Page 62 of Murder Island

“Not animals,” I said. “I’m looking for somebody—inland.”

The bartender shook his head. “Dangerous there.”

I nodded. “Which is why I need the gun.”

The bartender rested both hands on the bar. He looked me over for a few seconds, like he was appraising me. Then he stepped out to the side and crooked his finger. “Come,” he said.

I picked up my bag and followed him down a narrow passageway, past a tiny kitchen with a deep fryer and arefrigerator. He pushed a screen door that opened to a flat clearing behind the building. About ten yards away, a rutted path led off into the bush. Sitting at the edge of the path was a red Land Rover Defender, probably twenty years old, all rusted and banged up. I’d driven Land Rovers on some of my own digs. They were pretty much indestructible.

“It runs?”

“See for yourself,” said the bartender. “Key’s in the ignition.”

I walked over and opened the driver-side door. I slid in and turned the key. The engine fired right up. A puff of oily exhaust blasted out from the rear. But after that, things settled down. All the displays were working. Fuel tank read full. I bent down to check the floorboards for holes. When I sat up again, the bartender was holding a rifle. It looked like it belonged in a military museum.

“Mauser K98,” he said. “The best.”

I’d gotten plenty of weapons training from Kira, but mostly in small arms. This thing looked like it could take down a rhino.

“Ammo, too,” said the bartender. He opened a metal box filled with shiny brass cartridges.

I appreciated the one-stop shopping. And I couldn’t afford to be picky. “How much?” I asked. “For the truck, the gun, and all the ammo?”

The bartender turned it over in his mind for a few seconds. “Fifty million,” he said.

It took me a second to register that he was talking about Congolese francs.

“How much US?” I asked. I had no idea of the exchange rate. I hoped that he was somewhere close to being honest. I saw him doing the math in his head.

“Twenty thousand,” he said. “Low miles on the truck.”

I glanced at the odometer. It read 96,000. He was right. Not bad for a Land Rover. And besides, I didn’t see any other options on the lot.

“Fifteen thousand,” I said. I needed to feel like I was getting a deal.

“Eighteen thousand,” said the bartender.

“Only if the gun works,” I said.

“Check it out,” he said. He pulled a single cartridge out of the box and pressed it into the rifle’s open chamber. It made a satisfying click. He put the rifle over his shoulder and headed for the wooden steps that led down toward the dock. “Come,” he said. I followed.

Neema was leaning against a pier post when she saw us heading down. She perked up.

“Neema!” her uncle called out. “Target!”

I saw the girl scramble off the dock into the underbrush. A few seconds later, she emerged with a rusted tin plate.

The bartender shoved the rifle bolt forward and down. He handed the gun to me. “If you’re going where you say, I hope you know how to shoot.”

I looked down at Neema. She was holding the platelike a Frisbee. I put the stock of the gun against my cheek and pointed the barrel out over the water. I slid my finger onto the trigger. I gave Neema a little nod. She flexed her skinny legs and flipped the plate out over the lake, about thirty feet into the air. I followed the silhouette against the sky through the front sight. At the instant the plate started to fall, I pulled the trigger. The plate spun like crazy and dropped into the water about twenty yards out. Direct hit.

Neema gave me an appreciative look.

I turned to the bartender and shook his hand. “Deal,” I said. “Gun. Ammo. Truck.” I ruffled through my sack and pulled out twenty thousand dollars, then peeled off two grand and stuffed it back. The bartender’s eyes opened wide. He held the bills up and riffled them like a card deck. Then he gave me that wide grin again.

Neema pointed to my boat. “Filled up,” she said. “Ready to go.”

“Good,” I said. “She’s all yours.”