Rare Breed

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.

Chapter 2

The sun had just set and the soft evening moonlight cast a long sparkling shadow down the center of the Zambezi River as Wynne crept along its bank. The water current and bellows of hippos drowned out her footsteps. An occasional splash warned of a croc looking for a snack. A rich brew of animal musk, vegetation and the dank scent of fresh water clung to the air.

There was enough moonlight to see across the river to Zimbabwe’s shore. The Zambezi River acted as a natural boundary between the two countries. It also gave poachers a quick escape route into Zimbabwe. It was September; the end of the dry season, and the river had shrunk to a fourth its size, making it easier for poachers to cross. Poaching was rampant in Zimbabwe. Endangered species were all but wiped out. The country was too impoverished to control it and animals had fled into Zambia for protection.

It made sense the bush meat poachers would transport the meat along the river into Zimbabwe. And she wasn’t surprised she hadn’t come across these men in her nightly patrols of the river. The rangers never made a move unless they cleared it with base camp and LZCG headquarters. Since they worked so closely together, they both needed to be updated. Whoever was on duty would know she regularly watched the Zambezi at night. It was common knowledge among the rangers. She never failed to catch small-time local poachers, but never these new bush meat poachers.

Wynne paused as she spotted five female elephants with a three-year-old calf and an infant. She scanned the underbrush for a bull following the herd. Usually bull elephants traveled separately from the females and either foraged for food alone or in small herds with other male juveniles. But if a cow was in season, bulls trailed the females. They were also larger than the cows and easily spotted. She didn’t see one with this herd.

In groups like this one, a matriarch usually led the herd. She could be fifty or older and her experience in finding food and water, and in sensing danger maintained the social order of the herd. But this lone group of cows seemed frightened and unsure of approaching the river, raising their tusks and scenting the air, keeping their young at their sides. Obviously this herd had recently lost their matriarch—most likely one of the five elephants poached today.

The mother of the calf turned and Wynne saw that she had one broken tusk. Wynne had named her simply Broken Tusk. She was part of Bright Betsy’s herd, but Bright Betsy must have been one of the elephants slaughtered by the poachers. Wynne called her B.B. for short. B.B. had grown accustomed to Wynne and had let her get within thirty yards of the herd while they fed.

Years of poaching and the slaughter of thousands of elephants had made them fear man and they would rarely take the chances of drinking in the open along rivers and streambeds during the day, nor would Wynne have ever been able to get as close as she had to B.B.’s herd. But since the park had cracked down on poaching, the elephants had been overcoming their fear. At seeing this herd disoriented, afraid and mourning the death of their matriarch, Wynne felt a stab of guilt and anger in the pit of her gut. She’d failed them today, broken their trust.

She waited as they eased forward and drank, then plodded back into the forest, following Broken Tusk and her infant. Wynne vowed to see them unafraid and drinking out in the open again.

She spotted the place where the poacher had said he was supposed to hand over the goods. Sausage Tree Camp was nothing but a bush lodge, named for the huge sausage tree that marked its location. The tree grew along the river’s edge, centuries old, its boughs as thick as the tires on her Rover. She could see the phallic-shaped fruits hanging from its branches. Some of the gray-green fruit was well over two feet long and had to weigh at least twenty pounds. Several blue monkeys lounged on the branches, munching on the fruit, a much-prized treat of monkeys and elephants. Some native healers pulverized the fruit and applied the paste to treat skin problems, venereal disease, rheumatism, and cancer. She had used the paste a time or two herself on heat rashes and bee stings. Sausage tree fruit was also employed in a secret ritual that supposedly predicted the size of an infant’s penis when he reached adulthood.

Wynne cracked a smile at the thought, then shifted her gaze to the lodge. It could sleep nine, but it was hardly more than a massive tent with a cement floor, though its lavish description on a safari tourist pamphlet made it sound much more inviting.

Tonight it looked empty. No trucks, or tethered horses—they were often used on bird-watching safaris. Bolts of mosquito netting stretched across the open tent windows. Zambia was a malaria zone; a fact reserved for the pamphlet’s fine print. She had slathered her own skin with mud, a natural and readily accessible mosquito repellent.

Wynne was attuned to the sounds in the bush: the shrill chatter of monkeys; the trumpeting of an elephant; the cough of a hunting leopard. The sounds were always present, a gauging of normalcy, comforting in a way. She heard none of them now, only her own breathing and a dead eerie silence. Had the poachers gotten here before her?

She scanned the area behind the lodge. The trees. Along the road. She was about to take off her slingshot and follow the herd when someone touched her shoulder.

Wynne screamed in surprise and wheeled around. She kicked her attacker in the side, but the large man grabbed her leg and tossed her to the ground. As he came at her again she countered with a knee cut that knocked him off balance.

He staggered back and hit a tree trunk.

