White didn’t want to commit before he had the answer, but the man forced him to when he stepped over the small stone wall and through the row of vines White was using as concealment. The man emerged nine feet in front of White, holding a rifle in his hands and looking in the opposite direction. He was tall and bald, with a thick neck. Not an easy man to take down silently, so White didn’t even try. He raised his pistol and sent two rounds into the back of the man’s head.
White was moving before the man had even hit the ground, aware that his muzzle flash had given away his exact position to anyone close by. It was the right move, as someone opened up with multiple three-round bursts. Bullets streamed through the vines, shredding the loose foliage where White had been seconds ago.
Resisting the urge to fire blindly, White stayed low and waited, hoping the man would cross over to confirm his kill. The man called out something, but White’s ears were ringing. He couldn’t be sure if the man was requesting backup or calling his dead friend. One thing was for sure, though: the man was almost on him. This was confirmed when a small, thin man wearing glasses emerged from the vegetation less than five feet from White.
Unlike the man White had just killed, this one was looking right at him. Before the man could get off a shot, White fired twice, hitting him center mass. He sent an additional bullet under the man’s chin and up into his brain. He grabbed the man’s rifle, an M4, and inserted a fresh magazine before heading back toward where he had left Pierre.
With his ears ringing from the gunfight, White had to trust that Pierre wouldn’t shoot him by mistake. He shouldn’t have worried, because the Frenchman hadn’t moved at all. In fact, he was curled up in a ball, his pistol on the ground next to him. Whatever adrenaline had pushed Pierre through shooting the twin and the rest of these events that were clearly out of the ordinary for the reserved spy had clearly deserted him.
“We need to move, Pierre,” White said. “Come on, buddy. Get up.”
But Pierre refused to move. He didn’t even look at White.
White cursed. They had less than five minutes to get their asses to the helipad. They weren’t going to make it.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Kommetjie, South Africa
Oxley was startled by the two pistol shots, but by the time his man returned fire with three-round bursts, Oxley was already sprinting to the door at the opposite end of the tasting room. He stepped outside just in time to see the silhouette of a man jump over the stone wall. The moment the silhouette disappeared into the vines, two more shots were fired, followed by a third one a second later.
Oxley clenched his jaw and took cover behind a row of empty oak barrels. He signaled his two men to do the same. He resisted the urge to race after Pierre and White. He couldn’t afford to move too quickly now. If two of his men had fallen, that meant that White and the Frenchman were now armed with rifles. Oxley asked the man on his right to call back the shooter he had sent to cover the main exit. He needed more manpower.
“Who’s at the gate?” Oxley asked.
“It’s Ricardo, sir,” his man replied.
“Tell Ricardo to grab some NVGs from the armory,” Oxley said. “Tell him to hurry his ass up.”
Oxley realized how unprepared he’d been for this. He had let himself get soft and complacent. It had been way too long since he’d last gotten into a good fight. He had let Krantz run the day-to-day operations of Oxley International Security and had instead focused his time and energy on growing the shipping company and his social engagement initiatives. His sky-high heart rate confirmed the fact that for the last few years, he had spent way too much time in boardroom meetings and not enough at the firing range or at the gym.
In his mind’s eye, Oxley visualized the map of his winery. Were Pierre and White heading toward the ocean? Was there a boat waiting for them close by? That couldn’t be. Oxley had only learned from Krantz three or four hours ago that White was on his way to Cape Town. There was no way someone could have mounted a rescue operation so damn fast. Oxley knew from experience how treacherous the rocky shores at the edge of the vineyard were. Simply stated, maneuvering a boat close enough to shore—especially in the dark—to allow two men to board was risky business. And a deadly one if attempted by anyone not familiar with the waters around Kommetjie.
What else was there? What would he do if he was the one who needed to escape?
The helipad, Oxley thought. Were they going for his helicopter? The thought sent a cold spike of anxiety through him. No, it was impossible. His chopper was at the Port Elizabeth International Airport for regular scheduled maintenance, and he wouldn’t get it back to Kommetjie for another week or so. He was about to dismiss the idea completely when the man on his right caught his attention.