Читать книгу Rare Breed - Connie Hall - Страница 8

Lower Zambezi National Park, Africa

Wynne Sperling held the steering wheel of the Land Rover with one hand and pointed at the vultures with the other. “Look, you can see them for miles. There must be hundreds of them.”

“A sure sign we’re close,” Eieb said, speaking very proper English, but slowly, lacing it with a Tonga accent. In his ranger rags, he resembled a black Dudley Do Right, save for the shoulder-length dreadlocks and the Garfield baseball cap, a thirtieth birthday gift from Wynne. He looked like a guy who would go out of his way to avoid stepping on a beetle, but Wynne had seen him wrestle a grown lion to the ground. Perhaps his deceiving appearance made him such a good ranger. Wynne usually worked alone, but when she needed backup, she chose Eieb.

He checked the compass on his watch, then glanced back at the vultures. “It’s close to where Aja said the meeting would go up.”

“That’s down. Go down.”

“Right, down.” Eieb frowned at his attempt at American slang and seemed to file the word away for later use.

“It looks like we’re about ten miles from the site.” Wynne swallowed hard and asked, “How many elephants do you think they’ve killed?”

Eieb glanced through the windshield and narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know, but I’d say a lot by the amount of vultures.”

“I hate this part of the job. We work so hard to keep them alive, and in a few seconds they’re destroyed.”

“You feel responsible for all the animals we protect. Not good.”

“I can’t help it. It only takes one person—”

“To make a difference,” Eieb finished for her. “I know. I know. But even an army can know defeat.”

He had a point. Not that the underfunded Zambian Wildlife Authority could pay an army of rangers. Comprised of one hundred and twelve rangers—including Wynne, and Commander Kaweki, the unit warden—ZAWA was expected to police twelve thousand square miles. Still, she couldn’t help feeling responsible. She gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles shone white and said, “This happened on my watch. I should have been more vigilant, patrolled longer—”

“You’re the only person I know who makes Nelson Mandela look lazy.”

“I feel like I’ve done nothing. Poachers are hitting us more often, right under our noses. Why didn’t we know these guys were operating right in the park? We should have known. They’ve been here at least three days.” Wynne remained pensively quiet and stared at the road ahead.

“It is as if they know our every move.” Eieb studied Wynne a moment. “You think we have a spy in camp,” he said with certainty.

“How else could they be killing animals right in the park?” Wynne asked, aware Eieb knew what she was thinking. He probably knew her better than she knew herself sometimes. “Someone must be directing them, and that someone has to know where the rangers are at all times. And if we don’t catch them, they’ll expand. I’ll bet that if we hadn’t kept this sting to ourselves, we wouldn’t have been able to set it up.”

“We were lucky Aja received that tip from the villagers about the poaching.”

“If Aja hadn’t come to us with the information and arranged the buy, we wouldn’t have known a thing.” Wynne thought of Aja. He had been her first friend in Zambia, and her teacher. Without his help, she would never have learned to survive the harsh extremes of Africa. He was the most revered tracker in Zambia and a poacher’s worst nightmare.

“We have to find out who it is.” Eieb rubbed his jaw and seemed to be ticking off names in his head.

“I know.”

“It will be a good mystery. Something to look forward to when we get back.” A hard, unrelenting glint twinkled in Eieb’s eye, an unusual contrast to his typical restrained facade.

Snow, one hundred and ten pounds of white fur, perked up in the cargo area of the Rover. The leopard’s unusual pink eyes gleamed in the mirror as she lifted her nose and scented the buzzards. Or the kill. Wynne didn’t know which.

“Some powerful and dangerous predator you are,” Wynne said to Snow, the irritation still in her voice, though it was directed at herself for allowing this poaching ring to thwart them at every turn. Wynne finished with a guttural moan, cat language Snow understood.

The leopard responded by rubbing her whiskers against Wynne’s arm, nudging her into the side of the door.

The Rover veered toward the ditch. Wynne jerked the wheel back. Her collection of Simpsons bobble-head dolls on the dash nodded in unison.

Eieb frowned at Snow and said, “You know, you’re going to have to take her to another reserve one day and set her free.”

