Vengeance is Mine (eBook)

A South African Hero's Struggle in the French Foreign Legion, Book 18

Meiring Fouche, Pieter Haasbroek (Autoren)

Pieter Haasbroek (Herausgeber)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
107 Seiten
Pieter Haasbroek (Verlag)
978-0-00-077741-6 (ISBN)

Infos

Three legionnaires left for dead.

A rescue that is no rescue at all.

A choice that is no choice.

Sahara desert, 1940-1960. In the heart of the blistering Sahara, Legionnaire Teuns Stegmann is out of time. Hunted by vultures and dying of thirst, he and his brothers-in-arms know their end is near. But when a mysterious stranger appears from the heat haze offering salvation, they discover their nightmare has only just begun. Their rescuer is a man consumed by a twelve-year-old vendetta, and he demands an impossible price for their lives.

They must betray one of their own, lure their friend into a sadistic trap designed to end in torture and death. If they refuse, their rescuer will leave them to the sun and sand. Caught between unwavering loyalty and the brutal instinct to survive, Stegmann must outwit a ruthless killer in a wasteland where every shadow hides a threat, and the only thing more dangerous than the enemy is the hope he offers.

A relentless tale of survival, betrayal, and vengeance, this high-octane thriller blends classic action-adventure with white-knuckle suspense. Perfect for fans of Wilbur Smith and Alistair MacLean, this is a story of grit and desperation that will leave you breathless until the final, shocking page.

Step into this unforgettable eighteenth Sahara adventure now!

Textauszug

18. VENGEANCE IS MINE

Chapter 1

THE THIRSTY

A tall blonde man in the uniform of the French Foreign Legion staggers and falters across the hot Sahara sand like one intoxicated. At one point, he pitches forward, collapsing face-first into the sand. For a few moments, he lies there, arms outstretched, eyes closed against the blinding heat of the Sahara sun. Then, slowly, he struggles back onto his knees and hands, pauses for a few moments with his head bowed low, then scrambles upright again. He walks unsteadily, leaving two rows of tracks across the desert sand. His eyes are dull and somewhat dazed. His face is horribly swollen, like that of a man long exposed to the heat of the Sahara desert without water or food. His lips are thick, swollen, and cracked. Occasionally, blood seeps from the fissures, and he licks it almost greedily with his swollen tongue to capture the moisture.

Within the circle of the living, burning horizon, he halts. He appears small and insignificant here in the empty expanse. Just like his shadow, which is barely a shadow anymore because the sun is almost directly overhead. He is a strong man. One can see that from his physique. But standing here now, he possesses less strength than a child. He struggles to remain upright. Each time, he sways and then stumbles crookedly. But he stays erect, for he knows that if this expedition of his across the hot sand fails, he will die before another night passes, he and his few comrades.

He sees the black shadow glide across the sand. He looks up into the blinding sunlight that blankets the world. There are two of them circling him. Two of the hideous inhabitants from the far corners of the desert. Their wings are large and broad. Their necks long and bare. Their beaks gleam like sabres, and their eyes are cruel as they circle him. He sees those dangerous talons. He hears the sibilance of their wings as they wait for him to die.

He stretches his hands out towards them. His trembling, sunburnt hands. “Come, you curses,” he yells. Tears burn in his eyes. Standing here, swaying, he knows he would even be capable of tearing one of these vile vultures apart with his bare hands and eating it raw, sucking its blood. That is what the Sahara does to you when it catches you without water and food, as it has caught this man and his few comrades.

The Sahara turns you into a crazed beast willing to eat and drink anything. It breaks everything within you except the unstoppable and destructive craving for food and water.

Water… when did they last have water?

He closes his eyes, and his arms hang limply at his sides.

Now he must begin to execute his plan. His plan to save himself and those who wait. He glances up again at the birds circling not far above his head. Then he stumbles forward a few more steps and collapses into the sand. He falls with his head turned askew so he can see across the sand. The vultures cry out above him. It is their song of victory. They are certain he will not rise again. They swoop lower and lower. He hears the soft swish of their wings, the flutter of their feathers. He watches the black shadows drawing a circle around him.

“Come, you angels,” he whispers, “come and attack me. That is why I came here. That is why I lie here in the open desert. Come, you angels, come attack me.”

He closes his eyes for a moment against the white rays of the sun. He feels the sweat burning down his neck and is amazed that he can still sweat. Is there truly any moisture left in his tortured body?

It is then, feeling the fine sand jump across his face, that he opens his eyes. The first vulture has landed. A few paces away from him. He opens his eyes only to slits, for he knows the cunning of the vulture. He peers at the airborne beast. Its wings are spread wide. Its breath comes fast, its beak wide open. Those two flaming yellow eyes are fixed on him. Those two eyes search for the last sign of life in its victim. But the man lying there lies motionless. He does not stir a muscle. All that moves within him is the beat of his heart and his slow, even breathing, which he controls so that the bird should have no suspicion that he still lives.

