ENTER THE WORLD OF DEVIL’S POOL
Welcome to your free sneak preview of DEVIL’S POOL — Book 1 in the series.
Read the opening chapters right here and step into a world of adventure, danger, humour and intrigue, set against the spectacular backdrop of Victoria Falls and the Zambezi.
If you like what you read, you can get DEVIL’S POOL at an exclusive introductory price on Amazon.
Ready for the adventure? Dive into DEVIL’S POOL. Chapter 1 is waiting for you below.
Victoria Falls assaults the senses with its raw power and natural beauty. The perpetual mist from the cascading waters creates a permanent rainbow on sunny days, while the thunderous roar of the falls can be heard from kilometres away, earning its local name, “Mosi oa Tunya”, which means “The Smoke That Thunders.” During peak flow season, visitors are drenched within minutes by the heavy spray, which rises like a cloud visible from great distances. The air carries a distinctive earthy dampness mixed with the scent of lush vegetation. White water rafting is one of the spectacular adventure activities on the Zambezi River, starting at the bottom of the falls.
The sun had barely climbed above the cliffs when the first raft slid into the dark green water below the falls.
From the launch point in the Batoka Gorge, the sound of thunder constantly in the distance, a deep rolling roar that vibrated through the rock walls like distant artillery. Mist drifted in slow clouds above the gorge, catching the early light.
Ten rafts waited in the current. Each carried rafting tourists and crew members. And something else.
Thor stood knee deep in the water, steadying the lead raft while the clients climbed in. They were an excited mix: two Germans, two quiet and hard looking men in their thirties from Mozambique, a Canadian couple, a young South African who kept chatting to all the ladies, and a small group of Americans. Then there was Thor’s crew, disguised as tourists, and the River Captains.
“Alright!” Thor shouted over the roar of the river. “Welcome to the mighty Zambezi! Paddle when your Captain says paddle, stop when he says stop, and if you fall out, don’t panic. The river always gives you back, eventually.”
The tourists laughed nervously.
Behind them, nine more rafts drifted in formation. Steve stood in the second raft, one foot on the tube, casually checking a rope line that ran across several large waterproof duffel bags strapped into the middle of the raft. Each raft carried the same cargo, which looked like supplies required for the multi day rafting that five of the rafts would embark on. The other half of the group would stop at Rapid 19, which would make it a full day’s rafting for them. Here they would climb up the steep Gorge and sit on top to enjoy ice cold Mosi Lager and a nice outdoor late lunch.
The duffel bags looked exactly like the dry bags many of the rafting companies used.
Steve tightened the last knot. From the outside, he looked relaxed, just another guide preparing for a day on the river. Inside, his mind ran like a military operation.
Ten rafts. Twenty nine people. Five smugglers watching from the cliffs.
Two of the passengers in one of the rafts, the ones who’d arrived as tourists, were not tourists at all.
Steve, Baba, Cherie, Zili, Forget, Hugh and Celeste had each been pulled into Thor’s hastily assembled team for their own reasons: particular skills, raw courage, or a loyalty to Thor that went well beyond anything a man could reasonably ask of another. He knew he was putting every one of them in danger. But it was his father, Baba, who weighed on him most.
“Dad, you can’t come on this one. It’s going to be too rough.”
“Thor, don’t be stupid. You know I can handle myself. And with those people watching us, I’m safer with you and your band of lunatics than anywhere else. Besides,” a pause, and the ghost of a smile, “someone on this trip needs to have a brain.”
He wasn’t wrong. Thor could protect him better up close. That much was clear.
Then there was Cherie, Hugh’s new American girlfriend. Tough as hell, but she had no business being tangled up in this. Hugh had tried telling her so. She’d shut him down in six words.
“Screw you, Hugh. I’m coming.”
She was an expert kayaker, and the Zambezi was one of the wildest rivers on earth. At least that part made sense.
And then there was Luba, the woman who had pulled Thor into this whole mess in the first place. They’d had some intense few days together. He was beginning to suspect he was falling for her.
And somewhere downriver, there were men who expected the cargo to arrive. Or else.
Thor waded over and climbed into Steve’s raft for a moment. The two men spoke quietly.
“Everyone loaded?” Thor asked.
Steve nodded.
“All bags secure.” Thor glanced briefly at the duffels.
Even knowing what was inside them made his stomach tighten.
One week earlier, the Mozambican gang had made their intentions very clear. Run the cargo down the Zambezi to the coast routes they controlled, or people would start disappearing.
Thor’s daughter Tessany. Luba’s five year old son. Other people he cared about.
Baba, Steve and Hugh had listened in silence to the whole story, how Thor had been lured to Mozambique, the planning with Sérgio, the head of the snake in Maputo, and the threats.