“I can’t until she’s hunting on her own.”

“Uh-huh. I saw her drop a kill at your door yesterday.”

Wynne didn’t answer him. Snow had been hunting on her own for three weeks now. Wynne thought she’d done a pretty crafty job of hiding it, until now.

“You’ve tamed her so much she may never assimilate back into the wild.” Eieb reached back and scratched Snow behind the ears.

“We’ve bonded, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh. What about the Big Five Habitat? You bonded with those creatures, too. You keep bonding as you say, the habitat will be overflowing.” Eieb gave her his most critical glance.

“Hey, we just turned a bush baby and an eland loose last week.”

Wynne thought of the Big Five Habitat, one of the few accomplishments in her life of which she felt completely proud. She had convinced the park’s veterinarian to train older school children in helping to care for wounded or motherless animals. It aided in recruiting volunteers for the reserve and educated the children on the delicate ecological balance maintained by all living creatures. They not only learned the importance of conserving the big five wild animals of Africa—the elephant, rhino, buffalo, lion, leopard—but all wild animals and their habitats. Some of the happiest moments in Wynne’s life were watching the smiles on the children’s faces as they released the animals back into the wild.

“But you do nothing to set Snow free.” Eieb motioned toward the cat.

“I raised her from a cub,” Wynne said, hearing the desperation in her own voice. “I won’t throw her to the poachers and hunters. You know her white fur is prized.”

“Survival is not guaranteed in the wild, as you know. But if you do not let her go, she’ll never have a normal life or live free. Want to know why I think you keep her?”

“No, but you’ll tell me anyway.”

“I think you’re using Snow as an excuse to remain alone.”

“That’s not true. I don’t keep her on a leash.”

“No, just in your hut at night.”

Wynne thought she’d hidden that as well, but obviously nothing escaped Warden Freud here. “She’ll leave when she’s ready,” she said, her voice adamant. “I won’t drop her somewhere and abandon her, and that’s that.”

She knew firsthand what it felt like to be disowned, severed from those dearest to her, and she wouldn’t discard Snow in a strange place to fend for herself. One day she would let Snow go, when they were both ready.

Eieb lapsed into silence, and Wynne was glad when they neared the site. For now, the third degree was over, but Eieb would bring it up again. He was just as stubborn as she was.

She couldn’t stop thinking of the Judas in their operations base as she left the main road, keeping her eyes on the vultures. The Rover bumped through the tall grass, past a herd of blue wildebeest. The lead bull raised his head and shot them a casual glance, then went back to grazing.

She breathed in the scent of dung, fresh pasture and last night’s dew, the raw scent of vastness, primitive earth and pulsing life. The self-reliant, adventurous part of her craved that solitary open scent. She felt needed and wanted here.

“Let me out up ahead.” Eieb picked up the rifle resting near his right leg and hung it over his shoulder by the strap. He checked his walkie-talkie to make sure it was turned on. “Frequency four?”

“I’m already there.” Wynne patted the unit inside her vest pocket, and the handcuffs in an adjacent pocket rattled slightly.

“I’ll circle around through the forest and come in on the east side.”

“I’ll go in from the west side.”

She parked the Rover near the forest’s edge and cut the engine. She checked to make sure the leather slingshot wrapped around her waist was secure. It wasn’t a modern slingshot with an elastic band attached to a forked base. No, she was schooled in the art of the sling; a ballistic weapon David had made famous in the Bible when he slew Goliath. It had been one of the most important weapons in an ancient army’s arsenal. It was still used in some African cultures today. Two long cords were attached to the ends of a leather strap. The strap held the projectiles—she preferred smooth stones—and the cords allowed her to whirl the stone overhead or at her side. The cords were long enough to go around her waist, and she had disguised the slingshot to look like a belt from a Ralph Lauren Congo collection. But in her trained hands it was a lethal weapon.

Eieb’s expression turned grave. “If I was hard on you earlier—”

“I needed to hear it.” Wynne grinned at him.

He tried for a smile, but only managed to pull his lips into a thin sober line. He tugged on her long braid twice, the closest thing to a hug she had ever gotten from him, then he said, “Godspeed.”

