The body of Sefu had been left in a similar way to that of the cow, but their attack on him seemed more brutal. They had cut deeper into his skull, and the wounds seemed more jagged and vicious. It was as if they had wanted to hurt him even after death. His tough hide was yet to be pierced by the vultures, and the bullet holes in his side that had sent streams of blood down his flank and belly now swarmed with flies, their bodies glistening black, blue and green in the sun. With the quietening of the vultures, their droning buzz quickly filled the silence. Thomas, Jericho and Mason walked around the bull’s remains and were shocked to find a further, final insult to the great bull’s dignity. An ugly gash and open wound was all that was left of the elephant’s sexual organs. They had been hacked off and removed.
“God-damned limp-dicked sons of bitches,” Jericho spat. Thomas and Mason looked at him questioningly.
“Trading ivory with certain Asian markets has led to the discovery they also believe consumption of certain parts will improve their sexual prowess,” Jericho explained, shaking his head. “There are now several syndicates operating out of Mombasa. Ivory has become known as the white gold of jihad. The worldwide trade is estimated to be worth around £12billion. About £5billion of that finds its way into the hands of assholes like Al-Shabaab.”
“How is the Kenyan Wildlife Service meant to be able to compete with that?” Mason asked in disbelief.
“Honestly? They can’t.” Jericho shrugged.
“Catherine was here,” Thomas stated quietly, crouching on the ground beside the elephant.
The others immediately saw what he was looking at. A number of small, bloodied boot tracks led away from Sefu’s carcass. Thomas followed them, never taking his eyes away from the ground. Jericho and Mason followed.
“How do you know it’s Catherine?” Mason asked.
“I recognise the tread pattern of her boot,” Thomas replied. “She’s also putting up some resistance. I can see where she’s dug her heels into the ground.”
“I hate to say it, but that’s a good sign. The more she fights them, the more likely they’ll leave her alone. They’re lazy, that’s why they do this. But they aren’t exactly feminists and she’s unlikely to come out of this untouched,” Jericho said.
“I’m going after her. She won’t have to fight them for long,” Thomas stated.
“The thing is, it’s more likely she was taken on Kanu’s orders. If this is the work of Kruger, and I think it is, then he wouldn’t have taken Catherine without being asked to. Kruger isn’t out to get you, but we know Sultan is. Kruger’s probably already delivered his prize,” Jericho offered.
Thomas considered his options for a moment. He didn’t like any of them.
“Okay, we split up. I’ll take the Big Cat back to camp and try to convince Musa to tell me where Kanu’s camp is. You try to track Kruger from here, but keep in touch.”
“Same goes for you old boy,” Jericho nodded.
“Mind if I tag along with you back to camp?” Mason asked Thomas.
Thomas nodded, just as a savage roar lifted up from beyond the trees. They all spun at once in the direction it had come from.
“Doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere yet,” Jericho sighed as he broke the barrels of the double rifle, placing a long brass-cased bullet in each.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Catherine sat coiled on the bench seat that ran along the sides of the lorry bed she had been dragged to and thrown in. There was a small space around her in the otherwise crowded interior, and the dark skinned men watched her wearily. Several them had already made the mistake of underestimating her, only to find her kicks a little too well placed and powerful for their liking. She hadn’t come through it unscathed though, and she could feel the heat of the bruise on her cheek, put there by a back-handed slap from the largest of the men. She was fairly sure that the slam of her retaliating elbow had broken his nose though. They had backed off then, but mainly because the white man with the thick South African accent had told them to. He was up ahead of them now, and occasionally she caught glimpses through the lorry’s front window of the flashy six wheeled Mercedes jeep he was driving. She glanced behind to the flat-bedded Toyota that followed them, carrying the spoils of their hunt. The rear of the lorry she was in was covered in canvas, held in place with a flimsy looking frame that lined the rear compartment. She had considered throwing herself from the sides, as the gaps between the metal loops were easily large enough, but the canvas was tied down too tightly. For the last fifteen minutes, she had been tugging at the knot that held the panel behind her in place, made easier by having her hands bound behind her back.