Then Steve said calmly, “Alright. We’ll have to move the goods as the bad guys have so kindly requested, while getting everyone out of this show intact.”
Now the river was their cover. No customs. No roads. Just two and a half thousand kilometres of violent white water river, dams and various other obstacles, towards the Zambezi Delta in Mozambique.
Thor lowered his voice.
“Still thinking the same plan?”
Steve and the rest of Thor’s team had had to use every ounce of discretion and cunning they had between them just to sketch out a rough plan, while Thor, Luba and Zili had been abducted, always moving, always watching, staying one step ahead of Sérgio’s men who had eyes and ears on everything. Extracting Tessany from Greece. Trying to get a location on Luba’s kidnapped son. How long before Sérgio found out that his men had failed to kidnap Tessany in Greece, and were now tightly locked up in a house in Santorini?
Steve looked downstream, to where the river bent and disappeared between towering black cliffs.
“Yes.”
Thor exhaled slowly.
“Right. But we’ll have to call a lot of this as we go. There’ll be surprises, count on it. For now, let’s go find Ayra. That’s where it really starts.”
Steve’s expression shifted, something easy moving across his face.
“I’m very much in favour of that.” He couldn’t quite hide the smile. Steve had a particular soft spot for Ayra and made no great effort to conceal it.
Thor said nothing. He was thinking about the last couple of months, how restless he’d become, how he’d quietly wished for something to happen. He’d wanted adventure. He’d got it.
High stakes, real danger, people he loved in the crosshairs.
He thought about the worn out line he’d leaned on too many times over the years.
Everything happens for a reason.
For the first time, he wasn’t sure he believed it.
That simple guiding life philosophy had gotten him through some very tough times, but he could not work out what goddamned reason was for this happening now. That, as he knew very well, was usually how it worked. You would find out later why. Right now, all he could do was play the cards dealt as expertly as possible.
As on cue, and as if he were reading Thor’s thoughts, Hugh, riding in Thor’s raft, said, also in a low voice, leaning over to whisper:
“So old sport, there is a reason for everything right? That’s what you keep telling me. I know you’re busy now, but perhaps you can enlighten me at some point in the future as to why I’ve agreed to this little adventure, perhaps over a bottle of Glenlivet, what? In the meantime, get that dark look off your face, and let’s try to have some fun. Positive thinking, old chap, works every time. In fact, your own exact words.”
Hugh, of course, was right. Hugh had not been asked to volunteer for this, he had insisted. He had become a very good friend over the years, loyal to Thor, above all. Still a bit of an enigma to Thor. There was something restrained in him, like a blade sheathed in velvet. He could charm investors in the afternoon and stare down a poacher at dusk without raising his voice. When angered, he did not shout. He became still. The cool, calm and collected gentleman typical of the English. He seemed not to know what fear meant. Thor was glad he was on board, if for nothing else, for his English sarcastic humour, which might serve to lighten up the gloomy atmosphere and circumstances they were caught up in.
Thor cheered up and said quietly.
“OK, my friend. You are right, for a change. Let’s get out there and kick some ass. Good to have you on board, Hugh.”
“All right, everyone!” Thor shouted over the growing roar of the river. “Let’s go rafting! Everyone got their Nyami Nyami necklaces on? They’ll keep you safe.”
A ripple of nervous laughter moved through the raft as people lifted their pendants, holding them up like small talismans against the wild water ahead.
Thor didn’t.
One of the Americans noticed.
“Hey, where’s yours?”
Thor paused, then smiled slightly.
Without a word, he reached down and unclipped his life vest. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled it off and turned his back to them.
There, between his shoulder blades, inked in deep black, sat the coiled form of Nyami Nyami.
The river god. Ancient. Watchful. Permanent.
“Holy shit, that’s a cool tattoo, man!” the American blurted.
Thor slipped the vest back on and turned around.
“Thanks.”
He’d never been a tattoo man. Everyone had them, one, ten, fifty. He’d always taken a certain pride in doing things differently. This one was the exception. A bet lost to Hugh the year before. He hadn’t regretted it for a second. Like the American had said, it was cool.
Nyami Nyami, the serpent god of the Zambezi, was revered by the Tonga people of Zimbabwe and Zambia. Protector of the river. Keeper of balance. It was said he lived beneath the water, watching, waiting.
Some believed he controlled the currents themselves. Others believed he decided who made it through.
Thor had made it a ritual.
Every guest who stepped into his rafts received a necklace bearing the god’s likeness, hand carved by local artisans from ebony, rosewood, soapstone, verdite, or green granite. Each one slightly different.
Each one carrying a piece of the river.
He glanced across the water. The other rafts drifted into position beside them.