“You, too.” Wynne did the same with his dreadlocks, then he slipped off into the woods. For a six foot guy, he moved through the forest like a ghost, disappearing into the foliage.

She lifted the left cuff of her pants and checked the small dagger and sheath there. For the undercover operation, she had worn her most loose-fitting civilian clothes, a white oversized safari shirt, a hunting vest, and tan cargo pants. The pants were wide enough at the bottom to allow her easy access to the dagger.

She dropped the cuff and reached across the stick shift. Strands of blond hair escaped her braid and fell in her face. She blew them back and found the packets of money she had wrapped in waxed canvas and tied with twine. Carefully, she shoved the neat little package into a vest pocket.

A .22 rifle, a Winchester, and a dart gun were in the trunk, mandatory equipment for a ranger. She used the dart pistol when she needed to sedate an animal, but the other guns she rarely utilized. She had seen firsthand the damage guns could inflict. They were made for taking life, not preserving it, and there had never been a time in the two years she’d been a ranger that cunning and wits hadn’t won out over bullets.

She slipped into the forest, Snow shadowing her. Wynne found a well-worn elephant path and the going was easy. She kept her eyes trained for movement. Poachers were infamous for setting traps and had murdered a ranger six months ago.

A blue striped skink skittered across the path in front of her. Out of habit, Wynne paused and found what the lizard was running from. A slender mamba slithered after its prey.

Snow paused behind Wynne, curious, but inherently cautious.

The snake wasn’t quite four feet long and still olive-green, a juvenile. Mambas turned black when full grown and Wynne had seen them fourteen feet in length.

The snake sensed her, but mambas were as poisonous as cobras and they had an attitude to back it up, so it didn’t challenge her and pursued its skink-a-la-mode dinner.

Lack of fear was the snake’s first mistake. Wynne whipped off the slingshot, loaded a rock in the leather strap and followed the mamba.

It reared its head at her.

One snap of her wrist and the slingshot’s cords wrapped around the snake’s slender neck and mouth. Wynne grabbed the back of its head and loosened the cords. She forced open its mouth and drained the venom on a log.

“Don’t worry, little guy, you’ll be free soon,” she said, thrusting the snake in a cloth pouch she kept for capturing poisonous snakes.

The skink looked at her as it scurried off into the underbrush, as if to say, “Thanks.”

The snake thrashed and writhed in the sack as she secured it to her belt and continued her approach.

Another twenty yards, and she paused at the sound of male voices. She imitated the call of a sparrow weaver.

Eieb’s whistle answered.

Everything was in place. She gave Snow a hand signal to stay, then peeked past the underbrush. Five elephant carcasses littered the ground. They had been butchered, only meaty bones and tendon left, the choicest morsels for the vultures and blowflies. By the smell and look of the carrion, the animals had been killed a good three days ago. It surprised her that the meat had been butchered so quickly. Five bull elephants amounted to tons of meat. It took a tribe of hunters a day to butcher one good-size elephant. These guys had killing down to a science.

It made her sick to see the senseless carnage, and she glanced down at her hands, feeling a tightening in the region over her heart. It was part of her job to monitor the elephant herds in the park. There were only one hundred and fifty elephants in the reserve—now only one hundred and forty-five. She had named some of them by their personalities. Which ones had she lost? God! She didn’t want to know.

Thirty feet from the kill, standing near the tusks, Wynne spotted Aja and three poachers. Aja was about fifty, elderly for an African, with graying temples and the expression of a sage. Strands of beads covered his legs, arms and neck. He wore a loincloth. A leather slingshot, identical to Wynne’s, hung down the side of his hip. Despite the development and exploitation of Zambia, some Africans hadn’t lost their sense of heritage. Aja valued the old ways of his ancestors. He truly was one of the people of the earth, and he wore his pride in his bearing. They made eye contact, but he had been expecting her and didn’t give her away. He continued to converse with the poachers.

She assessed the other three Africans. Young, not locals, probably from another province. They donned camouflage fatigues, urbanite garb from a military store. They held Remington M70s, enough firepower to take down the side of a house. More than likely they had herded the animals here and mowed them down like a firing squad. Wynne tried to take a long calming breath, but she kept picturing the slaughter, and the air sat in her lungs like she had just breathed fire.

