THE RACE
When Cold Hate Turns to Burning Rage
James H. Jackson
Contents
START
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
FINISH
Copyright © James H. Jackson, 2013
First published in eBook format in 2013
The moral right of James H. Jackson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.
All characters in this work – other than obvious historical figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Epub ISBN 978-1-78301-086-8
eBook Conversion by eBookPartnership.com
Some fight for honour and glory, some for gold, some for land, faith, oil or power. But there are those who do battle for a different reason – blood feud and the colour of skin. This story is about them.
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A beautiful day to die, a South African way to die. There was no hint in the spring flowers of the Northern Cape, in the sculpted borders to the flawless lawn, not a surface ripple on the filtered water of the dark-tiled pool, or a single hand-carved item of hardwood garden furniture out of place. Nothing irregular to catch the eye, to cause alarm. Calm prevailed – was guaranteed, paid for. Intrusion, unpleasantness, was for others; ugliness, politics, belonged elsewhere, beyond the electrified fences, the guards and the scanning cameras, belonged in townships, urban free-fire zones, in remote and unprotected farmsteads. Here, the salt encrusting the margarita glasses was just right, the bed linen was crisp, the staff as reliable as old friends. Here, carpets of daisies, irises, lilies and oxalis spread in profusion between the blossoms, sugar bushes and assegai trees. A natural order – how things should be.
Jonty Krige crushed the cube of ice between his teeth, let the flavoured meltwater trickle to the back of his throat, and stretched a foot up on the padded lounger. He loved the place, the childhood memories etched in its old oaks, in the balustrades and verandahs, in the kingfishers, coucals and bulbuls, in the blizzard of mauve flowers knocked from jacaranda trees after the rains. He would return whenever he could. It was rest, it was happiness, it was the family’s favourite residence. He did not visit enough. International travel, the self-imposed exile of a driven son employed by a driven father, holiday interests that took him skiing at Jackson Hole or polo-playing in Argentina, ensured that stopovers were brief. That would change. He took another long sip of the white rum. This was where he belonged: this was his country, his continent. This was his being. His family had lived, prospected, traded, fought, trail-blazed from the Atlantic to Indian Oceans for well over a century and had built an empire. He would inherit the business – the earth that was permeated with Krige blood, that was recirculated through generations of Krige veins and Krige souls. Africa suffused his DNA. His world, lying at his feet. He could master it – he had every confidence, his father had every confidence.
The laugh was familiar, joyful. He jumped up, delighted. Vicky was half-running from the house to greet him.
‘Hey, twin.’
‘Hi, sis.’
