For a moment Saundra thought perhaps they’d started arguing among themselves. Then she realized that all four surviving men were circling the Land Rover, obviously pursuing someone or some thing. She couldn’t imagine the predator that would so brazenly attack the men.
A flurry of movement erupted from beneath the vehicle. A long blade flicked out across the back of a man’s legs. Blood spurted as the man screamed and went down. He tried to hang on to his rifle.
Simon Cross shot out from under the back of the Land Rover as the three other men turned to their fallen comrade. Saundra’s heart thudded to life in her chest, but it was more out of fear for Simon than in any hope he might rescue them. She’d seen him fight before, in bars when someone got physical, or to protect her from a drunk that wouldn’t take no for an answer.
But that was different. The poachers wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to kill him. Saundra was certain they’d kill her and her clients before it was over with. The only thing that had forestalled that up till now had been the possibility of ransom.
In the darkness, Simon looked huge and dangerous, like some big cat. He was six feet five inches tall, broad-shouldered with a narrow waist, no spare flesh on him anywhere. His dark blond hair gleamed in the firelight. Even though she couldn’t see them, Saundra knew his eyes were pale blue fire.
He moved like a dancer, hauling himself up onto the back of the Land Rover, then throwing himself forward before the poachers could react. Saundra got a brief glimpse of the two blades he wore on his hands. She’d noticed them in his backpack, and a few times she’d seen him working out with them when he’d thought he was by himself. Reaching the top of the Land Rover, he threw himself forward.
“Up there!” the fallen man roared.
The three poachers still standing turned to meet the threat. Before they could fire, Simon was among them, landing with the grace of a skilled gymnast. His blades flashed. One shot through the throat of a poacher, sending the man stumbling backward. The poacher forgot about his weapons and wrapped his hands around his slashed throat.
A second man wheeled on Simon, pointing his pistol and firing at almost point-blank range. But Simon wasn’t there when the shots arrived. The bullets drilled holes into the Land Rover.
Saundra watched, unable to do anything, certain Simon was going to be dead in seconds.
Two men dead, another incapacitated, and two to go, Simon thought grimly. He furled the katars in against his body, spun back into the man with the pistol, then blocked the weapon up with the back of his right hand. Whirling in, Simon drove his left-hand katar into the man’s exposed ribcage and pierced his opponent’s heart.
As the newly dead man dropped, Simon went after the last man. Bullets sparked from the katar blades as Simon held them up defensively. The movement was sheer instinct. There’d been no hope that the blades would fend off bullets, but one of them hit and ricocheted and the others went wide of the mark.
The poacher tried to run and shoot at the same time, and didn’t succeed at either. As a result, Simon blocked the man’s efforts, then swept the man’s legs out from under him with his own. When the poacher fell on his back on the ground, Simon pinned him there with the katar.
Surprised and scared, the poacher reached for the blade, wrapping his fingers against the sharp steel and cutting himself to the bone. Another breath, though, and he was past caring about the new injuries.
Simon watched the man’s eyes dull, the pupils broaden and relax. Before tonight, he’d never killed another man. Now he’d killed four of them in under a minute. It was unreal. Nothing his father or the other Templar had trained him to do had prepared him for this.
“Simon!”
Saundra’s voice drew Simon from his reverie. He put a foot on the dead man and yanked the katar free, then whirled to face the man whose legs he’d sliced.
The poacher had his rifle in his hand and was trying to bring it to bear. Simon ducked to the side and kicked. His foot connected with the rifle and sent it spinning away. In the next heartbeat, his blade was at the man’s throat.
Closing his eyes, the poacher threw his hands out to his sides. “Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!” His eyes fluttered open and closed, as if he was afraid to look but was afraid not to look.
Simon thought about the way he’d found Dalton’s and Carey’s bodies, left out for the scavengers to have their way with. The poacher didn’t deserve to live. The Cape Town authorities weren’t going to be lenient with them.
But it was one thing to kill a man when he was capable of defending himself, and another to do the deed in cold blood, when he was helpless. Surprisingly, Simon thought—if the circumstances warranted it—that he could do it.
The poacher must have seen that too. “Please.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
Simon knew it would only take one quick thrust to cut the man’s carotid arteries. He’d bleed out in seconds and it would be relatively painless. Not at all what Dalton and Carey had had to endure.
“Simon.” Saundra’s voice was calm. “He can’t hurt anyone. Don’t. You’ve done enough.” She paused. “Simon. Do you hear me?”
Feeling cold and distant, Simon looked at the man. “You’re lucky.” He lifted the blade from the poacher’s neck. “Feel free to go ahead and try something stupid, though.”
The poacher lay back, his chest heaving. He closed his eyes and swallowed.
Simon got to his feet and unstrapped one of the katars with his teeth. He picked up the