The tallest of the three men wore a tan beret. An ivory earring dangled from his nose and ear. A belt crafted from giraffe hair and elephant tail hair was threaded through the belt loops of his pants—nothing like flaunting the contraband. He glanced around as if expecting trouble; the leader, she presumed.

She stepped into the clearing, a Teflon smile pasted across her face, while inside she seethed.

The men grew wide-eyed with confusion and concern.

Did they know she was a ranger? Had her cover been blown? Fear pulled at her. She reached for her slingshot, but the men’s uncertainty quickly segued into obvious disdain and she slowly relaxed her hand at her side.

The leader took her measure and spat. He looked at Aja. “We wish to do business, but not with a woman,” he growled in Nyanja, one of over seventy dialects spoken in Zambia.

“Her money is good.”

“We don’t deal with women.”

Wynne had come up against men like these many times before, killers who didn’t respect women or any living creature. To them, she was nothing but a lowly woman, beneath them and not to be trusted. She pulled out the money from her vest and spoke in their language. “Here’s the seventy pounds as agreed upon.”

This softened the leader’s expression.

Wynne tossed the packet to him.

He snatched it out of midair and grinned, white teeth flashing. “Maybe we can do business.”

The other men drew close as the leader tore into the packet.

Wynne stepped back and smiled, focusing on the miniscule cloud of brown dust flittering down as he dropped the covering.

For a moment Aja met her eyes and they shared a knowing glance.

“It’s all there.” Wynne watched the leader fan the bills, more dust scattering in the air.

The others stared, rapt by the sight of so many greenbacks.

“I’ll have my men pick up the ivory.” Wynne walked toward the tusks, each weighing about seventy to eighty pounds, flesh still attached to the ends. She had to look down at her hands.

“Wait.” The leader shoved the money in his pocket and nudged his companions.

They walked toward Wynne. Her gaze shifted between their eyes and their guns.

“Ivory is prized,” the leader said. “One hundred fifty pounds, or no deal.”

“We agreed on seventy,” Wynne said. “That’s all I’ve got on me.”

“You can pay us the rest tomorrow.”

“What about the meat? Is it for sale?”

“No meat.” The leader shook his head emphatically. “All bought.”

Wynne had a horrible suspicion brewing in her. She hedged, then said, “Where shall I meet you?” How many other poachers were in the area and involved in this ring? She looked forward to interrogating them.

“Here.”

“No, not here. I passed rangers on the road about twenty miles north. What about your camp?”

A moment of indecision, then he said, “We’ll meet you at this location.”

“Very well, but I may not be able to come up with all the money right away.”

The leader eyed her up and down. “You’re not a bad-looking woman, you can think of something.”

Wynne gave him her most winning smile, while she visualized what she’d like to do to him later. It involved the mamba and a knife.

The leader nodded at the tusks. “Get them.”

“Wait! They’re mine!” Wynne stepped between the tusks and the two men. She held up her hands and tried to look as if she were at their mercy.

Aja stepped next to her and crossed his arms. “They are the woman’s.”

The men glanced at them: a woman and an old man. They found it amusing as they aimed their cannons at Wynne and Aja. The leader’s teeth glistened in a Cheshire grin. “I keep the tusks until full payment.”

“I don’t think so.” Wynne looked at Aja. “Do you?”

Aja nodded. “No, I do not think so.”

Snow chose that moment to step out of the woods and pad toward them.

The leader saw Snow. Fear registered in his expression. He whipped his gun around to shoot….

Wynne already had the sack in her hands. She tore it open and hurled the snake at the leader. It landed on his head.

“Get it off! Get it off!” He screamed, dropped his gun, and flung the mamba into the forest.

It was the diversion Wynne needed. She kicked him, then knocked him down on the ground in a tantui move, a martial arts form of kickboxing. In seconds she’d wrestled his hands behind his back and cuffed him.

Abruptly the other two men groaned and grabbed their stomachs. They staggered several feet and dropped their weapons.

Wynne was on them in a flash, throwing them to the ground, cuffing them, while Aja grabbed their rifles.

