Predator. Wilbur Smith

the BearCat with the force of an anti-tank missile. The rear end of the armoured personnel carrier disintegrated. It was impossible to believe that anyone, even if they were wearing body armour, could possibly be left alive inside it, but just to make sure the gunmen opened up.

      They were holding the Atchisson Assault Shotguns, otherwise known in their present-day form as AA-12s, which may just be the deadliest, most destructive infantry weapon on earth. The AA-12 holds up to thirty-two rounds of 12-gauge ammunition, which it fires at a rate of 300 rounds a minute. Emptying two magazines into a confined space filled with human beings has the same effect on them as throwing them into a gigantic Magimix. They aren’t just killed. They’re obliterated.

      The gunmen slammed new drums into their weapons and strode towards the minivan. The man who’d operated the Krakatoa ran back towards the Porsche and caught a long set of bolt cutters someone threw to him from the car.

      The leading gunman was right up alongside the van now. He slammed the palm of his hand on the door panel. ‘You in there, Johnny?’ he shouted.

      ‘Damn straight, now get me out!’

      ‘You all right?’

      ‘I won’t be, you keep jabbering on like that.’

      ‘You’d better get away from the door, bro.’

      A second later the entire lock assembly was smashed to pieces by a single burst of fire from the AA-12. The doors flew open and a great, predatory grin spread across Johnny’s face as he saw the bolt cutters in the hands of the Maalik Angel who was climbing up into the minivan. It took just seconds for the cutters to break apart the leg irons hobbling Johnny’s feet, the chain attaching him to the floor of the van, the belly chain around his waist and the links from that to his wrists. Johnny stretched his arms wide, both hands touching the sides of the minivan. He rolled his head to loosen up his neck and shoulder muscles. Then he called out through the door of the van, ‘Now gimme that gun.’

      Johnny caught the AA-12 with one hand as it was thrown to him. Then he turned to confront the agony-racked and whimpering Offender Transportation Office guard who lay huddled on the floor behind him. ‘How d’ya like this sandwich, you motherf—’

      The rest of the word was lost as the shotgun blast echoed around the confined space of the minivan. Johnny took a look at the smashed red mess that used to be the guard’s face, chuckled to himself, then climbed out of the van and on to the burning highway.

      ‘Car’s waiting for you up ahead, man,’ the chain-cutter Angel said.

      ‘Gimme a moment,’ Johnny replied. He walked around to the front of the van. As he got there, the guard in the passenger seat was trying to get the door open.

      ‘Here, let me give you a hand with that,’ Johnny said.

      He opened the minivan door. The dazed guard fell through it on to the road. Johnny watched him trying to get to his feet for a couple of seconds, then he blew him away: three shots in less than a second that picked up the guard and threw him against the minivan like a doll being hurled aside by a spoilt child.

      Johnny looked into the cabin. He couldn’t decide if the driver was dead or merely unconscious. So he fired another three more rounds into him just to put an end to any doubts.

      Then he let the Angels lead him to the Range Rover that was waiting on the far side of the trucks. It raced a mile back down the road and then veered off into an open field where another helicopter was coming in to land. Johnny was bundled into it and it took off again immediately, swooping low over the highway battle zone, where the Angels had set off the timers attached to the Jerrycans in the truck cabins, so now the trucks were all ablaze, belching flames and smoke.

      Traffic had begun to pile up on either side of the barricades formed by the trucks and the rubble they’d been carrying. Customers were running out of Bubba’s to stare at the mayhem. In the confusion the Angels piled into Congos 1, 2 and 5 and sped away eastwards.

      About five miles out of Beaumont, the helicopter in which Johnny was riding landed in a field where a short field take-off and landing Cessna 172 was waiting for him with its engine ticking over. Johnny transferred into it and the pilot immediately gunned the engine and took off. As soon as they were airborne Johnny made a request of the pilot who gave him a puzzled frown; then he grinned and said, ‘Sure, why not? I guess you must be real hungry,’ and radioed ahead.

      Back at the Walls Unit, a nervous prison governor was explaining to Johnny Congo’s attorney Shelby Weiss and his family friend, the well-known entrepreneur and philanthropist D’Shonn Brown, that the execution was being postponed. It appeared that the convoy carrying Johnny Congo to Hunstville had been ambushed. Congo himself had disappeared. There was no trace of him, alive or dead, at the ambush site. Nor was it clear what the exact purpose of the ambush had been.

      ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Weiss impatiently.

      ‘I guess it means that we don’t know if Congo was taken by friendly gangbangers who wanted to free him, or enemies who wanted to kill him.’

      ‘I want to speak to the governor,’ said D’Shonn Brown.

      ‘I am the governor.’

      ‘No, I mean the Governor of Texas. I want to speak to him now. I want to know what’s happening here and what he plans to do about it.’

      So did the entire national and regional media, who were besieging the operational command post, demanding that Chantelle Dixon Pomeroy come out and explain how the Texas judicial system had so catastrophically failed to deliver a condemned man to his execution.

      ‘Do you even know where Johnny Congo is?’ one reporter demanded.

      A look of panic flashed across Chantelle’s face before she recovered her usual self-possession. ‘I’m afraid that is sensitive information and I can’t speak to that point at this time.’

      ‘There’s nothing sensitive about a simple yes or no. Do you know where he is?’

      ‘Ah … I can’t … that’s to say it’s not appropriate …’

      ‘You don’t know, do you? The most wanted man in Texas has missed his own execution and you have no idea at all where he might be. Isn’t that so?’

      ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it that way at all,’ blustered Chantelle Dixon Pomeroy.

      But she didn’t have to put it any way. It was obvious to everyone holding a mike, or aiming a camera, or watching at home on TV: Johnny Congo had got clean away.

      When the Cessna 172 carrying Johnny Congo landed at the private aviation terminal of Jack Brooks Regional Airport, it immediately taxied to where a silver Citation X jet waited on the hardstand to receive him, with all its engines warming up.

      Johnny climbed on board and an elegantly uniformed blonde stewardess was waiting for him at the top of the boarding ladder. She led him to the rear cabin where an impeccable dark grey suit, white shirt and deep blue silk tie, with black silk socks, shoes and belt were laid out on the bunk.

      Showing no emotion whatsoever, the stewardess helped him out of his prison garb, which was emblazoned with the Death Row ‘DR’. She carried it away discreetly and left him to change into the suit.

      When he was fully attired Johnny checked the contents of the crocodile-skin briefcase that lay on the opposite bunk. He hummed with satisfaction as he counted the wads of $100 bills, which totalled $50,000, and the bearer bonds to the value of $5 million. There was also a smartphone untraceable to him and a number of passports, including a diplomatic one from the state of Kazundu in the name of His Majesty King John Kikuu Tembo.

      Johnny made a regal figure as he emerged from the rear cabin and went forward to the lounge of the Citation. Having been given the statutory two hours’ notice of the Citation’s flight plans the US Customs and Border Protection Service had sent an officer to process the flight and His Majesty King John graciously allowed her to stamp his passport with an exit visa.

      Johnny