Just as she felt the knot begin to give, the three vehicle convoy turned sharply, slamming her against the side momentarily before the lorry trundled to a halt. As the men around her began to pour out of the back of the truck, she could see they had pulled into some kind of compound. Shanty style, single storey buildings made of wood with corrugated iron roofing, surrounded them on three sides. Beyond the buildings there was a maze of desert camouflage walled tents.
“Out,” the big man commanded.
The dried blood around his nostrils almost made her smile. He glowered at her as he watched her rise and stagger forward, balancing made difficult from her trussed arms. As she neared the opening, his hands shot out and grabbed her by the shirt, throwing her to the ground. She had been expecting it, and twisted to fall on her side and back rather than her front. She was quick to turn again to make sure the kick that followed hit her in the base of the spine. She couldn’t help the cry of pain it summoned, and she knew it gave her assailant some pleasure to hear it.
“Back off Hondo, you’ll damage the goods,” said the smug South African voice from behind.
The man, dressed in a white safari suit with matching hat and a tan suede shooting vest, leant down and dragged her back to her feet by the elbow. She winced and struggled to catch her breath still. She felt a little giddy as she found herself on her feet again.
“Take her to my tent,” the South African nodded, handing her back roughly to the burly Hondo.
She was marched through the compound, shoved ahead of her escort towards the tents. As she looked around she noticed the elongated open shed that stretched along the back wall. It was lined with cages containing all manner of live animals. She spotted something that looked like a cross between a cat and a racoon curled up inside the nearest, and realised it was an African civet. A caracal, a small species of cat was in the cage next to it, and bobbed its head up and down as she went by. It’s larger cousin, a cheetah, snarled and swatted at the mesh of its own tiny prison behind. She thought she could just make out the black pointed ears of a pair of servals beyond that too.
As her eyes wandered, she saw smaller animals like lesser galagos, also known as bushbabies, as well as vervet monkeys and a lone, morose looking chimpanzee. Passing a tower of wicker boxes stacked in the corner, she realised each contained a single Jackson’s chameleon. None of the cages had been constructed to allow the creatures inside them much comfort or space. They were purely intended for transport. All victims of the illegal wildlife trade, they were destined to be sold as pets or farmed for their parts and fur. But as she had witnessed back at the crater, they were the lucky ones.
The point was driven home to her as she was thrust through the entrance to a large white marquee style tent sporting a dramatic, pyramid shaped roof. The interior was dressed with bright and vibrant Arabian patterned fabrics, coloured rose-pink, cherry and gold, and lined with matching tasselled plush cushions. At its centre was an ornate, gold-painted four poster bed, covered in crimson silk sheets. A garish pink and gold chaise-lounge sat to its side. But it was none of these that drew her eye. It was the pair of gold tipped elephant tusks that ordained the foot of the bed, the skins of lion and leopard that covered the floor; the lone gorilla skull displayed on top of a Roman-esque stone column. Everywhere she looked there were sickening personal trophies. Another sing
le elephant tusk sat mounted in a solid slab of black marble, shaped to hold it in place perfectly. The ivory itself was intricately carved, depicting a herd of elephants winding through a forest towards a lone hunter, crouched and waiting for them with rifle raised. She found herself bristling, wanting to smash it into a thousand pieces. She turned away, only to find herself looking at a similarly mounted rhino horn, capped with an iron sheath that ended in a razor sharp tip.
“It’s Persian,” the South African voice came again, from behind. “War dress for their beasts. Worth several hundred thousand pounds I’m told and over 1500 years old. Also proof that man will always look to conquer those mightier than himself, wouldn’t you say?”
She turned and saw the man grinning at her. He seemed almost victorious. He skirted round her and she snapped round to follow him, never taking her eyes off him for a second. This seemed to amuse him further and he raised his eyebrows in mockery as he nodded towards Hondo. The big man nodded and ducked out through the doors of the tent.
