Jarl Klinker, the photographer from Dusseldorf, had brought in bottles of Russian vodka. He was part of the film research team. The other two claimed to be a director and a writer.
Simon put the hunting rifle down and climbed back into the sleeping bag. It was cool now, but the day would be hot.
“You’re awake?” Saundra mumbled.
“Only just.” Simon closed his eyes and lay back. Saundra snuggled up against him.
“Can’t sleep?”
It was true that sometimes he couldn’t. Too many unresolved complications, he supposed. “I can sleep.”
“Are you sure you want to?” Saundra’s voice held a throaty giggle. She kissed his ear.
Simon rolled over to face her. “Well, I still think that sleep is overrated. And no one is up, so—”
Two quick gunshots cracked the quiet morning again.
Saundra’s eyes widened and Simon knew he hadn’t imagined the gunfire. They both surged up from the joined sleeping bags. Three more gunshots followed.
Simon dove for his khakis and pulled them on. “How far away, do you think?”
“A half-mile. A mile.” Saundra pulled her sleeveless shirt on. Worry pinched her face. “Too close.”
Simon nodded. He stepped into his calf-high boots and quickly laced them. “I’ll go investigate. You take care of the camp.”
“Be careful.” Saundra leaned back and pulled on her brush pants. Her stomach muscles corded up. “Take a radio.”
Another two shots rang out.
Simon cursed the shooter as he shrugged into a beige t-shirt. He picked up the rifle and one of the small radios he carried for short-range communications. He dropped the radio into the backpack he slid over one shoulder. First rule of the wilderness was to never go anywhere without supplies.
“Take care of ’em.” Simon unzipped the tent flaps and pushed through. “I’ll be back quick as I can.”
“I will.”
Outside in the open area, Simon checked the compass built into his watch. The shots had come from the east, toward the interior and away from the coast.
“Mr. Cross.” Rupert Dalton’s balding head poked from one of the other tents. “Were those gunshots?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you said it was illegal to hunt in this area.” Dalton was in his late forties, a wiry man with an awkward way about him.
“It is,” Simon assured the man.
Another couple of gunshots echoed over them.
Voices came from the other tents now. That was good. Saundra wouldn’t have to wake everyone, and she’d have help waking those who were reluctant.
“Then whoever is doing the shooting must be a—”
“Stay with Miss McIntyre, Mr. Dalton.” Simon took the rifle in both hands and headed out of camp at a jog.
Perspiration quickly covered Simon as the grasslands grew hotter with the rising sun. It peeked through the rose and cream mass of clouds to the east.
His head and stomach protested the strenuous exercise at first, but—as always—his body became regulated and he moved effortlessly. Once again, all the harsh conditioning his father had compelled Simon to do came to his aid.
When he’d been younger, he’d enjoyed the runs and the martial arts, especially the sword training. But that had been back when he was a boy and still believed that demons lurked somewhere out in the world just waiting for an opportunity to take it over again.
He didn’t believe that anymore. One of his main problems was that he didn’t know what to believe. All his life he’d been brought up to fight demons, trained in arcane ways and even taught limited mystical abilities. None of which could be talked about outside the Underground labyrinth where the Templar skulked in the shadows.
Simon had tired of all of it. Two years ago, at twenty-three, he’d left the Templar, his father, and all of London.
Talking about the training he’d received, about the cult-like atmosphere he’d been brought up in, would have done no good. Few left the ranks of the Templar, and only those who knew to keep their mouths shut escaped a date with the loony bin.
Simon pushed those thoughts away and concentrated on running. No hunting was allowed in the grasslands these days. He and Saundra carried hunting rifles only for self-protection and to protect their charges. Occasionally a lioness that had gotten too old to hunt and had been abandoned by her pride developed a taste for blood. But the biggest worry was from poachers.
Only minutes later, something less than two miles from camp, Simon found the shooters.
There were five of them. They were a scruffy lot, from their early twenties to their forties or fifties. All of them had the permanent sunburned look of men who had spent their entire lives in the bush.
They drove two four-wheel-drive Land Rovers strapped with extra tires, jerry cans of fuel, and water. Evidently they’d settled in for the long haul.
Five adult elephants lay on the sun-baked scrubby ground. Blood leaked into the dry dust. Overhead, vultures circled, waiting for the predators to leave.
A baby elephant tugged pitifully at its mother, wrapping its trunk around its mother’s head and crying out. One of the hunters raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired. The baby elephant dropped in its tracks.
The killing happened before Simon knew it would. If he’d had a chance to stop it—
You don’t know what you’d have done, mate. Simon concentrated on the men, working on seeing through the death. Settling into the shady protection of a camel-thorn acacia tree, he shrugged out of his backpack and watched the poachers.
He took a pair of expensive MechEye digital binoculars from his pack. His father had given them to him on his tenth birthday. And they were far better than those that any other guide he knew carried into the bush.
Depressing the power button, Simon zoomed in on the men as they went about their brutal business. They used handsaws to cut free the elephant tusks. Even with the recent decision to issue licenses to kill off a few hundred head of elephants after it was deemed their populations had grown too large to sustain them, ivory remained valuable on the black market.
The men worked