The young American, already grinning like he was about to start a bar fight with the river.
Steve, calm and unreadable, scanning everything, the current, the cliffs, the people.
Zili, towering and immovable at the back, his presence alone enough to steady the raft.
And the women on his team.
Luba, composed, serious, eyes sharp, absorbing everything.
Forget, the hunter. Like Steve, calmness embodied.
Cherie, leaning forward slightly in her kayak, causing mild chaos among the men who tried desperately to avoid staring. Cherie had that dangerous mix of curiosity and confidence already pulling her toward the chaos ahead.
For a brief moment, the river felt almost still. Then the current tightened.
The Zambezi drew a breath. And everything began to move.
Paddles dipped.
The ten rafts pushed into the current. Within seconds the river grabbed them.
The Zambezi didn’t flow so much as surge. Massive rolling waves rose between jagged rocks, and the gorge walls towered hundreds of feet overhead.
Thor’s raft led the line.
“Forward paddle!”
“More power!”
The tourists dug in, shouting as the raft dropped down the first rapid and slammed through a wave that exploded over the bow.
Behind them Steve guided the second raft with effortless precision.
“Left side paddle.”
The raft turned cleanly through a narrow chute between two rocks.
His passengers, three Americans and a British couple, whooped with adrenaline.
Steve smiled politely. His eyes kept scanning the cliffs.
After going through Rapid Number Seven, “Gulliver’s Travels” he saw them. Two figures standing on the ridge above.
Watching.
Thor saw them too.
He shouted over the roar as their rafts converged briefly in calmer water.
“Our friends?”
Steve nodded slightly.
“Spotters.”
Thor grinned for the benefit of the tourists.
“Beautiful view up there!”
The rafters turned their heads, waving at the distant silhouettes.
The spotters didn’t wave back. Sérgio had to use spotters since the airspace around The Zambezi River and Victoria Falls area was very restricted. They could not use drones to keep an eye on Thor and the cargo. An electromagnetic field fenced off the entire area, making it impossible to enter the airspace without an electro unscrambler. Those units were only issued to the tourist heli operators around the falls and downriver, as well as emergency transporters.
The river grew more violent as the morning went on, interspersed by the beautiful calm sections of the river. The Zambezi River below Victoria Falls features some of the world’s most challenging Class Four, Five and Six rapids, packed into the Batoka Gorge. The rapids all have flamboyant names, like “Commercial Suicide”, a Class Six, which you did not take on because you’d likely kill a few of your clients, “The Gnashing Jaws of Death”, “The Washing Machine”, “The Terminator” and “Oblivion.”
Thor and his expert river captains navigated the chaos with the confidence of men who had run the Zambezi hundreds of times, some of them, like the old dog Cretos, also known by his river stage name “Rapid Killer”, had spent 30 years rafting, running thousands of tours down the river, not just on the Zambezi but also in Norway and in the US.
By midday they reached another long calm stretch of water. The rafts drifted together while half of the rafters jumped into the river and floated in their life jackets, laughing and taking in the spectacular scenery. To the tourists it was a perfect adventure day.
“Alright everyone!” he shouted. “Back on board! We’ve got some more rapids coming up!”
The tourists cheered.
The river narrowed again as the rafts drifted toward the next bend.
The gorge walls rose almost vertically now, black basalt cliffs climbing hundreds of feet into the sky. The current slowed for a moment, deceptively calm, the water sliding smooth and glassy between the rocks.
He stood up slightly in the raft and looked downstream.
“There she is,” he muttered.
Ahead of them the river dropped sharply between two massive boulders. Beyond that drop the surface exploded into towering white waves that rose and collapsed in slow violent pulses.
Rapid Eighteen. Oblivion. One of the most famous rapids on the Zambezi.
Thor turned back toward the rafts behind him and raised his paddle.
“Alright everyone!” he shouted.
The tourists straightened immediately.
“This is Rapid Eighteen, Oblivion!”
Another cheer went up from several of the younger rafters.
Thor continued.
“This one has three waves. Big ones. When I say paddle, you paddle like your mother in law is chasing you with a blunt knife. When I say get down, you get down.”
He grinned.
“And whatever you do, don’t stop paddling.”
“Why a blunt knife?” The American with all the questions.
“Because it will hurt more.” Thor winked at him.
The rafts began to spread out slightly as the captains positioned themselves for the entry line.
Behind Thor, Steve studied the water carefully. He had run enough on the river to know his way around, although he was in theory an amateur. He’d gone through Thor’s River Captain training program just two years ago. But he was a natural, you would have thought he was born on the banks of the Zambezi.
The first wave wasn’t the one. The third wave was. That was the one that flipped rafts.
