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Knowing no Malagasy, Sam did what he hoped would cause the most panic: He let out a distinctly un-macho, high-pitched scream, pointed at the boulder, and shouted, “Boulder!”
In unison, Tolotra and his men glanced up. Lacking the advantage of the foreknowledge Sam and Remi had, everyone froze and stared in awe. Sam, having kept his eye on Tolotra for most of the hike and having rehearsed his actions, took two leaping steps forward, heel-kicked Tolotra in the back of the knee, and, as he fell, jerked the Webley-Fosbury from his waistband.
Behind him, Remi’s guard screamed something that Sam assumed was “Stop!,” which he further assumed would be followed by the guard drawing a bead on the fleeing Remi. Sam never gave him the chance. With the Webley now free, Sam latched his left hand onto Tolotra’s collar and pistol-whipped him in the side of the head. Tolotra grunted and went limp.
Sam spun on one heel and dropped to his knees, putting Tolotra between him and four other men, two of whom were backing across the road, the other two scrambling around to the Chevy’s opposite side. Sam’s spin naturally brought the Webley around to point in the general direction of Remi’s guard. As Sam had feared, the man was jerking the rifle up to his shoulder, the barrel tracking Remi as she sprinted toward the Range Rover.
Sam fired once, hitting the man on the sternum. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, the man dropped straight down, dead. Sam wrapped his left forearm around Tolotra’s throat, pulled him tighter, then shifted his aim toward the two rebels backing across the road. Both had their rifles trained on Sam, obviously trying to decide whether to risk the shot. Sam shifted the Webley’s sights from one man to the next. On the other side of the truck, he could hear the other two men moving through the high grass along the shoulder.
Boom. The ground shuddered, followed by the snapping of limbs. Another shudder, like a giant was on the march. Sam felt it in his belly.
Remi shouted, “Boulder’s bouncing!”
“Where!”
“Coming your way!”
Boom. Closer this time.
On the other side of the truck the two rebels shouted.
“They’re running!” Remi called.
The two in front of Sam did the same, turning and sprinting back down the road.
Boom.
“Hold tight, Sam! It’s almost on you! Three . . . two . . . one . . .” Sam curled into a ball. Above his head there came the wrenching of steel. Glass shattered. He felt the Chevy lurch to the side, shoving him and Tolotra over the gravel. A shadow passed overhead. Boom. The boulder struck the far side of the road, bounced once, then disappeared over the shoulder, bulldozing trees as it went. After another ten seconds the sound stopped. Sam looked up, glanced around.
Down the road, the four remaining rebels had stopped running. After a brief huddled conference, they started back toward Sam and Remi. Sam, having watched Tolotra pocket the Rover’s keys, dug them out.
“Remi, better start the Rover,” he called.
He tossed the keys up the road, then pointed the Webley down the road and took aim on the four advancing rebels.
One of them stumbled sideways, clutched his thigh, and crumbled to the road, followed a split second later by a basso pop. Though Sam had never heard that particular sound, he surmised it was the report of a .455 caliber bullet from a circa 1915 Webley Model Mark VI revolver.
The remaining three rebels stopped, whirled toward the Wise Men.
A second bullet struck, this one between the legs of the center man. He backed up a few steps, followed by the second man. The third man, however, was a slow learner. Half crouching, his eyes scanning the high ground, he slowly brought his rifle to his shoulder. He got a bullet in the left kneecap for his trouble. He screamed and toppled over.
From the direction of the Wise Men, a disembodied voice shouted something. The two still-armed rebels dropped their guns. Another shout. The able-bodied men helped their comrades to their feet, and the group began limping off down the road.
Sam shoved the unconscious Tolotra off him and climbed to his feet. Remi walked up. Together, they stared at what remained of the Chevy. Aside from the four twisted stumps that formed the cab, the pickup had been decapitated.
A voice called, “Looking at it, you’d think that’s exactly what I had planned.”
A figure emerged from the trees at the base of the Wise Men and began striding toward them.
“Didn’t you?” Sam asked the Kid.
“I’ll never tell.”
Remi said, “You certainly know how to create a distraction.” The Kid stopped before them. “It was all Mother Nature, my dear. And the luck of the bounce, of course.”
“Thanks for not deserting us,” said Sam.
“Don’t mention it.”