Predator. Wilbur Smith

on a trolley since they’d decided to play without caddies: no need for anyone else to hear what they were discussing. ‘But anyway, about that chopper, it would sure be handy if there was one up there,’ he went on. ‘Only problem is, we’d have to get rid of it afterwards. Some things we don’t want getting caught on camera.’

      ‘Yeah, I follow you, man.’

      ‘So you’d better see to that. If we want to get this job done, we’d best think of every eventuality.’

      All Johnny Congo’s roads led to Huntsville. So that was where the ambush crew were waiting. The three heavily laden dumper trucks and the five stolen SUVs were all parked up on the cracked and dusty ribbon of road that led from Martin Luther King Drive up to the Northside Cemetery. There were no funerals planned for that day, no passers-by to look at the line of vehicles. The Maalik Angel in charge of the crew was a scrawny, light-skinned brother with a goatee beard called Janoris Hall. Like all the men who would be working under him today, Janoris was wearing a hooded white Tyvek disposable boiler suit, with fine latex gloves and flimsy polypropylene overshoes covering his Nike sneakers. Plenty of crime scene investigators dress in virtually identical work-gear. They don’t want to contaminate a crime scene they’re investigating. The Angels didn’t want to contaminate a crime scene they were about to create. They also didn’t want to be identified, which was why each of the Angels had already been issued with a hockey goalkeeper’s face mask.

      Janoris didn’t have his mask on right now. He was watching the TV news on his iPad and the moment the prison convoy turned left off Farm to Market Road 350, on to Route 190, he turned to his second-in-command Donny Razak and said, ‘They headed north.’

      Razak had a shaven head, a thick, bushy beard and deep, gravelly voice that came from somewhere down in his barrel chest. ‘You want us to get going, meet ’em on the one-ninety?’

      Janoris thought for a moment. It was tempting to head right out there now and get in position early. The less they were rushed, the smaller the chance of making a dumbass mistake somewhere along the line. But what if the convoy took the scenic route, up around the top of the lake and on into Huntsville on Texas 19? He didn’t want to be waiting in the wrong place with his dick in his hand while Johnny Congo was being taken to the Death House on another route.

      ‘No, man, we are going to wait a while. See what happens when they get to the bridge. Soon as we know if they’s gonna cross it or not, that’s when we make our move.’

      At the Walls Unit, one of the administrative offices had been taken over for use as a command post for the Congo operation. Now the only question was, who was in command? There were three possible candidates for the job: Hiram B. Johnson III, the prison governor, who was responsible for everything that would happen from the moment Johnny Congo entered the Walls Unit alive, to the time his body was taken from it, stone dead; Tad Bridgeman, the head of the Offender Transportation Office, whose own HQ was at the James ‘Jay’ H. Byrd Jr Unit, a mile north of Downtown Huntsville and who was himself responsible for getting Johnny Congo from one prison unit to the other; and finally, this being Texas, there was a man in a white Stetson hat.

      This last man also wore a pair of plain tan cowboy boots, stone-coloured denim jeans, a crisply laundered white shirt and a dark tie. His gun was holstered high on his hip, making it easy to draw if he were on horseback, and there was a Star of Texas badge on his chest, stamped from fifty-peso Mexican coins. Officially, in recognition of their roughneck, cowboy origins, the officers of the Texas Rangers Division have no uniform other than their badge and their hat. Unofficially, however, jeans and a white shirt are expected, and the man wearing these was Major Robert ‘Bobby’ Malinga, commander of the Rangers’ Company A.

      He was the one who had co-ordinated the security precautions for the transport with the other two officials and would be responsible for reapprehending Johnny Congo if, by some terrible misfortune, he happened to escape captivity somewhere between West Livingston and Huntsville. The situation was further complicated by the addition of a fourth person, Chantelle Dixon Pomeroy. An immaculately groomed, impeccably mannered but laser-eyed redhead, Chantelle was Deputy Chief of Staff to the Governor of Texas. Her role was to observe and advise on the various political and public relations aspects of the execution and all the events and tasks surrounding it. She had no right to give direct orders to any of the various representatives of the state’s criminal justice system. But she was the eyes, ears and voice of the Governor. And he certainly could give orders.

      Right now, as the Congo convoy headed north up the 190 towards the lakeside developments at Cedar Point, the four key players in the command post were all doing the same as everyone else … watching the convoy’s progress on TV.

      ‘I don’t like those pictures,’ Bobby Malinga growled. ‘If we can see ’em so can every gangbanger in Texas. I don’t want anyone thinking they can pull some crazy stunt, make a name for themselves as the guy who freed Johnny Congo. Or the guy who killed Johnny Congo before the state could do the job. It’s just as bad either way. I want that bird grounded.’

      ‘That’s not going to happen, Major,’ Chantelle Dixon Pomeroy said softly. ‘This isn’t Russia. We have a First Amendment here. We can’t just go around telling TV stations they can’t film an event of genuine significance to the people of Texas.’

      ‘You ever heard of homeland security? Johnny Congo is a notorious killer. He spent years as a fugitive in Africa, led a personal militia there from what I understand, may still do for all I know. He represents a clear and present danger to national security. You want to help our enemies, Ms Pomeroy?’

      ‘No, I don’t, Major,’ the Deputy Chief of Staff said, sliding a spike of iced steel into her honeyed voice. ‘And if he was an Islamic terrorist, I’m sure the Governor would be as concerned as you are. But what we have here, when you get right down to it, is a garden-variety killer. Justice will be done and the Governor wants the people of Texas to see, with their own eyes, that we have the finest police officers and prison staff in the nation.’

      ‘Can you at least call the Governor’s office to ask if he’ll approve a no-fly order?’ Malinga wheedled.

      ‘Sure I can, but I don’t need to. I have absolutely no doubt about the Governor’s wishes. Sorry, Major, but the helicopter stays.’

      The Trinity River flows into the northern end of Lake Livingston by the small waterside community of Onalaska. The mouth of the river is almost three miles wide and it’s spanned by the Trinity Bridge. As the minivan containing Johnny Congo drove along Route 190, through what passed for the centre of Onalaska, Congo turned his head to look out of the window behind him. He saw a low-slung shed that contained a barbershop, an insurance office and a store that sold carpets and floor tiles. Just beyond it there was a Subway.

      ‘Man, what I’d give right now for a foot-long Italian B.M.T.,’ the guard sitting opposite him said. ‘Italian herb’n’cheese bread, extra provolone, plenty of mayo, mmm … What’s your favourite sub?’

      ‘Huh?’ Johnny Congo stared at him, uncomprehending.

      ‘Subway, man, what kinda sandwich do you like?’

      ‘Dunno. Never been.’

      ‘You’re kidding me! You never once ate at Subway?’

      ‘Nope, never heard of the place.’ Johnny Congo looked blankly at the guard, then sighed, as if abandoning the policy of being deliberately non-communicative. ‘I was in Iraq, in the service, killin’ ragheads. Then I came home, caught a multiple homicide beef and was in jail, too many years, nothing but prison food. Then I was in Africa. No frickin’ Subways in Africa. So no, I ain’t never had no subs.’

      ‘Huh?’ The guard looked nonplussed, as though this was genuinely new and unusual information. At a crossroads opposite a Shell gas station they stopped at traffic lights. Now they had a choice to make: carry straight on up the road, or go past the gas station on to Farm to Market 356.

      Neither Johnny nor the guard knew it but there were eyes glued to an iPad screen in Huntsville, waiting to see if the convoy took that turn. If it did, then Congo was