“Your words bring me comfort,” Nixon said. Cool eyes met Reed’s as he leaned back from his desk. “I meant no offense.”
“None taken,” Reed said, waving a hand. The tightness in his chest dissipated as quickly as it had come on, and he glanced toward the small refrigerator by his desk. “It’s been a stressful day, Captain. For both of us.” Pulling the door open, he grabbed two bottles. “Care for a beer?”
“Thank you, but no.” Nixon stood, accepting Reed’s outstretched hand. “Criminals make money in many ways, not just by stealing diamonds. Perhaps you heard of the dead lion pride found not long ago on the savanna?”
Reed nodded, his jaw growing tight. “All of them skinned.”
“Animal pelts are money for gangs, and these men will kill for very little. With the loss of the stones,” Nixon tapped his pocket, “they will grow more desperate for funding. Remember that when you are hunting.”
“I’ll stay alert,” Reed said.
Nixon nodded. “I am happy you and your men are alive, and I wish your employee a full recovery. Good day, Mr. Kimble.” Looking down, he tipped his cap to the brindle pile of fur on Reed’s floor. “And good day to you, Rico.”
A bottle top flipped off as Reed walked over and leaned in the doorway, cold beer washing away the stress tightening in his veins. None of his men had any part in a smuggling operation. Kimble Safaris was not part of the problem in any way. In fact, they would be part of the solution, starting tomorrow.
Chapter 3
Mwanza, Tanzania
August 1st
A solitary cloud watched over sunbaked Mwanza’s rugged concrete and steel landscape as a ragtag group of men made their way into an alley beside one two-story building, stopping at a side door notable only for the commercial-grade locks holding it shut. No one paid any attention to them in this beleaguered neighborhood, even though one of the men leaned heavily on his friends, his arms draped over their shoulders. The door opened, and the group slipped inside before it closed behind them and a series of solid cracks sounded, three deadbolts slamming home.
Fans buzzed inside the house, hot air blowing on hot people in an endless cycle of sweat and noise. The five new arrivals fell onto chairs, the floor, and in one case, a folding table that groaned loudly but did not collapse. When a door banged open on the second floor, every man inside froze.
“One of you is missing. What happened?” A clean-shaven man descended from above them, his boots thudding on each step. “This does not happen to a Pinda crew.”
One of the new arrivals spoke up. “Mr. Pinda, we ran—”
“Quiet.” Jakaya Pinda waved him into silence, looking to the wounded man lying on the table with a red rag pressed to his stomach. “Benjamin?” The name came out softly, his hands hovering over the man’s wound. “May I look?”
When the red rag fell away, Pinda exhaled, whistling through his teeth, then spoke in Swahili. “It is not as bad as it could be. How long ago were you hit?”
“Two hours,” the man said. “It hurts.”
“Do not worry, I will have the doctor come at once.” Pinda pulled a phone from his pocket and spoke briefly. “Try to be still,” he said, handing the injured man a water bottle. “The doctor is coming.” As the man drank greedily, Pinda turned and headed for the stairs. “You and you, come with me.” Two of the men who’d returned with Benjamin followed Pinda up the stairs into his office’s frigid embrace. Two dogs lounging in a corner growled. “Shut up, you mangy rats.” His foot hammered the floor, and the growls turned to whimpers. “Have a seat.”
Once the men took chairs facing his desk, Pinda closed the door. Let them think about what’s coming. Often that was more effective than anything he said. Pinda didn’t understand what happened on the savanna. His men went out on a simple retrieval mission, and one ended up shot, another was missing entirely. He needed answers, truthful ones, and only these two had them.
Taking his desk chair, Pinda looked from one man to the other. Both were sweating in the room’s cool air-conditioning and squirming in their seats. “Tell me what happened.”
The men glanced at each other. “Somebody knew,” the older one said. “We coming back, and they out there waiting. Started shooting. Daniel get shot in the chest.”
Daniel. That’s who hadn’t returned. “Daniel is dead?”
The older man nodded. “We ran, tried to save the stones, but the shooting too heavy.”
