Temple of the Gods Read Free Page A

can’t, can you? You need me alive.’
    ‘Not quite,’ said Eddie. ‘I want you alive, ’cause I’ll get paid extra.’
    ‘And you said you weren’t a mercenary any more,’ Boodu scoffed, before the implications of Eddie’s words sank in. ‘Paid? By who?’
    ‘Oh, just the people I got across the border last time I was here. And some other Zimbabweans who escaped.’ His voice hardened. ‘People who had to leave family behind. Family you got hold of. They’re pretty keen to see you again – on their terms.’ A flicker of genuine fear replaced arrogance in Boodu’s eyes. ‘Strutter’s the main reason I’m here, but giving you to them’s a bonus. But don’t get me wrong – if you try anything again, I’ll blow your fucking head off and give ’em what’s left of it in a carrier bag. Now open the door.’
    Boodu did as he was told. The door swung open and a haggard man, face swollen with bruises, rushed out – only to retreat in fear when he saw who had released him.
    ‘It’s okay, come out,’ said Eddie, bringing his gun to the back of Boodu’s head to show the terrified prisoner that the balance of power had changed. He glanced into the cell and saw that the man was not alone; there were five others, all showing signs of recent beatings, in the cramped, sweltering space. He tossed the keys into the room. ‘Get everyone out, and be ready to run when you see the signal.’
    ‘What signal?’ a prisoner asked.
    Eddie grinned. ‘You won’t miss it.’ He swatted Boodu with the machete as the men in the cell hesitantly emerged, as if expecting some cruel trick. ‘Keep moving.’
    ‘You are setting these traitors, these scum , free?’ Boodu hissed through clenched teeth. ‘You’ll die for this, Chase!’
    ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Eddie replied with a shrug. ‘But first, let’s set another scumbag free and get Strutter, eh?’
    Trying to mask his concern, Boodu continued down the passageway, Eddie behind him. More people were quickly released from other cells. Another series of explosions shook the old fort: the final mortar attack. If things were going to plan, the prison would now be in chaos, with communications and most of the defences smashed. The next phase – creating an escape route – should now be under way.
    But while freeing Zimbabwean political prisoners would be a great humanitarian feat, it wasn’t why Eddie was there. Only one prisoner concerned him.
    The man behind the steel door they had just reached.
    Keeping Boodu at gunpoint, Eddie listened at the grille set into it, straining to make out anything over the clamour of alarm bells. That the opening was there at all spoke volumes. Torture chambers designed for the purpose of extracting information were generally soundproofed, the atrocities committed within witnessed only by the torturers and their victims. This, though, let everyone in the cells hear the screams. Another form of torture, more insidious, one that didn’t even require the abusers to lay a hand on their other victims.
    Through the door, he heard muted gasping. Anything else was masked by the bells and his own less than perfect hearing, damaged by years of exposure to gunfire and explosions. ‘Open it,’ he muttered to Boodu.
    The Zimbabwean glowered, but pushed the door open. ‘It’s Boodu,’ he announced.
    There was no answer. Surprised, Boodu stepped cautiously into the chamber. Eddie followed a couple of steps behind. On the far side of the shadowed room he saw the man he had come to rescue: Johnny Strutter, an overweight Kenyan man in his forties. Strutter was shackled face-first against the wall, his bare back marked with savage weals and bleeding lines where he had been whipped. There was also a strong, sickly smell like scorched meat. Burn marks dotted across Strutter’s shoulders and upper back told Eddie that it wasn’t from a barbecue. A bench beside him was home to numerous instruments of torture, some of which had been demonstrated to – and