Wynne leaped to her feet, ready for the next strike.

He used an aikido side arm thrust this time. She deflected the blow and got in a lucky kick to his ribs.

He flinched a little, but stood his ground, solid as a mountain.

They circled each other, hands up, on the defensive. His face was in shadow and she couldn’t see his eyes. It was important to see an opponent’s eyes; they gave away every intended movement. She felt blind fighting him.

For a broad-shouldered man his movements were decisive and quick and hard to anticipate. He was a head taller than her five foot eleven inch frame. She looked most men in the eye, not this guy.

“We could do this two-step all night,” his voice was deep, honey-coated by a Texas drawl.

“You’re American?” It took her aback for a moment, but she didn’t drop her guard or stop circling him.

“Last I checked.” Amusement laced his voice. He paused and looked too at ease, hardly out of breath.

He’d been sparring with her, not using his full strength. What would have happened had he really felt threatened? “Who the hell are you?” Wynne paused because he’d paused. They stood three feet from each other. She kept her gaze on his hands.

“I was going to introduce myself when I tapped you on the shoulder—that is, before you attacked me like a cat with its tail caught under a rocker.”

“I didn’t hear you behind me. It was a knee-jerk reaction.”

“Guess I should have cleared my throat.” He sounded genuinely contrite. “My mistake. Bygones?” He shoved a hand at her.

Wynne leaped back as if avoiding a mamba attack.

“Whoa, there. Touchy thing, ain’t you?”

“Keep your hands where I can see them.” She narrowed her eyes at his dark form. It seemed massive against the back drop of the moon. She wished she could see his eyes.

“Anything you say.” He slowly raised his hands.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, certain he was enjoying toying with her and had this pleasant harmless act honed to perfection. She felt her patience slipping. “Tell me your name.”

“I could ask you the same, darlin’.”

“I’m a ranger, and so not your darlin’. Your turn.”

“Jack MacKay—nice moves you got. You study under a sifu?”

“Fifteen years.” She wasn’t about to tell him his form was as good as hers—a different discipline than the karate kick boxing she had studied, but impressive. His eyes were hidden in the dark, but she could feel him eyeing her up and down. “And you?” she asked.

“Ex-SEAL.”

A good old boy and a SEAL, a lethal combination. That explained why she didn’t hear him sneak up on her. “Okay, Lone Star, what are you doing in this area? The park closes at night.”

“Most people call me Jack. And I was just walking. Any law against that?”

“The park’s dangerous at night. Big cats and crocs hunt at night along this river, and so do hyenas and wild dogs. Stick to walking in daylight when the park is open. And don’t ever sneak up on someone again. Now, I’m going to have to frisk you.”

“Help yourself, darlin’.” He turned and assumed the position with his hands outstretched and feet apart all too willingly. “I’ll warn you, I’m packing,” he said.

She stood behind him to be on the safe side and patted his ribs none too gently and enjoyed it when he winced. “Guns are not allowed in the park.”

“It’s a man’s God-given right to protect himself.”

“This isn’t Texas, or the Alamo.” She felt the shoulder holster, then found the gun. A massive thing, a .44 Magnum. Dirty Harry had nothing on this guy.

“Careful now. It’s loaded. Wouldn’t want a lady hurting herself.”

He had just pushed the wrong buttons. She hurled the gun as far as she could. It plunked into the river with a loud splash.

“Hey, that was the first gun I ever bought. I’m attached to that gun.” The sugar coating left his voice, a steely edge in its place.

Was that the true MacKay surfacing, a hint of dark center behind the Texas buttercream icing? “No guns in the park.” She finished patting him down.

“Y’ all really know how to show a guy a good time around here.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry our social director is off. You got stuck with me.” Wynne finished patting down his legs and decided not to search his crotch. He might like it too much. “You’re clean.”

“Do I get to search you now?”

“You can, if you want to be staked over a termite mound.” Wynne listened to him laugh loudly, an exaggerated roar from deep within his chest. She rested her fists on her hips and said, “Now, I suggest you go back to where you came from.”

“Can’t. My jeep broke down.” He gestured to the dirt road that led into camp.

“You said you were out walking?”

“I was. I knew the camp was here, so I walked here to find out if there was a phone.”

“A phone?” Out in a bush camp. Malarkey. And he’d snuck up on her in a perpendicular direction to the road. What was he up to? Was he the contact the poacher had spoken about?

“What were you doing driving here to begin with?”

“You’re mighty nosey.”

“Technically you’re trespassing on a Zambian national park and a game-managed area. I could bust you for having a gun. So answer my question.”

“All right, no need to get your hackles up. But I kinda think you like gettin’ ’em up.”

She heard the smile in his voice and said, “Just answer the question.”

“I heard of the bush camp and wanted to check it out and see if I might want to spend a week or two along the river.”