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Back Manhunter Save as PDF
Chapters (37)
  1. Cover
  2. One
  3. Two
  4. Three
  5. Four
  6. Five
  7. Six
  8. Seven
  9. Eight
  10. Nine
  11. Ten
  12. Eleven
  13. Twelve
  14. Thirteen
  15. Fourteen
  16. Fifteen
  17. Sixteen
  18. Seventeen
  19. Eighteen
  20. Nineteen
  21. Twenty
  22. Twenty-One
  23. Twenty-Two
  24. Twenty-Three
  25. Twenty-Four
  26. Twenty-Five
  27. Twenty-Six
  28. Twenty-Seven
  29. Twenty-Eight
  30. Twenty-Nine
  31. Thirty
  32. Thirty-One
  33. Thirty-Two
  34. Thirty-Three
  35. Chris Ryan Readers’ Club?
  36. Letter from Author
  37. About the Author

The palace grounds were strewn with abandoned equipment: body armour, helmets, canteens, boots. And dead bodies. Bowman counted at least half a dozen of them, their shapes faintly visible in the glow from the security lights. They were all dressed in the dark-grey uniform and green berets of the Presidential Guard.

‘Jesus . . . ’ Loader said. ‘What the fuck happened?’

The rear brake lights on the Hilux suddenly flared as the pickup halted. Bowman quickly stamped hard on the brakes, the Land Cruiser skidded and lurched to a stop half a metre behind the Hilux. To their rear, the Unimog driver had also stopped.

‘What are those idiots doing now?’ Loader said angrily.

Bowman didn’t reply. Beyond the red ghost-like flare of the Hilux brake lights, he spied movement. Fifty metres away. Four figures, near the entrance to the palace.

Not members of the Presidential Guard.

Not friendlies.

The Machete Boys.

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Two

It took Bowman half a second to identify the four figures at the entrance to the palace. They were dressed in a strange mishmash of cargo shorts, athleisure and brightly coloured T-shirts, their AK-47 rifles slung casually over their shoulders. Therefore, not soldiers or police. All four men wore amulets around their wrists. Animal paws hung from chains draped around their necks. They had small leather pouches tied to ropes around their waists, their chests, their biceps. Presumably containing coins or buttons or other magical items.

Gris-gris, Mavinda had said. Good luck charms. Worn by the Machete Boys to protect them from bullets and other dangers.

A splinter group. More like a gang than soldiers.

Three of the Boys were hauling loot out of the palace. One guy in a replica Portugal football jersey carried a bronze bust the size of a bowling ball. A second man with a red bandana tied around his head gripped the gilt frame of an oil painting. Next to him, a third bloke in a garish pink T-shirt was lugging a wooden chair. They carried their stolen treasure over to a battered truck parked at the eleven o’clock position on the carriage circle. A fourth kid, no older than sixteen or seventeen, bare-chested and wearing flip-flops, leaned against the side of the truck, swaying drunkenly as he swigged from a bottle of whisky.

The guy with the bandana caught sight of the convoy in the driveway. He stopped dead and shouted at his mates, and then Pinkie and Portugal dropped the loot they had been carrying, and Flip-Flops wheeled round to see what they were looking at.

The four Machete Boys had a sudden decision to make. The biggest decision of their lives. Possibly the last, depending on the outcome. They could stand and fight. Or they could turn and run.

The rebels unslung their assault rifles. Going for the first option. Brave, but stupid.