Part 2 (1/2)

”I thought you said it was illegal to hunt in this area.” Dalton was in his late forties, a wiry man with an awkward way about him.

”It is,” Simon a.s.sured the man.

Another couple of gunshots echoed over them.

Voices came from the other tents now. That was good. Saundra wouldn't have to wake everyone, and she'd have help waking those who were reluctant.

”Then whoever is doing the shooting must be a-”

”Stay with Miss McIntyre, Mr. Dalton.” Simon took the rifle in both hands and headed out of camp at a jog.

Perspiration quickly covered Simon as the gra.s.slands grew hotter with the rising sun. It peeked through the rose and cream ma.s.s of clouds to the east.

His head and stomach protested the strenuous exercise at first, but-as always-his body became regulated and he moved effortlessly. Once again, all the harsh conditioning his father had compelled Simon to do came to his aid.

When he'd been younger, he'd enjoyed the runs and the martial arts, especially the sword training. But that had been back when he was a boy and still believed that demons lurked somewhere out in the world just waiting for an opportunity to take it over again.

He didn't believe that anymore. One of his main problems was that he didn't know what to believe. All his life he'd been brought up to fight demons, trained in arcane ways and even taught limited mystical abilities. None of which could be talked about outside the Underground labyrinth where the Templar skulked in the shadows.

Simon had tired of all of it. Two years ago, at twenty-three, he'd left the Templar, his father, and all of London.

Talking about the training he'd received, about the cult-like atmosphere he'd been brought up in, would have done no good. Few left the ranks of the Templar, and only those who knew to keep their mouths shut escaped a date with the loony bin.

Simon pushed those thoughts away and concentrated on running. No hunting was allowed in the gra.s.slands these days. He and Saundra carried hunting rifles only for self-protection and to protect their charges. Occasionally a lioness that had gotten too old to hunt and had been abandoned by her pride developed a taste for blood. But the biggest worry was from poachers.

Only minutes later, something less than two miles from camp, Simon found the shooters.

There were five of them. They were a scruffy lot, from their early twenties to their forties or fifties. All of them had the permanent sunburned look of men who had spent their entire lives in the bush.

They drove two four-wheel-drive Land Rovers strapped with extra tires, jerry cans of fuel, and water. Evidently they'd settled in for the long haul.

Five adult elephants lay on the sun-baked scrubby ground. Blood leaked into the dry dust. Overhead, vultures circled, waiting for the predators to leave.

A baby elephant tugged pitifully at its mother, wrapping its trunk around its mother's head and crying out. One of the hunters raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired. The baby elephant dropped in its tracks. The killing happened before Simon knew it would. If he'd had a chance to stop it- You don't know what you'd have done, mate.Simon concentrated on the men, working on seeing through the death. Settling into the shady protection of a camel-thorn acacia tree, he shrugged out of his backpack and watched the poachers.

He took a pair of expensive MechEye digital binoculars from his pack. His father had given them to him on his tenth birthday. And they were far better than those that any other guide he knew carried into the bush.

Depressing the power b.u.t.ton, Simon zoomed in on the men as they went about their brutal business.

They used handsaws to cut free the elephant tusks. Even with the recent decision to issue licenses to kill off a few hundred head of elephants after it was deemed their populations had grown too large to sustain them, ivory remained valuable on the black market.

The men worked with grim alacrity, tossing their b.l.o.o.d.y prizes into the backs of the Land Rovers. One of them stood guard, a rifle braced on one hip. His sungla.s.ses reflected the orange coal of his cigarette as he smoked.

Simon captured images of the men and their grisly profit. The binoculars came fully equipped with a surprising array of software.

Okay then, you vicious cutthroats, you're going to pay for what you did here.

During the last sixteen months, Simon had gotten to know the Cape Town police and the gamekeepers that worked in the Fynbos Biome. The area was protected by international law.

Someone will know you.

Simon captured a few more images, then watched in silence as the corpses were stripped of their tusks. The radio vibrated in his pocket.

Leaning back, Simon shook the earpiece out and shoved it into his ear. ”Yes.”

”I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” Saundra sounded worried. ”I heard that final shot-” ”Wasn't me.” Simon quickly explained what had gone on.

Saundra cursed when he'd finished. ”We can't let them get away with this.”

She had very strong feelings about preserving wildlife. As a result, they'd never guided hunters while working together. She knew that Simon did, when the price was right and the interest was there, but they never talked about that.

”I've got pictures of them. They won't get away with it.”

The circling vultures dropped from the sky and alighted on the carca.s.ses. Their hooked beaks and cruel talons tore into the elephant flesh.

”What are you going to do?” Saundra asked.

”Wait here. Watch them. Make sure they don't come your way. Get our tourists out of harm's way. I'll catch up to you quick as I can.”

”All right.”

Simon took his earpiece out and dropped it back into the radio. He pocketed the radio and pressed the Velcro tab closed on his thigh pocket.

Almost twenty minutes pa.s.sed. The poachers worked quickly. So did the vultures.

Simon knew the blood scent would draw other predators. It always did. But he didn't expect the Cape buffalo that came up to the scene and stood in the scrubland on the other side of the kill site.

The buffalo was huge and black, with the wide, curving horns of its kind. This one looked near to six feet at the shoulder and weighing more than a ton. The face was ma.s.sive, all bone and muscle. Most of the gamekeepers Simon knew regarded Cape buffalos as the most dangerous animals in the region. A single lion couldn't bring a Cape buffalo down, and it took a pack of hyenas to do the job.

Since it was alone, Simon guessed that it was a ”bachelor.” Older bulls were usually cut out of the herds by the younger bulls. People every year died on the horns or under the hooves of Cape buffaloes. They died hard, and most of them didn't die alone.

The poachers noticed the Cape buffalo, too. They pointed at the animal. The older men in the group got more wary. Even a Land Rover wasn't always the best protection out in the open. Cape buffaloes were quite capable of overturning vehicles.

One of the younger men brought his rifle to shoulder.

An older man shouted, ”No!” but that happened at the same time the younger man fired.

The first bullet caught the Cape buffalo between the horns, knocking a chunk of hide flying. The buffalo staggered, throwing its head back. As a result, the second and third bullets. .h.i.t the animal in the chest.

With an angry bellow, the buffalo broke cover and charged the poachers. Simon watched, hoping the buffalo would get them all.

The poachers scattered. The more seasoned among them ran to the elephants' bodies for refuge. The dead elephants were bigger and heavier than the Land Rovers.

Never breaking stride, the Cape buffalo slammed into the side of the lead Land Rover. The impact echoed under the acacia tree where Simon sat. Incredibly, the Land Rover came up on two wheels and rolled over onto its side with acrunch.

Still in motion, the animal sped into the trees and tall shrubs. It disappeared almost immediately. The young poacher got his nerve back and tried two more shots that Simon doubted hit anything.