“Come closer, you angel,” he says to the vile bird. But he does not utter it aloud. He says it only in his heart. “Come closer so I can break your neck and drink your blood. Come closer so I can kill you and eat your flesh.”

It is almost as if he gains a hypnotic hold over the vulture, for suddenly it hops a few steps nearer, its two wings still spread wide. The man lying there is aware that the other vultures have landed behind his back.

The moments pass slowly. The moments that will determine whether he lives or dies. The moments that will determine whether the Sahara conquers him or he the Sahara.

The sand burns his outstretched hands. It burns and scorches his cheek pressed against the ground. But pain must not exist for him now because the impending death, because the life you wish to possess, is more important than pain. Therefore, he endures it. Therefore, he does not even move his cheek, which feels as if pressed against a flame, or his large hands, which feel as if thrust into an oven. He just lies there, and through his slitted eyes, he watches that vulture slowly approaching. Cautiously. He is grateful for the expression in the bird’s eyes. It is not the expression of satisfaction. That bird has almost the same look in its eyes as he himself has in his.

The vulture is now about a pace from his hand. He can clearly see the scabs on those legs and those talons. He can clearly see where a small feather stands erect on the bird’s wing. He can see that scar on the bare neck where an enemy must have injured it.

“Come closer, you angel,” he says again inwardly. “What are you waiting for? Why don’t you come closer so I can fight you?” It is then that it feels as though a flame scorches his hand stretched out behind his back. It feels as though a hot blade has struck him there, and he knows what it means. A vulture he cannot see has begun to feed.

But he cannot risk moving. He closes his eyes tightly and awaits the next strike of that beak.

Instinctively, he grinds his teeth. He must remain motionless.

It will not help to try and grab that bird. He might miss.

But although his eyes are closed, he suddenly becomes aware of a movement, and when he looks again, he is just in time to see the vulture on this side of him rapidly trot closer. Its hideous bare neck thrust far forward, its beak open, its bill menacing.

Then he moves. He moves before the other bird can drive its beak into his left hand again. His right hand shoots out, and he grabs the charging bird he can see by the leg. The next moment, there is an explosion of movement and sound. Those large wings beat frantically. The beak drives into his shoulder blade, his shoulder, and behind his neck as the bird fights. The great wings flap up and down as it struggles to get away. But the large man holds on. He holds on, laughing and crying. Against his weakened strength, the power of this bird is like a hurricane. And when that beak, during the struggle and blinding pain, strikes his cheek, self-preservation is his first reaction. That unexpected new pain so close to his eye causes his concentration to lapse for an instant. The next moment, the bird has wrenched its leg from his grasp and, with a confused flapping of wings, makes its escape.

The tall, blonde man lies weeping there on the sand. Weeping from pain and disappointment and despair. As he hears the bird flutter away through the hot air, it feels to him as if it is his own life fluttering away, for now, there is no more hope for him. This was his last reserve of strength that he used, and even his last strength was no longer enough to subdue and conquer a bird, to break it and eat it. Now it is over. He knows this. He will not be able to lie here on the sand again and try to catch a vulture.

He can now do only one of two things. He can lie here until the sun has utterly burned him, until he falls into that terrible delirium the Sahara sun brings upon you if you are exposed to it long enough. He can lie here until he rises and screams, storms back and forth across the sand like a madman, his eyes lifted to the sun while imagining it is a pool of water he beholds. Run around until the red flashes of sunstroke appear before his tormented eyes, and he finally collapses with his hands thrown wide and his eyes wide open.

Or he can get up and go back to them who lie waiting. Those who know he went to fetch either death or life for them. Yes, he can get up here and struggle back to them, lie down beside them, and wait until the end comes. But now there is nothing further than waiting for the end.

At this moment, he feels like staying here and never moving again. Lying here and waiting until the Sahara claims him. Confused images of his youth flash through his mind. He thinks of a green valley in the wine country of the Western Province in South Africa. With his face pressed shuddering against one hand, he sees again, far against the high mountain, the white stream cascading downwards. He sees the coolness of large oak trees and the crowns of heavy pines. He sees the farm with a cellar where cool wine rests. He hears voices, and he sees people. People he has almost forgotten. His parents and friends. He sees the eyes of his brother who disappeared in this desert. The brother he came searching for when he joined the French Foreign Legion. He thinks of himself and realises with strange surprise that his name is Stegmann. Teuns Stegmann. Probably the only Afrikaner in the Foreign Legion. He thinks how many times he has already cheated death in this...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 25.8.2025
• Übersetzer: Pieter Haasbroek, Ai
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-077741-2 / 0000777412
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-077741-6 / 9780000777416