The Last Protector(Clayton White #1)(68)

“They can’t be far,” Oxley said out loud. He walked toward the center of the space, looking at the dead twin. He’d been shot twice in the back.

Damn you, Pierre, Oxley thought. Then he froze, his heart skipping a beat. Where was his phone? His file folders?

“Fuuuck!” he shouted, mad at himself for being so careless. “Fuuuck!”

His men were looking at him eagerly. Oxley knew what they sought from him. They wanted his permission to kill White and Pierre. As tempting as it was, Oxley had to stay the course.

“The rules of engagement haven’t changed, gentlemen. Find them!”





CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN


Kommetjie, South Africa

White heard the four-wheelers the instant Pierre opened the door. They sprinted across the small dirt path and jumped over a short stone wall that bordered it. The moon was high in the sky and provided just enough light for them to see in front of them. They had covered less than fifty meters when the ATVs’ engines stopped.

In front of him, Pierre got down to one knee. White did the same.

Alert, White remained silent, listening. In the distance, the waves were breaking onto the rocky shore. Closer to him, a gentle breeze caused the vines to whisper in a soft and quiet sway. Then he heard something else. White closed his eyes so he could concentrate. There it was again, the faint crunch of someone cautiously walking on a dirt road. White estimated the distance at twenty, maybe twenty-five meters.

“Let’s go,” Pierre said, in the process of standing up.

White grabbed his arm and pulled him close. White placed his index finger on his lips, signaling Pierre to stay quiet. The Frenchman nodded. Despite what he’d done inside the tasting room, the man looked frightened and completely out of his natural environment. A thin layer of perspiration on his forehead gleamed in the moonlight. White wondered who Pierre was working for. DGSE? Swiss Intelligence? Not that it truly mattered. The man had saved his life, and White would do what he could to protect him.

He allowed himself to take two long but silent breaths, hoping Pierre would do the same. White closed his eyes again, trying to pinpoint exactly where the steps were coming from. After a few seconds, he concluded that whoever had been walking on the dirt path had stopped. Had Pierre’s silhouette been spotted? That sent a chill down White’s spine. He was about to change position when the steps resumed. He froze, holding his breath. The steps were much closer than they were a minute ago. And, worse, the faint crunching was now coming from two different directions and getting closer.

White gently squeezed Pierre’s arm to get his attention. Pierre snapped his head in White’s direction, looking at him with wide eyes, his upper lip quivering.

“Stay here,” White mouthed to him. “Don’t move.”

Pierre shook his head and pointed farther down the vineyard. White squeezed Pierre’s arm harder.

“Stay here,” he mouthed again. This time, Pierre nodded. White glanced at Pierre’s hands to make sure his finger was off the trigger. The last thing they needed right now was an accidental discharge that would give away their position. He was glad to see that Pierre’s finger was on the frame. White moved rapidly and silently, making sure to stay on the grass and away from the dirt path. He used the thick vines as concealment and covered approximately thirty feet before he stopped to listen. White stayed immobile for what felt like ten minutes but was in fact less than thirty seconds.

What betrayed Oxley’s man was his odor. The man was a smoker. A deadly sin. White assessed the distance separating him from the man at less than ten feet. An easy shot in any circumstances. But the second man worried White. Where was he? Was he covering his partner? Had he left?

White didn’t want to commit before he had the answer, but the man forced him to when he stepped over the small stone wall and through the row of vines White was using as concealment. The man emerged nine feet in front of White, holding a rifle in his hands and looking in the opposite direction. He was tall and bald, with a thick neck. Not an easy man to take down silently, so White didn’t even try. He raised his pistol and sent two rounds into the back of the man’s head.

White was moving before the man had even hit the ground, aware that his muzzle flash had given away his exact position to anyone close by. It was the right move, as someone opened up with multiple three-round bursts. Bullets streamed through the vines, shredding the loose foliage where White had been seconds ago.

Resisting the urge to fire blindly, White stayed low and waited, hoping the man would cross over to confirm his kill. The man called out something, but White’s ears were ringing. He couldn’t be sure if the man was requesting backup or calling his dead friend. One thing was for sure, though: the man was almost on him. This was confirmed when a small, thin man wearing glasses emerged from the vegetation less than five feet from White.

Unlike the man White had just killed, this one was looking right at him. Before the man could get off a shot, White fired twice, hitting him center mass. He sent an additional bullet under the man’s chin and up into his brain. He grabbed the man’s rifle, an M4, and inserted a fresh magazine before heading back toward where he had left Pierre.

With his ears ringing from the gunfight, White had to trust that Pierre wouldn’t shoot him by mistake. He shouldn’t have worried, because the Frenchman hadn’t moved at all. In fact, he was curled up in a ball, his pistol on the ground next to him. Whatever adrenaline had pushed Pierre through shooting the twin and the rest of these events that were clearly out of the ordinary for the reserved spy had clearly deserted him.