A Time to Die
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As the world around him burns with passion and death, professional hunter and guerrilla fighter Sean Courtney is trapped between his worst enemies, an overwhelming love for a woman, and his instincts to survive -- and kill.
pool where hippo lay like dark rock islands in mid-stream. When Sean seated himself on the carved native stool across the fire from Job, one of the wives brought two glasses and knelt beside him while he poured a large peg for each of them. The pretty young Matabele girl with Job’s infant strapped on her back took the glass to her husband, and Job saluted Sean across the flickering flames. They drank in silence and Sean watched Job’s face in the firelight as he stared out across the river. The
from men with whom she had believed herself in love at the time, the reason for all this was this man who sat beside her. She had never found another to compare with her papa. Colonel Riccardo Monterro, soldier, engineer, scholar, gourmet, multi-millionaire businessman, athlete, bon-vivant, lady-killer, sportsman – how many descriptions fitted him perfectly and yet did not describe him as she knew him. They did not describe the kindness and the strength, that made her love him, nor the cruelty
glad she was here rather than jetting back to Alaska. Sean drove on in a silence that gripped them all, even the men standing braced against the roll-bar in the back of the Toyota. The closer they came to the border, the deeper the silence became. At last Sean turned and looked over his shoulder, and Job nodded in agreement. ‘This is it, ladies and gentlemen,’ Sean said quietly. ‘All change!’ He let the Toyota trundle to a halt where the track crossed a stony ridge. ‘Where are we?’ Riccardo
Sean poured a mug of tea for Riccardo and left him with Pumula, while he and Matatu skirted the northern shore, forcing their way through the dense growth until they reached the base of the tallest tree on the island and climbed into its top branches. Sean settled into a high crotch of the tree, snapped off the few leafy twigs that obscured his view and gazed out on a scene of magnificent desolation. He was sixty feet above the island and could see to the misty horizon. The Zambezi flowed past
had to thrust his hips forward to keep himself from toppling out over the sheer drop. It was only a hundred feet to the bottom, but it would crush and kill just as surely as a fall from the top of Eiger north face. The strain on his legs was intolerable now. He thought of going back and trying the roots of the ficus but he doubted that he still had that choice. He wanted to stop, just to rest his legs a moment and gather himself but he knew that would be the end of it. To stop on a pitch like