a member of a despised race, and a woman accused of high treason. Under the circumstances, even

Emily’s father wouldn’t be able to save her. He was sure that their lives inside a South African interrogation center would, at best, be “nasty, brutish, and short.”

Christ. The very thought of Emily under torture was unbearable. He tensed, ready to spring even while the minivan was moving. Maybe it would be better to die fighting than to be meekly led to a protracted slaughter.

The van braked sharply to a complete stop. Unable to use his hands, Sibena slammed into the front seat and rocked back. The rest of them had to hold on tightly to avoid following suit.

” Ho, man, we’ve got some trouble up here.” The driver sounded suddenly tense.

“A verdomde riot starting, maybe. “

Rhythmic, shouted chants filtered in from the outside, building slowly in volume as they were repeated over and over again. Ian craned his neck out into the middle of the van’s passenger compartment, trying to see through the front windshield.

Traffic along Market Street was at a standstill. The cars and trucks in front of them were jammed in bumper to bumper-unable to go forward and unable to reverse. Farther ahead, thousands of angry demonstrators milled around in front of the police station. Dozens of colorful banners and posters waved over the crowd, rising and falling in time with their chanting.

“Shit.” Still holding the shotgun, the big policeman heaved himself to his feet and stood hunched over, staring through the windshield.

“We’ll never get through that blery mess. We’ll have to try the back-“

Ian saw his chance and took it.

He rocketed off the bench, trying to ram the top of his head under the policeman’s out thrust chin and up. He wanted to slam the Afrikaner’s own head squarely into the van’s metal ceiling. It was just the kind of crazy stunt he’d seen work in films. The only trouble was, making such a move work in real life would take perfect positioning and even more perfect timing. Too late, Ian realized that he didn’t have either.

The adrenaline pouring into his bloodstream seemed to slow time itself.