— a small, wiry and darkly tanned man of indeterminate age and ethnic origin — ran forward to the bow with a grappling-iron gun.
Slowing, the hulking structure of the big fishing trawler — resting at anchor, Bulatt quickly noted with a sigh of relief — became visible in the surrounding fog.
Demonstrating an unexpected degree of professional seamanship, Huang Kat-so brought the Muluku alongside the larger ship, and then held her steady against the current while Bulatt and the first deckhand quickly rigged protective booms on the port side of the yacht. Then the first deckhand brought the brass butt stock of the grappling-iron gun up against his shoulder, aimed it over the bow of the trawler, pulled the trigger, watched the metal hook arc up into the darkness — dragging a thin nylon line in its wake — and then heard the heavy hook clang against the trawler’s steel deck.
Three minutes later, after the first deckhand and Bulatt managed to get a drooping nylon-rope pulley system hauled back from the trawler connected to the yacht’s bridge, the first man-sized, weighted and net-wrapped burlap bag slid down the pulley-rope and then — aided by some extra pulling by Bulatt — landed on the deck of the Muluku with a loud thump.
As Bulatt worked quickly in the darkness to unsnap the hundred-and-twenty-pound bag from the pulley line and drag it over to the opened top of the bait tank that was actually a hidden storage hold, a second net-wrapped bag swooped down onto the deck; followed by a third, fourth and fifth. The acrid smell of ammonia and decomposed fish tissue filled the air.
As soon as Bulatt had the fifth bag unsnapped, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small flashlight, twisted the head ninety degrees until it clicked, and then pressed what normally would have been the ON button.
Moments later, the roar of diesel engines echoed across the water; and the darkness suddenly exploded into blinding daylight as the searchlights from three ocean-going speedboats centered on the trawler and the Muluku, immediately followed by the booming sound of a ship’s loudspeaker:
“AHOY ALL SHIPS! THIS IS THE NEW ZEALAND FRIGATE OTAGO! STAND BY TO BE BOARDED!”
Off in the distance, the running lights of two helicopters were suddenly visible, both aircraft clearly vectoring in on the two ships.
“Quick, the bags! Throw them overboard, now!” Captain Huang Kay-so yelled from the bridge.
The first deckhand ran toward the bait tank; and then yelped in surprise when he felt his wrist being grabbed and then suddenly found himself tumbling head-over-heels to the wet deck.
“Leave the evidence alone, mate. You’re about to be arrested — ” Bulatt advised.
“By who… you?!” the first deckhand exclaimed, looking confused.
“No, the cavalry.”
The first deckhand leaped up with a knife in his hand, lunged at Bulatt, then gasped in pain — the knife clattering to the deck — as he felt his wrist snap. The impact of a flashlight butt behind his ear dropped him to the deck unconscious.
Up on the bridge of the Muluku, Captain Huang Kat-so watched his first deckhand go down, blinked in shock, and then lunged for a wall-mounted shark rifle… just as a SEAL-suited figure leaped over the bow of the Muluku next to Bulatt and fired a stream of assault rifle rounds several inches above the Captain’s head. Chunks of shredded fiberglass flew in all directions.
The Captain dropped the rifle, yelling frantically, “No, don’t shoot! I surrender!”
“About time you got here,” Bulatt commented to the SEAL-suited figure.
Interpol Agent Pete Younger winked at Bulatt, and then glared up at the Muluku’s bridge. “Captain Huang Kat-so, be advised you are under arrest for violation of the New Zealand Endangered Species Act. United States Special Agent Gedimin Bulatt is my witness.”
The Muluku Captain stared down at Bulatt in disbelief as the U.S. Fish amp; Wildlife Special Agent glanced down at his watch.
“Don’t ham it up too much, bud,” he whispered to Younger. “You’ve still got paperwork to do and we’ve got a plane to catch.
CHAPTER 2
The Khlong Saeng Wildlife Preserve, Thailand
The rain in Khlong Saeng Wildlife Preserve of southern Thailand was starting to fall heavier now, muting the night sounds of the uneasy Hornbills, Bamboo Rats, tree frogs and insects. All of these creatures were aware, in their own ways, of the single human figure stretched out on a thick pad laid across the top of a crude bamboo hunting platform standing six feet above the lush undergrowth.
He hadn’t done anything to scare them off, yet; but the subliminal threat that he might, at any moment, radiated from the platform like a radio distress signal.
Conversely, the man — almost invisible in the hooded and darkly-camouflaged rain poncho that covered everything except his boots and gloves — wasn’t the least bit concerned about their presence.
Michael Hateley had no interest in honking birds, croaking frogs, chirping insects, the rain or any other aspect of his surroundings. Just as long as the cobras — the Asians and Kings — that also inhabited this lush mountain rainforest stayed far away.
That was the primary responsibility of Marcus Emerson and his team: to keep the truly dangerous predators at bay — or, at the very least, away from the platform — until Hateley could take his shot.
This was Hateley’s fifth hunt in the southern peninsula of Thailand, and it promised to be the best one yet; assuming the creature Emerson had described in such incredible detail was still alive and actively roaming his territory.
At least a hundred and twenty kilos, Emerson had claimed. Maybe more if he’s been feeding well. World record class, in any case. And very possibly the last of the big ones, Hateley knew, because the species as a whole was disappearing fast, and there wouldn’t be many left of any size in another year or so.
A worthy centerpiece for your next club dinner, the international safari guide had reminded Hateley on the plane ride in, and Hateley knew Emerson was right. No one else in his exclusive club of extremely wealthy and dedicated hunters — four in total, to be precise, all in their mid-to-late fifties — would ever have anything like it in the carefully concealed chambers that housed their endangered species collections, no matter how much they were willing to pay.
Hateley kept his attention focused on the distant fluorescent green images of trees, ferns, bamboo, and massive limestone formations that came into view as he slowly shifted the aim-point of his night-vision-scoped. 243 Remington Magnum rifle. As he did so, he imagined the covetous expressions on the faces of his peers when they saw his latest — and perhaps most magnificent — kill, and smiled.
There was no doubt in his mind that when the accounting took place at the club’s annual dinner, he would maintain possession of the coveted trophy that symbolized dominance in their highly competitive game: the fearsomely-tusked boar’s head mounted above a glistening brass plate inscribed with three chilling words.
MERCHANT OF DEATH
It’s mine, again, gentlemen, Hateley thought with a sense of anticipation that was almost orgasmic, irrefutably and unconditionally mine.
Something splashed nearby in the darkness, causing the murmuring fauna to go silent for a few seconds. But the sound was familiar — probably a tree frog making a sudden lunge at a momentarily careless insect — and Hateley paid it no attention at all. He was waiting for the appearance of something smaller, but far more significant.
A fire-fly.
Five minutes passed, and nothing of interest appeared in the viewer of his night-scope. Then, finally, a deep voice rumbled in Hateley’s electronic ear-protectors.
“He’s coming.”
Hateley scanned the distant trees with a fast sweep of his scoped rifle, using the stacked pair of lead-shot- filled bags as a swivel, but saw nothing.