“You used the path we found?” More nods. “It should have been empty out there,” Pinda said, the vast vacantness of green and brown grass, luscious trees, and roaming beasts flashing across his mind’s eye. “Only the tribesmen are around. I spent a lifetime out there, so I know. Who was out there?”
“White men,” the younger one said. “Black too. We shot one. The white men start shooting as soon as they see us.”
Pinda’s gaze narrowed. “Did you shoot first?”
Here the younger man glanced at his partner, who studied the floor intently. After a while, the younger man’s chin dropped. “I do not know,” he said. “It happened too fast.”
As he’d guessed. “You did not expect them to be there. You were scared and shot. Is that what happened?”
Both men shrugged.
“You.” Pinda pointed at the older one. “Why do you not control the mission, show these young ones how to do what is needed? Do not let it happen again. Now, where are my diamonds?” A leather sack landed and spilled on his desk, the contents glittering under the desk lamp. “This is not all of them. Why did you not get the ones Daniel carried?”
“Too many bullets,” the younger one said then recoiled from Pinda’s glare. “Too dangerous.”
“Do you know how much money is lost?” His fist slammed on the desk, the noise like a gunshot. Canine whimpering sounded from across the room, though one hard look from Pinda shut the dogs up. “More than you can imagine.” With his fist still on the desk, he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “But it is done. We must move ahead.” What brought white men into the savanna? “Were these men hunters?”
“Yes,” they answered together.
“But we killed the animals there,” Pinda said.
“The lions,” the older one said. “We kill them. And zebras, they die too. Nothing is left.”
Nuisances all, and good riddance. The damn lions nearly killed him when he’d scouted out a path to move diamonds from the mine to Mwanza, a hard enough task without worrying about the cats ripping him to shreds. The last he’d seen of the local pride, four adults lay dead in the grass with cubs crying in the carnage.
“Now we have hunters to deal with,” he said, his words nearly lost as the air conditioner hummed. “Tell me about the white men.”
What followed offered a spark of hope, enough that Pinda interrupted the men, went to the door and shouted downstairs. “Godfrey, come here.” A minute later, one of his youngest followers sauntered through the open door, sidling as though he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Yes, boss. What you need?” he asked and fell into the chair Pinda indicated.
“I need you to find a person.”
“No problem,” Godfrey said, tapping his hairless chin. “Who are they?”
“I do not have a name. He may be a hunting guide. Do you know any white hunters who work between here and the diamond mine?”
“Maybe,” Godfrey said. “Have to look, talk to people. He owe you money?”
“Yes,” Pinda said. “You will talk to these men,”—he nodded to the pair of failed smugglers—“and then find him. This man has my diamonds. I want them back. They will pay for everything we do.”
“You count on me, boss.” Godfrey nodded and stood when Pinda did. “Get back to you quick.”
“I know you will,” Pinda said. He turned to the two other men. “Tell him everything,” he said, “and help if it is needed.”
The pair nodded and scurried from his office as Godfrey trailed behind.
“Godf
rey,” Pinda said, and the young man turned with curiosity in his eyes. “Take this. Spend it carefully.”
A stack of wrapped bills flipped through the air, and Godfrey whistled as he caught it. “Some call you Paraat, do they not?” Godfrey nodded. “A disciplined man. Use the money if people need to be reminded who is asking questions. I know you will not disappoint me.”
“Godfrey never disappoint you,” he said as the bills disappeared into a pocket and he walked out, the door clicking shut behind him. Jakaya Pinda settled into his chair, fingers kneading his temples, willing the weight that had settled on him to disappear. He didn’t need this distraction. Everything he’d worked for, every hope he had for the future was now at risk because those idiots couldn’t stay out of sight and avoid a gunfight with some hunters. He’d already spent the diamond money they’d lost, payment on credit to expand his operations. If Godfrey provided the hunter’s identity, he could find the man and get his stones back.
Pinda opened a desk drawer to reveal the good stuff he didn’t share with his men. Pouring expensive scotch into a cup, he drained it in one gulp, savoring the smoky heat. Godfrey would do it. The kid hadn’t let him down yet. And he had better not start now, for it wasn’t just Jakaya Pinda counting on Godfrey. A host of others did as well, their hopes riding on the narrow shoulders of a young thief who may prove to be something more.
