Free Evolution of Fear by Paul E. Hardisty Page B

arms burning with the effort, the icy wind tearing into the core of him, he knew. It was her . The impossible vulnerability of her. Thepower. God, just don’t think about it, he said to himself. Focus on this wave, this wall of black water, just get it behind you. Get there. Get to her first.
    He pushed the little boat on through the night, skidding and pounding through the chaos, riding the isobar as it spun towards the continent. With each wave, Flame ’s bow pitched high until Clay was staring up into the swirling cloud. A star winked and was gone. Time stopped, hung there a moment, cresting a mountain, the bare mast just visible against the cloud. And up there, on the top of the world, songs came in the wind, screaming ballads. He could see Rania’s face, her mouth open wide so he could see her teeth and the black emptiness at the back of her throat, her midnight hair a hurricane about her head, and the rhythm of it was hard and adrenaline-fast, like a frightened heart, and she was sitting there cross-legged like a schoolgirl on the cabin roof, singing to him, a dirge all her own, the notes ragged and torn so that he could make out neither melody nor lyrics. He blinked the rain from his eyes, closed them hard. Go away, please, he said out loud. Not now. And then he felt it in his feet, his guts, the start of the fall, and down he went, eyes wide, nothing before him but the deep brine, pulling him in. And on that long ride down it was as if he could see into the cold depth of it, below that mean, slicked surface, down to the calm currents and the big, ancient bottom fishes, the sea-floor vents, the mud of aeons lying quiet and thick and so heavy. And then the shuddering impact and they were under, the bow buried. A cold sheet of brine knocked him to the cockpit floor, burying him. Water swirled all around. He reached for the wheel, pulled himself up spluttering and coughing, the salt burning in his mouth, the little ketch shedding water in thick streams as she struggled back out of the wave and began her climb up the next.
    Together they fought. She tough and responsive to his commands, he fighting to protect her from the full fury of the waves as best he could, urging her on, the storm sails powering her through the maelstrom even as conditions worsened.
    As he tired, his mind wandered. Crowbar had said the hit had been on for a week. That’s the way he’d said it, as if they already knew the target. The doctor said Eben had been killed four days ago – five now. By examining the clinic’s files, the assassins had deduced that Eben’s benefactor, Declan Greene, was in fact his friend and brother parabat, lately of 1 Parachute Battalion, South African Defence Force, Claymore Straker. His cover was blown. Regina Medved had known this for five days. But only Crowbar knew that Clay was her brother’s killer – he’d been there with him, watched him pull the trigger. All the other witnesses were dead. And only Crowbar knew he had been hiding in the cottage. Only Crowbar had all the pieces, and those had surely been his guys come for the hit. So why the attack on the clinic, the cryptic message in blood? Crowbar hadn’t needed that information, could have provided Regina Medved with everything she needed without ever mentioning Eben. It only made sense if Crowbar had betrayed him for more than just money. The whole thing in the clinic reeked of spite, revenge. Koevoet was a lot of things – arrogant, contemptuous of weakness, hard-headed, autocratic – but until a day ago he had been Clay’s definition of honour. Money was one thing, but revenge?
    Before Medved’s killing, Clay had decided to go back to South Africa and testify to Mandela’s soon to be established post-apartheid Truth and Reconciliation Commission. He’d told this to Koevoet, who’d accused him of disloyalty, threatened to terminate their friendship. Clay had sworn, along with the others, never to reveal what had happened that day in Angola,