“My name is Viktor Kruger, what do you think of my little collection?” Kruger asked as he slumped down onto the chaise-lounge.
“I think you must need a microscope to find your own penis with this much compensation around you,” Catherine seethed.
The smile vanished instantly. He studied her intently.
“I commend spirit, but not rudeness my dear. It’s Catherine, isn’t it? I prefer Cathy. Do say my dear girl; I’d have hated to grab the wrong prize. Can’t be too many redheads running round here, but you never know hey?”
“Only my fiancé calls me Cathy. My mother calls me Catherine when I’m in trouble. You’re neither shitbrain. You can address me as Ms. Tyler, or preferably not at all.”
“So defiant,” Kruger laughed cruelly. “But you are in trouble my dear. A year from now you might not even remember your name. It and your fiancé will be like some distant dream, somehow familiar but still nothing more than a fantasy.”
Kruger tilted his head to look past her and beckoned with his hand. Catherine turned to see a haggard looking old native woman shuffling past her. She wore an orange shawl that nearly covered her from head to toe. She bowed her head towards Kruger then swiftly turned to Catherine. The woman had deep pits and lines across her face, and her eyes were steely grey and cold. She walked around Catherine once, prodding her in the buttocks and ribs.
“Cut that out you old witch,” Catherine warned through clenched teeth.
The woman ignored her, continuing her appraisal until she faced Catherine again. Without warning, and startling quickly for someone who seemed decrepit and fragile, the woman grabbed Catherine’s trousers at the waist and unbuttoned them, dragging them down to her ankles along with her panties in one deft movement. Unable to lift her feet, Catherine slammed her right knee into the old woman’s left eye socket, sending her stumbling backwards. Kruger tutted loudly as if he was scolding a child, and casually lifted a revolver from behind the back of the chair. Catherine recognised it as her own. He only had to move it slightly in her direction for her to turn rigid. The memory of the mountain and the sound of bullets ricocheting off the surrounding rocks rooted her to the spot, as the old woman regained her feet and continued her examination, muttering incomprehensible curses under her breath as she did so.
“I don’t usually trade whites Ms. Tyler,” Kruger explained. “It makes the authorities nervous and likely to do something rash like actually investigate, so I’m afraid I need to get rid of you rather quickly. I’d kill you myself, but that really would attract their attention.”
She couldn’t help the involuntary tremble as the woman’s fingers roughly parted her pubic hair and pressed meanly on the edges of her vagina. Her legs felt weak and she thought that her body might collapse in on itself in any given moment. A cold sweat formed on her brow as her head sank towards the floor. She hardly noticed as the woman stood up straight again and began to squeeze her breasts. The sharp pain brought her back from the cold confusion of her thoughts, and she glared at the hag in shock.
The old woman turned and bowed her head again towards Kruger. She held up her right hand and showed two raised fingers.
“Two hundred?” Kruger queried sitting up, feigning disappointment. “That’s the trouble with fundamentalists. Only a few years ago I’d have gotten a good couple of grand for you at least.”
The woman nodded again.
“Why so high? Our friends won’t normally even pay $75 for a woman of her age, even one as good looking as her?”
“It is not just her they pay for,” the old woman laughed, turning before she left the tent. “But also her child.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jericho had barely closed the action of his rifle when a tawny coloured blur erupted from the scrub in front of him. He swivelled, swinging the gun from his hip and squeezing the trigger. The blast from the right hand barrel sent its glowing projectile faithfully into the chest of its target. The lioness crashed into the dirt, sliding to a halt about twenty yards from them.
“Back to back boys,” Jericho yelled, reversing his steps towards Thomas and Mason.
Thomas raised his rifle as he spotted a glimpse of honey coloured fur skirting the bushes ahead of him, but the lion was using the natural dips and contours of the crater to stay hidden. As it dropped out of sight, he caught another movement from the corner of his eye and instinctively dropped to his knee. He brought the scope up, trying not to blink so as not to narrow his field of vision. But again, the flash of fur was all he saw before it vanished just as quickly. They were being surrounded.
