Free Defender by Chris Allen Page A

forest for fuel and building materials. He came upon the signposts of recent carnage
    - abandoned vehicle hulks, Gumpled and burnt out, some lying discarded, half-in and half-out of the bush, the result of an RPG hit or improvised road side mine. These roads, far from the centre of Cullentown's protection, were treacherous. It was the training ground for young rebel initiates striving to impress the leadership - even the Army wouldn't come up here.
    This was just too much, Turner thought. This man Lundt was exerting excessive control over him. Enough was enough, Turner promised himself. When his work here was done, if he ever lived to see that day, he would never return to Africa. And if he never saw Lundt again, it would be too bloody soon.
    He made the final approach along the sweeping left-hand bend that led to the compound, crunching through the gears and coming to a stop at the gates. Two young rebel soldiers, no more than teenagers, appeared from the verandah and sauntered over to open the big cyclone mesh gates. They looked at him without interest, their eyes dulled by the narcotic concoction they'd been fed by their masters to maintain their sense of loyalty. He was expected, and hard to miss as he eased the vehicle through to the compound and pulled up to the building. Turner didn't like to leave the vehicle when he came up here. The battered Land Rover was a life buoy when you are the only white face within a sea of angry black faces, far from the relative sanctuary of the mine site. But on days like today, when he had to come out here, nobody at Pallarup could know where he was, and with every step Turner took away from the vehicle, the more distant his tenuous grip on self-preservation became.
    A third rebel soldier, older than the others, appeared. He was huge and moved with authority. The two younger ones cowered when they saw him. At least 6 feet 5 inches, with limbs like heavy industrial equipment, he marched from the wide-open doors of the old house and stormed across the rotting boards of the verandah, straight for Turner. Turner's pulse went into overdrive. He recoiled into the seat, fleshy knuckles white upon the steering wheel. The soldier's eyes were locked on Turner, no emotion on his dark features, only resolve. In two strides, he was off the verandah and tearing at the car door. Turner was unceremoniously dragged from the car and catapulted into the house. A big hand immediately took the scruff of his collar, lifting him through the doors.
    Turner gagged at the stench of the place. Things had deteriorated since his last visit. He was thrust into a void, a rudimentary stairway, stepping amidst human waste. Within seconds, he lost all natural light. He knew he was on his own, completely at the mercy of the rebels.
    A single bulb glowed at the far end of a long, dark space. He could vaguely make out cages along the walls and from the smell and noise, knew they all had people inside them. Turner became faint, his legs turning to jelly, his head swimming with fear. He fell helplessly to his hands and knees, retching.
    "Oh, Christ," came a familiar voice from the darkness. "Bring that useless git down here."
    Again, gargantuan hands came from nowhere and lifted Turner to his feet. Still gagging, he was shunted along the line of cages to the back of a long room, towards the single, hanging light bulb.
    "This had better be good, Turner," snapped Lundt.
    "Why have you brought me down here?" Turner began, coughing and spluttering. He wiped his face and mouth with a large bandana handkerchief. "I contacted you. Agreed to help. Why are you treating me this way?" Again, he retched.
    "I need you to know what you've got yourself into, Turner." The voice was cold, unsympathetic. "Sit him down."
    The soldier dropped Turner into a blood-and-excrement-soaked chair in the centre of the cage where Lundt had been standing, chain-smoking, waiting for him. Lundt's features were disturbing under the half-light of the