Arriving on the run, Kealey crouched and pulled Flores’s hand away from the wound, ignoring the man’s halfhearted attempts to push him away. The powerful 5.56mm round had pierced the right side of his chest, just above the first rib and below the outer edge of the clavicle. Judging by the absence of blood, the round had missed the major arteries in the region, as well as all the internal organs, none of which were situated in that immediate area. Moving around to check the man’s back, Kealey found the exit wound, which was considerably larger than the hole in his chest. From the position alone, Kealey could tell that the round had driven through the center of Flores’s right scapula before it left his body. It wasn’t a fatal injury, but his earlier assumption had been wrong, as it was serious. The pain would be intense, and it would only get worse as the minutes passed. Flores had to get to a hospital immediately.
As the shock of the initial impact passed, the Honduran started to groan in pain. Kealey was already thinking about his next move. He looked around quickly, ignoring the distant wail of approaching sirens. Normally, the police backup would have arrived already, but the bulk of the city’s force seemed to be focused on the courthouse at Von Brandis and Kerk, as well as the surrounding streets. Given the ongoing riot outside the Johannesburg High Court, it wasn’t surprising that it had taken this long for backup to arrive on scene, and this realization led Kealey to another. If the SAPS officers who had ambushed them were originally assigned to stand post outside the courthouse, it would explain the ease with which they had obtained automatic weapons. And if they had drawn their R5s for the supposed purpose of crowd control, they had probably signed out some nonlethal deterrents as well-the same deterrents the policemen on Kerk Street should have been using the moment Whysall’s vehicle was hit outside the parking garage.
He looked over at the first police Land Rover, which was still idling directly behind the Land Cruiser. The door nearest to him was hanging open, and the driver’s corpse was lying facedown a few feet away. Rivulets of dark red blood were running out from under his chest, trickling down the gentle slope of the street. Looking the dead man over, Kealey took note of his outfit. It was standard SAPS winter attire: black tactical boots, gray field trousers, and a navy jacket over a gray short-sleeve shirt, the collar pulled outside of the jacket. A navy baseball cap bearing the SAPS gold star was lying next to the man’s head, and his weapon-a standard-issue USP-9-was resting a few inches from his still right hand. There was nothing to suggest that he was anything other than a regular officer in the South African Police Service, except…
Except the handgun, Kealey realized. The USP-9 isn’t standard issue. So if these men aren’t regular SAPS officers, who are they?
The moment this question entered his mind, Kealey jogged over to take a closer look. Picking up the weapon, he saw that he had been right; it was a Heckler amp; Koch USP-9. The powerful 9mm handgun had been adopted by the SAPS Special Task Force a few years earlier, and that told him all he needed to know. The STF was an elite division within the South African Police Service. It was roughly equivalent to the SWAT team in a major U.S. city, such as New York or Los Angeles, only the STF was far more selective. In a police force numbering 130,000 officers across the country, less than 100 were active members of the venerable “Task Mag” units. For this reason alone, Kealey doubted that all six officers were assigned to the STF, but either way, the link would account for the heavy firepower the would-be assassins had brought to bear.
The police sirens were drawing closer. Turning his head to his right, Kealey saw flashing lights in the near distance. Over the sound of the two-tone sirens, he heard doors slamming shut and men shouting, and he realized the arriving officers had decided to proceed on foot, as the road to the north was blocked by abandoned cars. He assumed the occupants had fled when the shooting started, but unfortunately, the accidental roadblock-as convenient as it was-wouldn’t do much to slow the new arrivals down. Even on foot, Kealey knew it wouldn’t take them long to get to the Land Cruiser, which was parked no more than 200 meters from the officers’ current location. Accounting for the cars blocking the way, he decided that he and the others had about fifty seconds to leave the scene. Checking his watch, he marked the time and started to move.
Jogging round to the back of the Land Rover, he popped the rear door and did a quick visual inventory. The cargo area was full of clothes, both civilian and police issue, as well as six boxes of ammunition, four spent magazines, a spare tire, and a fully loaded tactical vest bearing the SAPS departmental seal. Grabbing the vest, he squeezed each of the closed compartments, searching for the cylindrical shape of a CS riot control grenade. The fourth pouch felt right, and he ripped open the Velcro flap to check the contents. Two grenades were inside. He pulled the first one out to read the markings and saw that it was what he was looking for. Shoving one grenade into each of his pockets, he moved around the side of the vehicle and ran up to the rear door of the Land Cruiser. He tried the door and swore when he found it locked. Rather than try to convince the men inside to open it, he ran around the ruined front grille of the SUV to the passenger-side door, which was still hanging ajar. Hitting the automatic locks, he took two steps to his right and lifted the handle.
The South African president was still lying prone in the backseat, as was his aide, Steve Oliphant. Both men raised their heads cautiously when Kealey opened the door. They seemed stunned to find him standing there.
Fixing his gaze on the senior man, Kealey said, “Sir, we’ve got to move. It isn’t safe here… We have to change vehicles right now.”
The man’s mouth fell open, but nothing came out, and Kealey didn’t have time to argue. Reaching in, he grabbed Jacob Zuma with two hands, then pulled him bodily out of the vehicle. The man seemed too stunned to react, but Oliphant immediately began shouting in protest. He reached out and tried to grab Kealey’s arm, commanding him to release the older man. Ignoring him, Kealey gripped Zuma’s arm and guided him gently but firmly back to the Land Rover. He had just pushed him into the backseat when the aide arrived on the run, his face a mask of indignant rage. Before he could say a word, Kealey gripped the lapels of his jacket, turned to the right, and shoved him up against the side of the SUV.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Oliphant sputtered. He tried to pull Kealey’s hands away, but he didn’t have the strength or leverage. “Get your hands off me! You have no right to-”
“Shut the fuck up! We have to get out of here. What don’t you understand about that?”
The aide twisted his head to the right, toward the sound of the sirens. “We don’t have to go anywhere,” he protested angrily. “The police are coming. We should stay here and-”
“The police did this! ” Kealey shouted, sweeping an arm to his right to indicate the surrounding devastation. He tried to remember that the man had been doing his best to keep his head down for the past ten minutes, but it was hard to excuse this level of ignorance.
Oliphant fell silent and gradually stopped struggling as he took in the scene, his mouth agape.
“Don’t you get it? It was the police who attacked us!” The African’s mouth worked silently, but he had nothing to say, and Kealey took advantage of the dead air, knowing it wouldn’t last for long. “Look, you were right about one thing,” he conceded quickly. “More are coming, but we can’t wait to see if they’re on our side or not, so stop arguing and get in the vehicle. We’re leaving. Now. ”
Kealey released his grasp on the man’s suit jacket, and this time Oliphant did as he was told. Without another word, he slid into the backseat next to his boss. Shutting the door after them, Kealey turned and sprinted the short distance back to Flores. The Honduran was still lying where he had fallen, blood streaming out from under his injured shoulder. At first, Kealey was afraid the man had lost consciousness. If he had, it would make his next task all but impossible. As he crossed the last few feet, though, he saw that Flores was still awake, if only just.