Part 3 (1/2)

Returning to the tree where he'd left his gear, Simon collapsed the dagger and put it away. He hefted the backpack and his hunting rifle, took out his good compa.s.s to check the direction, and started back toward camp.

Back at the campsite, Simon knew things had gone badly wrong. He'd known they would when he started tracking the tire marks left by the poachers' vehicles and found they headed toward the campsite.

For a little while he'd let himself hope that the poachers wouldn't find the campsite. But as soon as they'd gotten into the area, Simon knew the men were hunting them too. Tire tracks cut through the abandoned campsite, rolling through the gray ash of the campfire.

Simon cursed himself and surveyed the terrain. The poachers hadn't had any problems picking up Saundra's trail. Saundra hadn't had time to hide her tracks, and with tourists in tow, that hadn't been possible.

There was little doubt that the poachers had probably overtaken Saundra and the others by now. And what will they do? Kill them for possibly being witnesses to their poaching?

The possibility flushed ice water through Simon's veins. He redistributed his pack across his shoulders and pushed himself into a jog. He'd lost over two hours tracking the wounded Cape buffalo. His sweat-drenched clothing clung to him. His muscles protested, but he pushed himself forward.

Four and a half miles later, as best as Simon could guess, he found where the poachers had overtaken Saundra and their group.

Hyenas savaged Dalton's and Carey's bodies, growling at each other as they claimed their meals. Both men had been executed, a bullet between the eyes and powder marks to show the proximity.

Breath burning in his lungs, Simon dropped to his knees beside the men and checked their pulses even though he knew he wouldn't find any. He closed their staring eyes and got up again.

Why did they kill you? Did you resist?Simon couldn't believe that.Or to make a point? That felt more right even though it was ultimately more wrong.

He swung back to search the ground, barely holding the panic within him in check. There were footprints and tire tracks everywhere. He figured that the poachers had found Saundra and the tourists in the brush, flushed them toward the trail, then killed Dalton and Carey and loaded the survivors onto the Land Rovers.

Saundra's alive. The others are alive.Simon chose to concentrate on that instead of the dead men. Despite his fatigue, he sipped water from his canteen and ate an energy bar as he walked. When he finished, he began to run again.

”What are they going to do to us?”

Calming herself, Saundra turned to face one of the women in the group. It was a struggle to remember the woman's name. Saundra hated that; she prided herself on getting the names of her charges sorted out promptly. She was a perfectionist. Simon teased her unmercifully for that.

Simon.She wondered if he was still alive. So far the poachers hadn't said anything about killing him. He couldn't be dead. She wouldn't let him be dead. She'd never known a man more alive than Simon Cross. But he wouldn't have given in to their captors either. She knew that as well. ”Miss McIntyre? Did you hear me?” The woman whispered more forcefully.

”I heard you.” Saundra made herself speak calmly. She was anything but calm. The poachers had tied their hands behind them with rope, then tied them together around a tree. At first Saundra had tried to break free, but her hands had quickly gone numb from lack of blood circulation.

”Well?”

”I don't know what they're going to do.”

The woman was young, probably in her mid-twenties, the same age as Saundra. But she hadn't seen as much of the cold callousness of life that Saundra had. The woman lowered her head as she wept. Tears ran down her dusty cheeks, leaving muddy furrows behind.

Saundra's first impulse was to tell the woman-Cherie,the name just popped into her head-that everything was going to be all right. But she didn't. One of her first rules, one she'd had to teach Simon, was not to ever promise a paying client something you couldn't deliver.

So she let the woman cry. One of the others, Denise, leaned in to her. They whispered in French, and Saundra only had marginal French. The two women came from France, somewhere outside of Paris, Saundra thought, but she couldn't be sure now. They'd come on a grand adventure, hoping to meet men that would make them forget about boring jobs.

They're not thinking about work now,Saundra thought, and she felt guilty as soon as the thought had manifested. She scanned the camp.

Night was coming, lengthening and deepening the shadows. As soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, full dark would be upon them for a time before the moon rose. It had been full last night, but Saundra couldn't remember if that had been the second or third night.