“It took a long time,” Aja said. “Did you use enough lobelia on the money?”

Lobelia—a tobacco derivative—contained poisonous caustic latex, more potent than digitalis. It was one of the tricks Aja had taught her. “I did, but I didn’t want to kill them. Next time, I’ll make the powder more potent. But I did bring the mamba as a diversion.”

“Huh, a mamba.” Aja shook his head, then the wrinkles stretched around his eyes in disapproval. “I would have found a cobra.”

Wynne was used to Aja’s criticisms. He was the master in the African bush; she was only his student. She knew how fortunate she had been to have his friendship and tutelage, and she always showed him the deference he deserved, though it never stopped her from hoping to hear him compliment her one day.

Her gaze shifted to the three downed men as Snow sniffed them. The thought of losing five elephants to these creeps ate at her. However, it gave her pleasure to watch them trembling not only from sickness but from having a full-grown leopard breathing down their necks. An idea came to her.

One hand signal from her and Snow paused, bent down and sniffed the leader’s neck.

He stiffened, his body trembling all over.

“You probably don’t know this, but albino leopards stay hungry all the time. Has something to do with their genetic anomaly.” Not true, but sounded good. “And Snow here hasn’t made a kill in days.”

“P-please…” His voice was a raspy whisper.

“I know you were trying to make a little extra cash with this deal. Was it your idea, or your boss’s?”

“Ours alone.”

“Whose?” Wynne motioned to Snow and the big cat plopped one paw on his back.

“Mine.” He struggled not to move.

“Where is the meat?”

“Packaged for b-bush meat….”

Wynne grimaced. Bush meat. The most devastating kind of poaching. It was the illegal use of wildlife for meat and had caused the near-extinction of animals in Africa. Also it exposed consumers to diseases such as Ebola, and twenty-six kinds of SIV—Simian immunodeficiency virus—two of which had been identified as the origin of AIDS. Bush meat poaching meant a highly organized, commercial illegal operation. They could wipe out the park’s wildlife in a few weeks.

“How are you transporting the meat?”

“Supposed to drop it at a contact point.”

“When?”

“Tonight…midnight.” His eyes squeezed shut as Snow sniffed his ear, and his trembling turned to full-blown shudders.

“Where?”

“Near Sausage Tree Camp….”

“How is it moved?”

“Z-Zambezi River.”

“Through Zimbabwe?”

“Yes.”

“Where does it go from there?”

“I don’t know. I-I swear.”

“Who is behind this ring?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Wynne shrugged. “Snow, it’s poacher dinner for you, girl.” She signaled the leopard with one finger.

Snow let out a roar that Wynne felt deep in her chest and she was certain rocked the poacher’s eardrum a little. Then the big cat flopped down across his back.

“Haah! Please… Please! I-I don’t know! Money and instructions come through e-mail.” Perspiration streamed down his brow, and he blinked it back.

Wynne believed him, not because he was scared out of his wits and wouldn’t dare lie to her, but because the ring leader had been clever enough to set up a bush meat ring right under their noses, even had a spy, or two, in their camp. He’d definitely be clever enough to keep his identity hidden. She motioned for Snow to back off.

Shots rent the air. Wynne’s head snapped up. Buzzards scattered into a black haze.

Aja glanced into the forest and asked, “Where is Eieb?”

“Oh, my God! Eieb!” Wynne should have known this arrest had gone down too easily. There must have been a lookout. She snapped a hand signal at Snow. “Guard.” She pointed to the poachers and heard another staccato blast of shots.

“Please, watch them,” Wynne yelled over her shoulder at Aja as she ran into the forest, whipping off her slingshot. Wynne prayed Eieb was still alive and that the poachers hadn’t won this round, too.

Wynne slowed as she neared the gun battle. It was seventy yards ahead of her. She crept forward, using the dense undergrowth as cover. She couldn’t see Eieb or the poachers. Only heard them. A semiautomatic rapid fire, rat-tat-tat-tat, layered by Eieb’s shotgun, ka-plow. At least she knew Eieb was still alive. It sounded like the middle of a war zone.

Abruptly the shots stopped, the quiet deafening.