Both dogs barked at nothing. “Damn you, be quiet.” The cup whistled across the room and shattered on the wall. The shards rained on his useless animals before they cried and tucked themselves farther into the corner.
Chapter 4
Outside Mwanza
August 2nd
For the second day in a row dawn’s first rays welcomed Reed as he crept through dry savanna grass with Paul and another guide at his side. Distant birds cried, an elephant trumpeted, and the world awoke while they moved in silence, searching for any sign of a great, shaggy mane, the currency by which Kimble Safaris operated.
“Hold here,” Reed whispered, halting their progress as he drank from his canteen. “It’s hot already.” Paul and the other guide nodded, though he doubted the heat bothered them. As the cool water trickled through his chin hair, he didn’t see a single bead of sweat on either man’s face. Not a surprise, as they’d grown up in this scorching climate. “This looks like a good place.”
“Right on, boss.” Paul pointed to a stretch of trees overlooking a burbling stream. “Shade and water there, so game will be close. This is what a lion looks for in a home.”
“So where are they?” Reed asked. Leaves fluttered ahead as he drank and birds high above them rode the current. Decades spent hunting had instilled in him a sixth sense about his surroundings, and none of his internal triggers had flipped. Nothing whispered to him, Look here, there’s more to see. Right now, nothing moved around them in the grasses, no lion-shaped holes of space waited for discovery. They were completely alone.
“Perhaps they are asleep,” Paul said, “close to us.”
“If they were here, they’d be up and moving. Water brings prey, and most prey moves in the morning before it gets too hot. Now’s the best time to eat if you’re a big cat.” Sucking in a deep breath, he pushed the air between pursed lips, slowly emptying it back out. Maybe yesterday’s events had him on edge. Perhaps Paul was right and the lions were just somewhere else. Reed’s instincts weren’t infallible.
“Okay,” he said, tucking the canteen away as a narrow cloud passed over the sun’s top edge. “You’re probably right, Paul. Let’s try another mile or so ahead before we go back to the truck. We already had one group of guests leave empty-handed. I don’t want another.” Reed studied the trees as he led the two men onward, unable to shake a feeling something wasn’t right. The lions should be here. Why weren’t they?
The answer came in a flash when sunlight painted the tree line as the cloud moved on. What was that? Movement in the brush, a branch rustling all by itself. “Hold,” Reed said, binoculars pressed to his face. “I saw something move. Do you—what the hell?”
“Someone is out there,” Paul said. “It is a man running. Stop!” he shouted, shattering the severe quiet. “Come back.” A moment later the crashing footsteps ceased. “Who—”
A gunshot boomed, and they all dropped to the dirt as two more blasts came their way. With dust coating his face, hot blood filled Reed’s head as he ground his teeth together. The hell with this. Two days in a row, people messing with his hunting lands?
“Paul, take the right,” he said and then nodded to the other guide. “You go left. I’ll keep his tail. The river will slow him down if he tries to cross.”
Reed stood up and directly into a line of automatic rifle fire. Shots smacked his eardrums, sweat stinging his eyes as he buried his face in the dirt, while automatic gunfire whizzed all around. Dirt clouds burst to life near his arms as bullets missed by inches.
Reed blinked, and the barrage abated for an instant. Then Paul screamed. Jumping to one knee, Reed caught a muzzle flash in the trees lighting up the gunman who rained bullets on Paul. Reed ripped off a shot and splinters exploded in a tree beside the gunman, who ducked out of sight.
“Paul, you okay?” His top guide shouted that he was, as did his other man. He could barely see their heads above the grass, but that was enough to make his men targets.
The unknown gunman opened fire once more, and this time Reed caught a skinny, outlined frame. He pulled the trigger before he dropped back to the ground. With incoming fire blazing, Reed reached above the tortured grass and unloaded his 9mm, likely hitting nothing. Instead, he hoped to buy them precious seconds of silence. When he looked up, the skinny shooter had vanished.
Reed caught Paul’s eye and made a circle motion with his finger. The other guide caught it as well, both men disappeared in the grass to circle around the shooter. One gunman could keep three at bay for only so long. Once they could surround the guy, his time would run short.