The men sat around the campfire eating the supplies Saundra and Simon had outfitted their clients with. They'd also found the vodka left over from last night.

In the flickering firelight, Saundra thought she recognized two of them. She knew that wasn't good. If she knew them, they probably knew her. They wouldn't want any witnesses talking about what they'd been doing. Gamekeepers would find the elephants' bodies soon enough, and they'd be looking for the people responsible.

You're a witness,she reminded herself.That's like an inch away from being dead. She pulled at the ropes again, but she still couldn't feel her hands or the ropes. The others were all in the same shape. Even if they'd been able to sit back to back without getting noticed, they wouldn't have been able to untie the ropes.

Worn and weary, caked in dirt and dried sweat, Simon knelt beside an acacia tree and peered through the open sights of his hunting rifle. It was a bolt-action .375 Weatherby Magnum. Even as quick as he was, he could only get off one round, perhaps two, before the poachers reacted. By then the survivors might try for hostages.

The rifle wasn't the way to do this. And if he'd been a regular wilderness guide, he wouldn't have been the man for what he had to do.

He put the rifle to the side and reached into the backpack again. Taking out both punching daggers, he strapped them on. Then he crept deeper into the shadows, getting closer to the poachers.

The men didn't think they were being followed. Otherwise they'd have posted guards. More than that, they wouldn't have been sitting around the fire where they'd be highlighted so easily and ruining their night vision with full dark coming on.

Even as he worked his way toward them, Simon kept his eyes averted from the fire and used his peripheral vision. In darkness, direct vision suffered. It was what was seen from the corner of the eye that was seen best.

He counted all five of them. He could smell them now, too. Even over the smoke from the fire, he scented their unwashed musk and sour odors. Saundra often told him he had the keenest nose of any man she'd ever met. She also said that about his hearing and eyesight.

That was due, in part, to the training Simon's father and the other Templar had put him through. Even down in the Underground, there had been combat zones and tests and trials. He'd been shown how to use all his senses in battle.

”-some kind of craziness goin' on over the radio an' the television,” one man said. ”I heard there was some kind of alien invasion going on in London. Said some kinda beasts just beamed down from a mothers.h.i.+p of some kind.”

”That's a bunch of c.r.a.p if you ask me,” another man said.

Simon moved out of the brush, crouched down, and eased one foot in front of the other. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. His first thoughts were of his father. But aliens weren't demons. Then he was behind the closest Land Rover, inching his way forward, trying to figure out how the men would split once they knew he was there.

”n.o.body asked you,” the first speaker growled. ”So just keep your trap shut.” The second speaker made a rude comment.

”What kind of aliens?” someone else asked.

”From another world,” the first speaker said. ”What kind of other aliens is there?” ”Like those aliens out ofAlien ? Or like the ones out ofPredator ?”

”How should I know?” ”You said you seen 'em.” ”On tri-dee.”

”When?”

”Few days ago. While we were back in Cape Town. Before we got ready to come out here.” ”Did they say where they came from?”

”No.”

”That would be interestin'. I wouldn't mind baggin' a few aliens.” The other men laughed.

Hunkering down beside the front of the Land Rover, Simon took fresh grips on the punching daggers.

He shoved all the questions and extraneous thoughts from his mind and achieved the focus his father had trained him to have. He took in a deep breath and let it out.

Then he moved, as quick as he could, going for the man closest to him. The poacher sat in a collapsible canvas chair that Simon thought he recognized from the gear their clients had brought. There was no hesitation in Simon as he attacked, no forgiveness. Seeing Dalton and Carey had drained that from him. If he was going to save Saundra and their clients, he couldn't be merciful.

Except for quick deaths. And that was more a tactical choice than out of compa.s.sion. A dead man couldn't get back up at an inopportune time.

Still crouching as he closed on the nearest man from behind, Simon rolled his right arm forward, twisting his hips and getting his shoulder behind the blow. The katar sliced through the canvas back of the chair, then sank deeply into the poacher's back and punched through his chest.