A low, continuous growl came from the bushes about thirty yards ahead of Mason. Thomas and Jericho instinctively turned their heads in the same direction, but didn’t let their guard down. Thomas was almost impressed when he saw a lioness to his right break cover and bound to a new, nearer hiding place amongst some sickle bushes.
“Look, straight ahead,” Mason pointed.
As Thomas looked round, he saw a golden coloured lioness standing out in the open. It seemed to be watching them nonchalantly, standing still, but behaving non-threateningly. If anything, the lion seemed curious. Thomas couldn’t help admire the animal. Her bronze colouring practically glistened in the sunlight, a sure sign of being well fed. Though not tensed, her muscular shoulders and neck gave hint at the power and strength she was capable of. Thomas found the stare of the lioness unsettling. It was too self-assured, almost cocky. He realised why just in time.
He spun round, reaching out with his right hand to turn Jericho’s shoulder back towards the danger they were facing. Thomas didn’t have time to bring the rifle up, instead dropping to his knee and angling the barrel upwards before eagerly yanking on the trigger. Half way through its spring, the lioness that had been stalking him whilst its partner distracted them, somersaulted backwards, as the big calibre cartridge smashed through its lower jaw and back out into the sunlight through the top of its skull. The lioness crashed back down into the dust, her body gripped in the violent spasms of death as her muscles tried to send messages to a part of the brain that was simply no longer there. Thomas watched in horror as another two lionesses burst from either side of the bushes, passing their fallen comrade without a glance. Their amber eyes were set on only one thing; the three men in front of them.
Jericho too found himself in the path of a charging lioness. As he raised his rifle, lining up the sights along the barrels neatly to a point just ahead of the sprinting cat, he smugly discharged the second chamber, only to realise in horror that he had been a little over confident. The lioness had just enough time to anticipate the discharge of the gun, and dug her heels into the dust, turning to her left as a spot on the ground ahead of her erupted in a spray of loose stones and a volcanic spray of crumbling earth. Her snaking tail shot upwards and countered her sliding, scrambling acceleration. Jericho stumbled backwards as he tried to reload in vain, knowing he would never make it. But the lioness merely grazed him as she steamed past, an
d he realised too late that Mason was the intended target.
The lioness reared up with a roar, her outstretched claws mooring themselves in Mason’s side. With his back turned on Jericho’s position he had been completely exposed, and the lioness buried her teeth into his shoulder and neck, as her weight knocked him forward onto the ground. Mason managed only one short cry of surprise before he began to be dragged away. The waiting lioness who had served as the distraction, now eagerly bolted forward, opening her jaws to greet him. A shot rang out and the oncoming feline stopped stock still, her facial features frozen in a mixture of surprise and pain. A crimson stain appeared in the centre of her chest, and the lioness crumpled to the ground as her legs gave way.
Mason felt the lion still carrying him bite down savagely as she turned direction, now steeling away towards the safety of the nearest trees. He yelled in pain but kept his head, lashing and kicking out at his attacker. Face down and unable to turn, there was little damage he could do to the lion, but he hoped to cause enough interference to make her think that dropping her meal would make for a faster getaway. Unfortunately, the lioness was already stooping to duck under the branches of a meanly barbed acacia bush, the famous wait-a-bit thorn. Mason knew he was only a few feet from death, and that once shielded by the undergrowth, the lioness would kill him. He closed his eyes, praying for another shot to ring out, but it never came. All he heard was a strange grating sound, like something metallic being dragged over hard ground. He opened his eyes in confusion and glanced downwards. He nearly cried out loud when he saw the carry strap of the Mossberg shotgun caught on his belt buckle, and he quickly scrabbled for it, pulling the weapon into his hands. He awkwardly gripped the gun over the fore end with his right hand, and used his left to shove the end of the barrel into the lioness’s ribs. The gun was tight against his chest and at a slight angle as he pulled the trigger.
The Daughters of the Darkness Page 30