Her pulse drummed in her ears. She smelled the bitter scent of gunpowder, thickened by the humidity. The air pressed in around her as she searched for movement, a quick rapid scan. Left. Right. Only lush green jungle. She tuned into the faint sound of moaning, jagged breathing. Was that Eieb?

She didn’t dare call out. Poachers could still be in the vicinity, ready to play the Kill the Warden game. She prowled toward the sound, then heard…

Whisper of leaves. Footfalls behind her. She loaded her slingshot and whirled it, arm poised, ready to fire.

“It’s me,” Eieb whispered, his voice wired from the gun battle.

She relaxed, relieved to see him, and let the slingshot drop. “Any more around?”

“Only one. The shots came from this way. Pretty certain, he’s down.”

Eieb headed toward the sound, Wynne on his heels. They spotted the fallen African at the same time. He was barefoot and wore ragged civilian clothes. His body was curled into a fetal position and he held his stomach. Blood oozed between his fingers and ran down his arm. An AK-47 lay next to him.

Wynne kicked the rifle away. Then she and Eieb must have seen the young man’s face at the same time, for they gaped at him.

“Mehan?” Wynne said, aware she shouldn’t feel empathy for a poacher who had tried to kill Eieb and probably other rangers. But she had seen Mehan’s smile every morning in camp for the past two years, knew his wife and four children, and the promise within him; he was an artist and had carved a leopard out of wood for her. It resembled Snow. How could she distance herself from someone she had called friend?

“Why, Mehan?” Eieb looked as tortured and in pain as Mehan.

Mehan squeezed his eyes shut, as if he couldn’t bear to look at them or face what he’d done. “Need…” he spoke in Nyanja. “Feed…family.”

It was always about need. Mehan needed to poach to feed his family. Wynne needed to stop bush meat poachers. She grabbed a nearby Balsam plant, stripped the leaves with one glide of her hand, then crushed them between her palms. She pulled her dagger from its ankle sheath, tugged her shirt from her waist, and cut the bottom off; Mehan probably had two shirts to his name—if he was lucky.

Wynne squatted on the other side of Mehan and looked at Eieb. “Help me roll him on his back.”

Mehan grimaced but didn’t cry out, the African male warrior in him refusing to give way to pain.

“Hold his hands.” She waited for Eieb to grasp Mehan’s hands, then thrust the leaves against the bullet hole.

Mehan tensed, agony scorching his dark eyes. Perspiration trailed down his forehead. He clenched Eieb’s hands as if he were dangling from a cliff.

“Just one more thing.” She wrapped the shirttail around his middle, packing the leaves against the wound. He was so thin, she knotted the strip of material twice. Mehan bit his lower lip, and his eyes glazed as if he might pass out. “That should help the bleeding. We’ll get you some real help.”

“Who is behind this?” Eieb bent over Mehan, his voice soft, but his expression hard with resolve.

“LZCG….” Mehan’s lips quivered, the name dissolving in his throat. Then he shuddered and passed out.

“LZCG?” Eieb and Wynne both spoke at the same time, openmouthed in disbelief.

“I don’t believe it.” Eieb shook his head. “The LZCG behind a poaching ring?”

“Not just a poaching ring,” Wynne said. “A bush meat ring.”

“Are you certain it’s a bush meat operation?”

“The carcasses have been butchered and one of the men we caught confirmed it.”

“I still do not believe it. Mehan could be lying to cover for someone else.”

“I don’t think so. It’s like he was clearing his conscience.”

“But without the LZCG we wouldn’t have the air and ground support. They just paid for the new animal tracking system,” Eieb said as if trying to convince himself it wasn’t true. “They gave us the funding. No, I cannot believe it.”