When Reed looked back, the shooter ran between two thick trees, firing until he gained cover. When he leaned back out and took aim, the slide on his automatic rifle snicked open.
He was out of bullets.
Reed and his men all fired at once, keeping the unknown assailant pinned down as they raced forward to close the noose. Before Reed could line up the kill shot, a panicked voice screamed out from under the trees.
“Do not shoot,” someone cried in Swahili. “Here, look, it is gone.” The automatic rifle flew through the air followed by a pistol. “Do not kill me.”
“Hands up,” Reed shouted in the native tongue, and the man obeyed. “Don’t move.” He turned to Paul. “If he tries anything, shoot him.” Slinging his .270 Browning rifle over his back, Reed raced to the man, grabbed his shoulders, and planted his face in the dirt. Damn, this guy is skinny. Bony shoulders, with arms little more than sticks and no weapons in his waistband. With Paul standing guard, Reed flipped the guy over. An instant later, Paul knelt beside him.
A dark H dotted the man’s forearm. Paul sported the exact same tattoo on one shoulder.
“Get up.” Hauling the skinny guy to his feet, Reed kept a hand on his neck. “Why are you trying to kill us?”
To his credit, the man looked Reed in the face, though Paul’s gun grabbed his attention as well. “You were trying to kill me,” he said, his attention swiveling from Reed to the gun aimed his way and back again. “Why else you come out here with all those guns?”
“We’re hunters. Hunting lions, not people. What’s your name?” When the guy hesitated, Reed squeezed his neck.
“Paraat,” he shrieked, grabbing at Reed’s hand. “Godfrey. I am Godfrey.”
“So why the hell are you trying to kill us?”
“Scared,” Godfrey said, his back straightening a little. “I did not expect to see you. The guns, they frightened me.”
“No,” Paul said. “You brought a gun. You followed us.”
“No, you crazy. I did not follow you.”
“Why
else would you come here?” Paul asked. He slung the rifle over a shoulder and grabbed his sidearm, tapping the .45 on Godfrey’s chest. “Only Maasai come here. You are not Maasai.” The .45 tapped Godfrey’s forearm.
“Cut the shit, Godfrey, or whatever your name is.” The guy wasn’t squirming any longer and didn’t fight when Reed pulled him close. “Did you follow us out here?”
Godfrey looked at each of them in turn, and Reed let him take his time.
“I did not want to kill you,” Godfrey finally said. “Poaching is a crime, and you scared me.”
“Poaching?” Reed asked. “You’re telling me you came out here to hunt with an automatic rifle?” Godfrey nodded. “What are you hunting?”
“Zebra. There is enough meat to feed me for weeks, and I can sell the rest.”
Godfrey looked to Reed when he spoke. Behind them, Paul opened his mouth to speak, but Reed cut him off. “So you’re trying to survive, is that it?” A nod. “Why shoot us? We’re doing the same thing.”
“I did not know you were hunters. Rangers kill people like me, people who only want to live. So I shot, and I am sorry.”
At least that part was true. A poacher risked his life every time he illegally killed an animal, and it wasn’t unheard of for wildlife rangers to kill lawbreakers. Not that Reed blamed them. Nature was meant to be respected, and poachers were the lowest of the low. Without controlled hunting, the already vulnerable animal population came even closer to an extinction that was already happening. Could be why his hunting grounds were suddenly barren.
Too bad Godfrey’s entire story was garbage. No one hunted zebra with a Kalashnikov and a pistol.
“As much as I’d like to shoot you,” Reed said, “this is a police matter. I’m taking you to them.”
Paul’s jaw dropped. “You want to turn him in? He tried to kill us, boss. Probably was him yesterday too.”
“That’s for the police to handle. Come on, let’s head to town and get rid of this guy. We’ll be back to scout later. The lions are out here somewhere.” With that, Reed started walking, one hand tight on Godfrey’s shoulder. Paul and the other guide grumbled the entire way, only stopping when Reed turned and winked at them. No need to explain everything; his men just had to trust him.
The Turn Series Box Set Page 2
