Excellent Betrayals of Technology Br'er Rabbit : Africa Exile III by Bruce Carrington

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence. A week has passed since the contract I did on Turbot. Fat Man disappeared from the face of the earth again, but Eli remained in Cape Town, evidently tired of the Mogadishu business he had been handling for a little over a year now. We went to grab a beer on Long Street's long alley of bars and restaurants. It was Tuesday and the sun hadn't set yet, but the bars were already half-filled with a crowd of enthusiastic hoppers. We settled on a quiet one, with tables set on the pavement near the main road. "I heard that the job went smoothly," Eli said after the waitress placed the beers down and gave me a suggestive smile to enjoy. I looked at him but didn't respond, hinting for him to change the conversation. I sipped my ice-cold beer and lit my cigarette. "Alright, alright," He laughed, noticing my expression, and accepted one after I reached out my pack to him. We engaged in small talk, and I relaxed a bit after we finished the first beer. The same cute waitress served us, but this time, I smiled back at her. She was in her mid-twenties, blonde, and had wonderful milky skin. Eli interrupted the silent conversation I had with the nice lady and kept talking about the job. He asked whether we found out anything about the money that Turbot stashed, and I said no. The only reason I was still in Cape Town was to avoid raising any red flags with Fat Man and his dogs. It would be indicative of me knowing about the money if I suddenly decided to travel outside of the town. I checked the coordinates, and the money was stashed on the outskirts of Lagos, on the other side of the continent. "How much did he steal?" I casually queried while taking a sip and lighting another cigarette. "It's a mix. Based on what Fatso told me, there's around five million dollars in gold, drugs, and cash he skimmed over the years. But it might be more than that. Why?" "Dave said it wasn't about the money, and I guess he was telling the truth.” Five million dollars wasn't even a fly's sting in Fat Man's business, so there must have been something else at play here. — "So what was it all about, Eli?" I finished, giving him a serious look. We had a good rapport with each other, but we both had to watch our backs working in the profession we had chosen. "He lied. That's it,” Eli sipped the beer and lowered his head. — "He was ordered to do the job on the civilian who crossed Fat Man. He wanted to invest in real estate, and the guy, seeing how loaded he is, played him for a couple hundred grand. Fat Man found out and told Turbot to handle it, only he didn't." "Why?" "I guess he was tired. He had worked for the man for three years and had done lots of contracts for him, but everyone has to break someday.” We sat there in silence, and I put my glasses down because the sun had set. I lit another of my cigarettes and looked at nothing. I was consumed by the recollections of our time in the Academy. I never knew Turbot well, but he always seemed to be a stand-up guy. Every evening, after school and field exercises, instructors would encourage us to make use of the facility's bar that was built on the Academy's premises, specifically to test our alcohol resilience and whether we could keep up with our fake personas. During those after-hours exercises, he proved that he could not only hold his liquor but also be an absolute center of attention, never breaking the fake story he had come up with, and that we all had to make even before joining the training. We were told that alcohol was our friend and ally. That's why I ordered a third round for Eli and myself, as he started to open up and I wanted to extract all the information he had. "How's the Somalia business?” I started the drilling. "Slow. It isn't going the way he'd like it to go." "How come?" I grinned to myself because I thought Fat Man's whole plan of becoming the country's warlord was so far-fetched that it bordered on being delirious. "I mean, don't get me wrong. The clans are on our side, and he has the backing of the— " He stopped because the waitress came with refreshments, and she exchanged our coasters. Mine had her number on it, and she quickly retreated back inside, as if embarrassed. — "Is this what I think it is, you devious dog?" Eli turned my coaster to his side and laughed loudly. I raised my hand to hold his thought before he continued and saw a familiar jeep pulling to the curb right beside us. It was Dave, and he rolled down the window, looking at me. He needed stitches after I'd put the karambit to his lips, and half of his face was swollen from how badly it had healed. I enjoyed that view. "I need you to come with me," he said and kept looking at me, ignoring Eli, who sank into his chair. "I'm busy," I said, sipping my beer and lighting the third cigarette. "It's important. Orders from the top.” I stood up and put the cash on the table, tipping the waitress excessively. I took the coaster and hid it in my pocket. Eli was still sitting in his place, looking at the unfinished beer in front of him. I could sense something was off. I was penetrating his skull with my gaze so hard he finally looked up at me and shook his head slightly. I could see his jaw moving and hear his teeth grinding. His eyes were telling me that he's sorry. "You coming?" Dave shouted from the window of his jeep and revved the gas pedal a couple of times. He was definitely excited about something. I entered the jeep and knew that Eli had told him about where we were and that he somehow sold me out. But I was unsure about what he or Dave knew. I left my gun at home, but I was just too curious not to go with him. "Can you not?" he asked and looked at my cigarette, which was still lit in my mouth. I rolled down the window and threw it out. "What's so urgent?" I asked while looking outside the window. "You'll see once we get there," he mumbled under his nose, and I knew he was going to torture me. I smiled and looked at him. He was focused on the road, but his hands were squeezing the wheel as if he wanted to be wherever he set the trap already. We drove in complete silence, interrupted by the noises of leather squeaking under Dave's pressure. We were now on Victoria Road, famous for its scenery with the Atlantic on one side and the Twelve Apostles mountain range on the other. The jeep moved south, so I had a view over the ocean, and I let the refreshing breeze soothe my face. It was after sunset now, and the road wasn't as busy as it normally is. There were just a couple of cars in front of us and none behind. The moment couldn't have been better. I casually put on my seatbelt (something Dave didn't bother to do), grabbed the wheel that Dave was squeezing, and turned it sharply. The jeep crashed through the guardrail and was now flying through the bushes, separating the road and the beach. In a matter of seconds, we were rolling down a small cliff before the car settled in the shallows. We landed upside down, and I hit my head on the doors where the airbag did not inflate. I touched my temple and could feel blood coming from what must have been a cut. I rubbed my eyes and pushed on the airbag to have a look. Dave was not in the car. There was a huge hole in the windshield, and I undid my belt and fell on the roof of the car, which was now filling with water. I crawled my way out to the beach and saw that Dave was lying face down, seven meters in front of me at the shoreline. He had both of his arms broken because I could see the bones protruding from his body. He could move his legs, however, and he made irregular movements as if trying to get up. I grabbed his shirt by the collar and dragged him ashore. I threw him on his back and saw that blood was coming from his mouth, and he was having difficulty breathing. I looked around and saw that there were no lights on the road. It was empty, and Dave and I were alone. There was no one here who could interrupt us. I sat my knee on his chest, and he made a wheezing noise. I knew his lungs were punctured. He kept trying to say something, but all he could produce were those whistling noises. I raised my knee from his chest and neared my face to his ear. "Why?" I asked, and his eyes were still conscious enough to understand. He kept fighting for air, and I was getting impatient. I placed my hand on his chest and pushed as hard as I could. Blood erupted from his mouth like hot water from a geyser, and I repeated my question. He gave up and mustered all his strength to whisper a single word. “Laptop." I squeezed my eyes for a moment but connected the dots in no time. Turbot turned off all of the cameras inside the house, all except one — the one in his laptop, the keyboards of which his face was still decaying on. If Fat Man hacked his laptop, he had access to the microphone too, which meant I was burned. Money didn’t matter here. What did matter was that I had lied and was now a target. I squeezed Dave's nose and saw as he tried to spit the blood from his mouth to make room for air. His eyes were terrified for a whole minute before they faded. I sat beside his body and lit a cigarette. I needed to accelerate the plan now that I was in the crosshairs.

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