The Last Protector(Clayton White #1)(71)

The helipad was a quarter of a mile away. There was no way Pierre could cover the distance on foot in so little time. He suddenly jolted his head toward the cloudless night sky, certain he had heard the sound of a helicopter, but his eyes couldn’t find it. If the helicopter was close by, he had no time to lose. Maybe White was already waiting for him at the helipad?

Pierre stood up, holding his pistol with both hands. He remembered hearing the sound of ATVs, which gave him an idea. He carefully stepped through the vines and banged his knee against a meter-high stone wall that bordered the dirt path. Not far to his right was the tasting room. But it was what was unfolding fifty meters to his left that took his breath away—a scene he could see clearly thanks to the burning ATV.

Clayton White was in the middle of the dirt path, fighting with someone and completely oblivious to the two men approaching him from behind. Pierre’s body became rigid when he watched White stab the man he was fighting with in the neck and again in the heart a second later. Pierre wanted to scream at him, to let him know that two armed men were almost on him. But what purpose would that serve? Pierre would lose the only advantage he had left. Surprise.

The thing was, he wasn’t even sure he could fire the pistol again. Just thinking about shooting someone else gave him the creeps.

Shit. He had no choice. There was only one way out of this. Mustering up all the courage he had left, Pierre headed toward danger.





CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE


Kommetjie, South Africa

White didn’t know if Oxley had spotted the M4 trapped between the stone wall and the four-wheeler. His NVGs were up on his forehead, unneeded due to the ATV on fire. It was possible he hadn’t seen it. But White had another problem. He had no idea if the rifle had a round chambered or not. And even if it had a round in the chamber, and even if he could reach it, how was he supposed to take down two men before being himself mowed down by bullets?

“Who’s picking you up?” Oxley asked, taking steps toward him. “I heard a chopper hovering over for the last few minutes. Friends of yours?”

White kept his hands up but held himself ready to pounce if given the opportunity.

“You know what, Roy? I have no freaking idea,” he replied.

Oxley sneered. “So this is Pierre’s master plan? Speaking of him, where is our favorite Frenchman?” He scanned to his left and right with his rifle. “Is he with you?”

The man walking next to Oxley looked behind him and probed the darkness with the help of his NVGs. He suddenly stopped moving and brought his rifle to bear, aiming toward the vines.

“Sir! Movement to—”

The man was interrupted by three muzzle flashes coming from the right side of the dirt path. The man’s head snapped back, and he collapsed before he could return fire. The instant Oxley started to pivot toward the gunfire, White sprang into action and rolled to his left, snatching the rifle. Then he heard two quick shots, his brain acknowledging that the shots hadn’t come from a pistol like the three previous ones.

White locked the butt of the rifle into his shoulder just as Oxley gyrated back toward him, his M4 up. White squeezed the trigger. Oxley spun and fell to the ground. White, keeping a watchful eye on Oxley, scanned the area for other dangers. Behind him, a helicopter was making its final approach toward the small hill where the landing pad was.

“Pierre?” White shouted. “Pierre?”

Damn it.

White jumped on top of the stone wall and vaulted through the vines. To his left, Pierre was sprawled on the ground, motionless. White hurried to him.

Less than a quarter of an inch apart, two neat bullet holes had hit Pierre below his right shoulder. White’s throat tightened as he bent over to take Pierre’s pulse. The little Frenchman had saved his life twice today. It should have been White lying inert in the grass, not him.

Pierre’s pulse was weak and irregular, but he was alive.

White let go of his M4 and placed Pierre’s pistol at the small of his own back. He then whisked Pierre onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and jogged along the vines until he reached the sharp bend. He had just stepped off the stone wall when Oxley called out.

“Is that your chopper on my property?”

White turned to face the man. This time Oxley was armed with a pistol, and White noticed he was holding it in his left hand. The right side of Oxley’s shirt was soaked red, his right arm dripping blood and coloring the dirt path with dark red blotches.

“I already told you,” White said. “I don’t know who they are.”

“How long have you known Pierre?” Oxley asked, taking a few steps toward White.

White shook his head. “Less than an hour,” he replied.

Oxley’s lips curled into a half smile, but it evaporated as fast as it had appeared. White noticed something in Oxley’s eyes he hadn’t seen before. Was it nostalgia? A sense of understanding? Truth was, White didn’t care what the man might or might not be thinking. Roy Oxley had tried to kill Veronica, and for that reason alone, White wouldn’t hesitate to finish the job he’d started if given the chance. The only thing that mattered to him in that moment was to bring Pierre to a hospital.

“You’re free to go, Clayton,” Oxley said. “Just remember what we talked about, yes?”

White nodded and took a step toward the ATV.