“Drop it, boy.”
Jerome dropped the pistol and swallowed huge gulps of winter air. He was going to die. He knew it. He closed his eyes.
“Turn around,” the gun wielder demanded. Jerome obeyed.
Standing in front of him was a black man of average height. He was holding a Glock 17. It was thirty centimetres away from Jerome’s face. The man cracked a smile. Jerome could see at least two gold teeth in his mouth. He seemed happy to be Jerome’s executioner.
“What are you doing here, boy?” the smile was still on his face. Jerome did not answer.
The Glock disappeared for an instant and returned on Jerome’s nose. The pain was unbearable. He fell to his knees.
“What are you doing here, hotnot?” the blood was warm on his face. He could not breathe properly. He looked up at the man and spat blood in his direction. The man’s smile turned into a grin as he lowered his pistol to Jerome’s head. The noise was deafening.
The gunshot hit flesh. A piece of head lay next to the Z88 pistol. Jerome saw the man flounder to the ground, gold teeth drenched in blood.
“Run!” David screamed as he fired behind Jerome. He picked up his pistol and ran towards the fence. He heard two blood curdling screams.
“Go!” David was behind him struggling to keep up. Jerome reached the fence and scaled it. David was close behind.
It was quiet again. Dawn was approaching. Jerome sat looking at the sky lighting up, the moon disappearing. David came to sit next to him.
“I did it,” Jerome said smiling at David.
“You did well, laaitie. You did really well.” David was not smiling. The words flowed out of his mouth mechanically. David got up. His blood soaked attire looked heavy on him. Jerome started to get up, but David spoke. “No, laaitie. You’re not going anywhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you see the sky, Jerome?”
“Yes, but…”
“That means you’re done, laaitie. You did your job. It’s over.”
David produced his own Z88 pistol and pointed it at Jerome. The sun was slowly creeping out from behind the mountain. The cold morning air touched all the beings in Old Kraaifontein. It touched the metal shacks, the oil drums, and the cell tower. It touched the muzzle of David’s pistol.
“I told you there were no friendlies here, laaitie. This isn’t personal. It’s politics.”
“Wai…” The bullet hit Jerome. His body jerked and fell with a dud. His training was over.
The sun was higher now. The cold air was crisp. David stood over Jerome’s body. The blood was pooling like a halo under his head. David pulled the thin slab from his pocket, touched it with a rhythm and put it against his ear.
“Yes?” The general said sleepily.
“It’s done.” David said coolly.
“Loose ends?”
“Just Norah. I’m heading there now.”
“Make it look clean, David. This cannot go wrong.”
“Do you want me to retrieve the device?”
“Why? It’s a fake. The ANC won’t meddle with their little development project.”
“What if they find it?”
“It’s a fake, David. It’s a glorified box.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Call me when it’s done.”
David touched the thin slab and pocketed it. He glanced at Jerome one more time and started walking. The streets were quiet, the oil drums were unoccupied and there were only a few birds singing. David enjoyed the quiet. The gunfire and the bloodshed were irritating, but necessary for the quiet he envisioned. He breathed deeply and focused on the final task that needed to be completed.
He checked his Z88’s magazine, empty.
He reached into his winter jacket and retrieved a spare magazine. He reloaded the pistol and put one in the chamber. The faint click then clank echoed briefly in the street.
“It’s a fake.” The General’s words kept repeating in his head. He knew about the plan and the reasons for the plan, but it did not make killing Jerome easier. His hands shook when he pulled the trigger. That never happened. He looked back at the tower. The blinking light was less ominous now.
You won’t get a better tombstone, laaitie, he thought.
***
Tell us what you think: Would you hurt a friend for a mission? Why? Why not?