Vortex

The street looked like a slaughterhouse. Patches of its hard packed dirt surface were stained, soaked in blood. There were bodies all around-some lying motionless, others thrashing or twitching uncontrollably in agony. A few of Nyanga’s young men still stood their ground, flailing desperately away at the policemen pouring through their shattered barricade. But most were running. Riot troops chased after them, firing from the hip or swinging whips and truncheons in vicious, bone-crunching blows.

Ian jogged Knowles’s elbow and jerked his head toward one of the tiny alleys opening onto the street. They had all the videotape they needed to make a damned good story out of this blood bath. No useful purpose would be served by hanging around until the police spotted them. It was time to get out.

Knowles slung the camera over his back and followed Ian into the alley.

They ran hard, jumping piles of untended garbage and forcing their way through patches where weeds had grown waist high. Behind them, the police gunfire rose to a higher-pitched, rattling crescendo, spreading rapidly to all sides. At the sound of it, both men ran faster still, trying to escape what seemed like a quickly closing net.

Ian’s lungs felt as though they were on fire, and every breath burned going down. His legs seemed to weigh a ton apiece. Knowles wasn’t in much better shape as he stumbled panting along behind. But he kept running, following any street or winding alley that led south-toward the chain link fence, their car, and safety.

Their luck ran out less than a hundred yards from the fence.

Four burly men dressed in brown, military-style shirts and trousers stepped into the alley ahead of them, shotguns and clubs at the ready. Their faces were hard, expressionless.

Ian skidded to a stop in front of them, his heart pounding. Knowles stumbled into him and backed up a step, breathing noisily through his mouth.

Ian raised both hands, empty palms forward, and stepped closer to the waiting men. It seemed strange that they weren’t wearing the standard gray trousers and blue-gray jackets of the regular police. Just who were these guys anyway?

“My colleague here and I are journalists. Please step aside and let us pass. ” Nothing. Ian tried again, this time in halting Afrikaans.

The largest, an ugly, redfaced man with a flattened, oft broken nose, sneered, “Kaffir-loving, rooinek bastards.”

Ian recognized the contemptuous slang term for Englishmen and felt his hopes of skating out of this situation sink. He shook his head.

“No, we’re

Americans. Look, we’re just here doing our job.”

It sounded pretty feeble even to his ears. The four brownshirts moved closer.

More feet pounded down the alley behind them.

“Don’t look now, but I think we’re surrounded,” Knowles muttered.

The largest Afrikaner held out a large, calloused hand.

“Give us the verdomde camera, man, and maybe we let you go with your teeth still in your mouth. A blery good deal, ja?”

His friends snickered.

Great. Just great. Ian eyed the big man narrowly. A bare knuckled barroom brawler. Nothing fancy, there. He didn’t doubt that he could take the bastard. Unfortunately, that still left at least three in front, and God only knew how many behind.

But the tape in that camera represented the biggest story to come his way since he’d landed in South Africa. He

couldn’t just meekly hand it over. Not without putting up some kind of resistance, even if it was only verbal. He shook his head slowly.

“Look, guys. I’d like to oblige, but the camera doesn’t belong to me. It’s company property. Besides your own government has given us permission to cover the news here. So if you try to stop us, you’re breaking your own laws.”

He paused, hoping they’d take the bait and start arguing with him. Every passing minute increased the chance that someone in the regular police chain of command would show up-taking these plug-ugly paramilitary bastards out of the picture, no matter who they worked for.

They didn’t fall for it. Ian saw the big man nod to someone behind him and heard Knowles cry out in pain and anger an instant later. He whirled round.

Two more brown shirt thugs stood there smirking. One shook the video camera in his face in mock triumph while the other held Knowles’s arms behind his back. Ian noticed blood trickling from a cut on his cameraman’s lower lip.

That was too goddamned much. He took a step forward toward them, his teeth clenched and jaw rigid with anger.

Knowles spat out a tiny glob of blood and said quickly, “Don’t, Ian. That’s just what they want.”

Ian shook his head, not caring anymore. One or two of these morons was going to regret pissing him off. He started to lift his hands Something flickered at the corner of his eye. A club? He ducked, knowing already that he’d seen it too late.