“Now that’s the kicker, and what the orchestrator of this ring would like us to believe,” said Wynne. “If you think about it, it’s the perfect setup. No one would suspect someone in the LZCG of poaching.” The Zambian Wildlife Authority had been fortunate to have the LZCG base their operations in Zambia. Wynne knew the Lower Zambian Conservation Group, or LZCG as most people referred to it, had done more for saving wildlife than the Zambian government. It was a nonprofit organization started by safari tour owners and tradesmen who catered to wealthy tourists, photographers, and licensed hunters. In the 1970s and ’80s, safari owners had witnessed the near extinction of wildlife in Zambia, and they realized their livelihood was dying. Thus they created and funded the LZCG. Without its financial support and added manpower, Zambia wouldn’t have begun to make an impact on poaching. The lack of funding from the government made it impossible for the understaffed rangers to cover all of Zambia’s vast lands. LZCG’s employees took up the slack, covering borders and patrolling areas, working alongside the rangers. Some of them had been deputized and could make arrests. They were constantly assisting every ranger on the force, including Wynne when she asked for help. No one would suspect the LZCG insider of poaching. It was the perfect smoke screen.

The furrow on Eieb’s brow loosened and he seemed a little more amenable to the idea. “Okay, just suppose you’re correct. Who could it be?”

“I don’t know. Hey, it could be anyone.” The LZCG board members flashed in Wynne’s mind and for some reason the enigmatic handsome features of Noah Hellstrom stuck. She had seen the way he walked into a room and owned it, his charisma and presence electrifying the air. With just one smile, he had the ability to charm anyone out of anything. Four months ago, LZCG’s board members had unanimously voted him in as their new chairman of the board and head of operations.

She didn’t know how Hellstrom had the time to volunteer at the LZCG and operate Wanderlust Tours, one of the largest safari companies in Zambia. Unlike some safari owners, Hellstrom always followed the laws. On her patrols in the bush, she had never arrested any of his scouts or hunters for not having the proper licenses in the game-managed areas where hunting was allowed. Still, she couldn’t ignore the fact they hadn’t had a poaching problem until Hellstrom took over.

“What about Hellstrom?” Wynne threw out.

“I don’t know. He’s so well liked.”

“I know, but he did shoot down my idea of getting a DNA wildlife crime lab. He said it was too expensive and wouldn’t even take the idea to the board to vote on it.”

“I remember. Strange was it not, since it’s more effective in ferreting out poachers than the tracking system.”

It had been a dream of Wynne’s to see a lab established in the park, but she needed the LZCG behind her and the influence they had with the Zambian government. It certainly wasn’t going to happen while Hellstrom was chairman of the board.

“His safari business would be a great way to transport the meat,” Eieb said, his voice uncertain.

“True, and he knows our every move, but so does all of the LZCG staff.” She glanced down at Mehan. “We need to keep him safe. If the leader of this poaching ring knows he’s alive and talked, they’ll try to eliminate him.”

“I’ll protect him.” A heavy frown stretched across Eieb’s brow.

“After Doc Mukuka treats him, we should move him somewhere safe. Aja can help us.” Dr. Mukuka ran an AIDS clinic about two miles from base camp. It was the closest thing they had to a hospital.

“I know of a place.” Eieb nodded.

“Take the Rover. I’ll deal with the prisoners.”

Eieb hefted Mehan in his arms like he was a child, the tendons in Eieb’s long forearms straining. But the weight didn’t seem to slow him as he hurried through the forest.

“Don’t tell anyone about our arrest just yet,” Wynne called to Eieb’s back.

He didn’t answer her, and she wondered if he was too far away to hear her. If word of the capture got out, the meeting at Sausage Tree Camp would be cancelled. The poacher had said he was to turn over the contraband tonight. The camp was twenty kilometers away, near the southern edge of the park, next to the Zambezi River. She could easily slip down there and see who turned up. Maybe follow them and find out the smuggling route the poachers were taking.

Wynne picked up Eieb’s and Mehan’s rifles, then hurried back to Aja and the poachers. She thought of the LZCG again.

She didn’t want to believe one of the board members could be corrupt, but it was obvious someone was, maybe even more than one person. She didn’t know who to trust any longer. And she couldn’t risk offending all the board members by accusing one of them of poaching without definitive proof. It was the golden handcuff principle at work. And whoever was head of this ring had probably anticipated that advantage.

She knew finding the identity of this person would be like playing chess with the devil. One wrong move and she’d not only lose the job she loved with all her heart, she could lose her life. Tonight, just maybe, she could get one move ahead of the devil—if that was possible.