“Forward paddle!” Thor roared.
The lead raft surged toward the drop. For a split second the bow hung on the lip of the rapid.
Then the river swallowed them.
The raft plunged down into the first wave and smashed through the wall of water. A sheet of spray exploded over the bow, drenching everyone.
“Keep paddling!”
The second wave hit even harder.
The raft climbed up the face of the rolling wall of water, stalled for a heartbeat, then slammed down the backside.
Behind them the other rafts entered the rapid in quick succession.
Steve’s raft dropped into the first wave with controlled violence. His passengers screamed with delight as water crashed over their helmets.
“Left side forward!” Steve shouted calmly.
The raft pivoted slightly as they lined up for the third wave.
The monster.
Oblivion.
The wave rose like a moving wall, easily five metres high, its crest curling backward as the current folded into itself.
For a split second Steve thought they were slightly off line.
Then the raft in front of them, Thor’s, tilted sideways as it climbed the wave.
Too sideways.
The bow lifted sharply and the raft began to roll.
“Get down!” Thor shouted.
Everyone dropped instantly.
At that moment Zili moved. He had been sitting quietly near the cargo bags, one massive hand gripping the safety rope.
As the raft tilted he threw his weight hard to the inside tube, shifting the balance just enough.
The raft slammed down again instead of flipping. The third wave crashed over them like a collapsing building.
For a moment there was nothing but roaring water. Then they burst through the back of the rapid.
The raft bounced violently before settling into the calmer current below.
The tourists erupted in loud nervous laughter. Behind them the other rafts punched through Oblivion one by one.
Not a single boat flipped.
Thor wiped water from his eyes and glanced back at Zili.
Zili sat exactly where he had been before, expression calm, water dripping from his shaved, scarred head.
Thor grinned.
“That was a slick trick. Nice timing,” he said quietly.
Zili shrugged.
“Yebo.” Yes. “The river was pushing,” he replied.
Flipping the raft could have cost precious cargo. Inside the duffel bags were tightly sealed bricks of cocaine. Highest grade, unadulterated pure Peruvian snow. Each raft carried 250 kilos, half in the duffel bags and half inside the durable, air filled tubular chambers that provide buoyancy, stability, and impact absorption for the raft. The chambers had been cut open, filled with the coke and then resealed.
Two and a half tonnes. 125 to 150 billion credits’ worth on the street. A small fortune. While digital stimulants were widely used, almost for free, with similar effects on the brain as cocaine and without any detrimental health effects, cocaine was more sought after than ever before.
Despite, or because of, the enormous cost. It was a status symbol. And highly illegal. Many countries still had the death penalty for possession. Thor still could not quite understand why people did it. Someone once told him:
“Well, you can pop a beer pill into a glass of water instead of sipping on a real beer, same taste, same feeling. Almost free. But no one does that. Same thing with coke.”
Above them, high on the cliffs, the smugglers’ spotters watched the rafts disappear downstream.
Thor now knew two things.
First, the river was his domain, he was in his element.
Second, his team was stronger than the men watching from the cliffs.
The enemy believed the river belonged to them, that they had everything under control. But they may have made a mistake picking Thor as their man to deliver their cargo safely.
Thor was a resourceful adversary and had put events in motion to tip the scales in his favour.
Also, they had without their knowledge enlisted a team of formidable talent, among them a former SAS soldier, an ex MI6 agent, an expert hunter and other hard and sharp individuals onto the mission.
Steve Walker had spent most of his life learning how to make people, and very valuable merchandise, vanish without leaving a trace. Thor had delegated much of the planning to him.
Hugh, well, Hugh was Hugh. He seemed to know every president and business leader in this part of the world. Steady as a rock, despite his playful and carefree demeanour.
Forget was considered one of the best hunters in Zimbabwe and was naturally camouflaged, with her petite frame and pretty smiley face, she did not look like she could shoot a kudu through the brain at 500 metres.
Luba, fit and an expert in the marine environment, and fiercely motivated by the abduction of her son, would also be a trump card.
Zili followed wherever Thor went. He would not be here had not Thor saved him from the jaws of a crocodile many years ago. Thor had seen him take on ten villagers that had attacked Thor’s vehicle during a trip in Zambia that went horribly wrong. He looked like a black Vin Diesel, only fiercer.
Thor had spent most of his life chasing adventure. Right now he was wondering if he should have chosen something quieter. One night’s camping along the river and then the following day Ayra would be waiting for them at Wakanaka Lodge.
The Adventure Is Only Beginning
If this glimpse into Devil’s Pool has pulled you into the Zambezi, there is much more waiting beyond the river.
Step into Thor’s world. Follow the river. Face the danger. Discover what happens next.