Somewhere near the South Sudan/ Uganda border
The black stallion skittered sideways, and the rider brought him harshly back into line. He couldn’t blame Atheas. Temperatures soared into the mid-forties and they’d been here too long. He patted the sweat-soaked stallion’s coat and called out to one of the men.
“The horse needs water. How long does it take to clear a damn village?”
“We’re almost done, master. I’ll find something.”
“Fuck it. We’ve gone too far north. We’ll backtrack to the church we passed.”
The church they’d ransacked. The Scythian adjusted his soaked hood, feeling perspiration chafing his already raw skin. This was the price he paid for being the most notorious extremist on the African continent. A woman started wailing, and her shrieks added to his already irritated mood.
“Someone kill the bitch.”
The Scythian led Atheas to a miserable patch of shade, then observed the carnage from a distance. His men were well trained. They’d better be after all the slaughtering they’d done—it had been a productive year. They’d concentrated their efforts on remote outlying villages in East and Central Africa. Working near borders meant his army of mercenaries could easily slip into new territory when threatened by local military. Recently, they’d focused on new Sudanese refugee settlements in North Uganda. The newly built thatched settlements were easy pickings for his well-trained unit.
Aside from two of his men contracting malaria, the past month had been uneventful, and Scythian hated to admit that he felt a little bored. The same thing every week—accept a contract, then spread Scythian terror. Extremist organizations tripped over themselves to use his legendary services and they paid well. This being aside from the other businesses he ran, he was constantly traveling, splitting his time between his old life and his new Scythian persona. Growing his unique persona took consistent work, and he’d reached the apex of infamy. Now that he was a wealthy man, it no longer felt like a challenge, and the Scythian needed a new interest. But he had personal business to complete and business contracts to fulfill over the next month before he could even consider a different life path.
His soldiers separated the men from their families. They lined up the last of the stragglers and waited for his final commands. He nudged his horse and walked it over. In a weary tone he ran through a speech that he chanted on a daily basis.
“I will eat your harvest and bread, I will eat your sons and daughters, I will eat your sheep and oxen, I will eat your grapes and figs. The Horse Lord is coming.”
One of the men began to sob and pointed to his wife and young boy.
“Your woman will be sold. Your son will work for me, and you will die. Accept your fate.” The Scythian switched to Dutch and Arabic and repeated his statement. He dismounted and drew a machete, pausing to revel in the thrill of the moment, imagining how imposing he must look to the prisoners trembling before him. Over six feet of honed muscle clad in a pointy, red leather mask, with a sleek stallion snorting at his back. Yeah, his brand was a striking and glorious one.
He raised the machete and swung with all his might.
***
Three months later
Johannesburg
James “Johnny” Cane topped the hill, raising his Smith sunglasses while looking down at the park revelers below. He’d dressed to blend in, wearing tan cargo shorts and a black shirt. His size drew attention. In his line of work, Johnny used that to his advantage—especially when working an asset. Too many people were clustered near the giant oak tree to make out the target, but he’d find her soon enough.
Joining the Facebook group Americans in Jo’burg and accepting the invitation for the outdoor picnic had been as easy as apple pie. He had a feeling that seducing Lizette Steyn would be just as easy, and judging by her photo, she might just taste of apples with a side of sunshine. He hadn’t met any of the Americans yet, but this was what today was about, specifically befriending the airhead princess who would eventually lead them to their primary target. He wouldn’t play the game too hard, flirt just enough to string Lizette along.
The picnic was being held at Emmarentia Dam, a scenic spread of water surrounded by botanical gardens and tranquil lawns. He headed for the shady tree, marking his destination. A grocery bag nudged his leg as he loped down the hill. Rug rats chased each other, screaming as they ran circles around him, and Johnny paid them little heed. An eighties ballad blasted through a portable speaker as he greeted the outlying couples and worked his way into the center of the chaos. He laid out the pasta salad he’d bought among the rest of the wares. Still no sign of his blonde target. A group of teenagers and fathers were gaping up at the oak as Johnny wandered by, pausing to scan the perimeter. A couple of kids played down by the water as their mothers corralled them in. Lizette Steyn wasn’t with them at the water’s edge.
A woman shrieked, gazing up while pouncing too close to Johnny. “That has to be the most idiotic thing you’ve done to date!”
He sidestepped and glanced at the excitable woman, who waved her manicured hands in the air.
“Holy shit!” a pimply teenage boy shouted as the crowd scrambled back in a wave.
His only warning was the sound of wood cracking from above. A body crashed through the leaves, bouncing off branches on its downward trajectory.
Johnny catalogued the missile as he lunged to catch it. A skinny kid dressed in dungarees, approximately a hundred pounds. Thanks to gravity, this was going to hurt like a mother.
Out of time, he situated himself as the body slammed into him. Johnny staggered and tripped on a raised root, and they both crashed to the ground. He sheltered the kid as best he could. Heads knocked together in a jarring thud as they rolled down a grassy hill.
