The Turn Series Box Set

by Andrew Clawson

  Dedication

  For Kit Samuel.

  The best little man in the whole world.

  TURN: Endangered

  Prologue

  Outside of Mwanza, Tanzania

  Spindly acacia trees dotted the vast savanna, their narrow trunks mushrooming into an explosion of leaves. Dots of starlight peppered the sky, glinting off the windshield of a solitary vehicle stopped hard by one tree. Inside the open-top Jeep, two men smoked in silence. Mwanza’s lights glowed in the distance.

  A dirt path stretched out before them, twisting as it wound toward the city’s outskirts. The passenger’s fingers drummed over a well-used Kalashnikov rifle. Specks of red dotted the grip, the dried blood flaking under his touch. He glanced behind them, his eyes playing over a ragged tarp in the rear seat.

  “I am nervous, Zeke,” the passenger said. “How many are coming?”

  “Two men,” the driver replied, twisting his dreadlocked hair. “The money and the muscle. I made it clear that is all they could bring. Don’t want to get ambushed.”

  The passenger frowned, shaking the rifle in his hands. “They mess with us, they gonna be sorry.”

  Zeke flicked a cigarette through the air, sparks erupting as it hit the dirt. “Keep your eyes open, yeah? Just wanna get paid and go.”

  Moments later a pair of headlights appeared on the horizon. Bouncing over uneven ground, the oncoming car vanished and reappeared several times, cresting a rise before stopping several hundred yards out. Zeke’s jaw tightened. No way they could see the parked car from there, not with the moonlight casting shadows over it.

  The headlights flashed, once, twice, and then went dark.

  “That’s them,” Zeke said, returning the prearranged signal. “Get ready.”

  His passenger jumped out, crouching as he circled around in the grass, starlight glinting off the rifle’s barrel. He stayed low as the other vehicle approached, the oncoming driver in his sights.

  Pebbles crunched as the car rolled toward the solitary tree and stopped twenty feet away. Two men stepped out and headed toward them. The passenger had a sidearm strapped on one hip.

  “Good evening, my friends.” The newly arrived driver stood with his legs spread wide, arms crossed on his chest. A white man wearing a baseball cap. Strange. Despite the darkness, he looked directly to the crouching man, his gaze slicing through the night. “There is no call for weapons here.”

  Zeke jumped from behind the wheel of his Jeep and waved an arm, flashing a grin. “The goods must be protected. Come now,” he said, waving to his Kalashnikov-wielding partner. “Put that away. We are businessmen.” When Zeke looked back to the new arrivals, movement in the other vehicle caught his eye. One hand went to his hip, then stopped. Was that a dog in there?

  “Agreed,” the pale-skinned man said. “It’s time for business. You have the goods?”

  Zeke pushed the dog from his mind as his partner rose from the grass and lowered the rifle. “Back here,” Zeke said. He switched on a flashlight, then lifted the tarp back to reveal a pair of dull yellow tubes. Hairline cracks ran along their surfaces, tapering to points at one end. Reddish-brown streaks covered the wider ends, the jagged ends cracked in places. Strands of gray hair hung from both.

  “Total weight?”

  “Fifty kilos,” Zeke said. “As promised.”

  The pistol-carrying passenger grunted as he hefted each piece. “Seems right.” He leaned in, peering at the product, scraping it with his fingers. “It’s real.”

  “Excellent,” the man with the cap said. “Exactly as advertised.” He walked back to his vehicle, pulling a duffel bag from inside. “Your payment. Ninety thousand U.S. dollars.”

  Eyes widening, the man grabbed for it, fumbling with the zipper. “It’s here,” he said, looking to Zeke.

  “It’s a shame we must operate in such a fashion,” Baseball Cap said. “At night, hidden from the eyes of others. Doing business like men who are afraid.”

  “But it is profitable,” Zeke said. He went to his passenger’s side and looked into the bag. So much money for a pair of teeth. He grinned. Killing animals paid well. “You need more ivory, you call us. We get it, no problem.”

  Baseball Cap nodded to his partner, then stared into Zeke’s eyes. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Both men stopped flipping through the stacks of crisp dollar bills. “What do—”

  Men jumped up from the tall grass all around. A dozen of them, armed and screaming in Swahili. Before either poacher could blink, each had a pistol in his face. Zeke’s mouth fell open, though he didn’t move. Not because Baseball Cap held his pistol so close. No, the dog with bared fangs, now just inches from his side, scared him most.

  “Name’s Reed Kimble,” the capped man said. “You’re under arrest.”

  Chapter 1

  Mwanza, Tanzania

  A crowd of thousands circled around a hastily erected stage on the shores of Lake Victoria. Vendors offered roasted meats and bottled water at exorbitant prices. Business boomed, mainly because of the ten million dollars’ worth of ivory that was piled taller than a man. That, and the battalion of policemen who stood around the white gold, their automatic weaponry on full display.

  Morning sunlight glittered across the lake, the rippling surface in constant motion as dozens of craft ferried around, from ragtag fishing skips to commercial cargo boats. Waves lapped at the shoreline, where children played in the mud and sand.

  A man stood at ease along the periphery of the crowd, hands clasped behind his back. Sunlight reflected off the black sunglasses perched on his nose, and despite the masses gathered around, no one bumped or jostled him. He had that most precious of commodities in a place like this. Space to move. The half-dozen men around him made sure no one ventured too close to the suited figure, pristine down to the folded ivory pocket square and starched open collar. A rolled cigarette dangled from his lips, the odor both sweet and sickly as it wafted away.

  “About to get started,” Juma Cheyo said, flicking the joint away. He watched the Lord Mayor wave to the crowd before ascending to the short stage and putting a bullhorn to his lips.

  “Thank you all for joining me here. Today, we move forward as a city, and as a country, to escape the past which has trapped so many. We take back our heritage and drive ahead as a new Tanzania.” Cheers from the crowd, and another man joined him on stage. “And now, our chief of police.”

  Feedback crackled as the long-limbed police chief started speaking. “On behalf of the Mwanza police force, thank you for joining us today. This,” he pointed to the piled ivory, “is a symbol of what is wrong in our nation. Nature has blessed us with resources – the animals, the water, the land – and we must protect it.” Scattered cheers, though most of the crowd remained quiet, waiting for the bulldozers to start rumbling. “Today we have gathered all the ivory seized this year in Mwanza, and today we destroy it. No one should profit from the suffering of our elephants, and any who tries will see this message and know they cannot win.”

  The chief continued, describing how the community and the police needed to work together, how new jobs were coming, and then he handed the bullhorn back to the mayor. Juma Cheyo slipped a toothpick between his lips, chewing as he listened. They thought destroying this ivory sent a message? It did. Except the fools didn’t realize what the message said. It screamed one thing.

  Opportunity.

  One of his security guards walked over, cell phone in hand. “It’s him, Mr. Cheyo.”

  Juma grabbed the phone, waving the man away. “Good morning. All is proceeding as planned.” He listened for a moment. “The bulldozers are starting now. The crowd is sizable. Yes, many more people now understand the value of ivory. This is better than we’d hoped. It’s fortunate for us that the woman is dead now, and her organization is broken. Her lieutenant took over. He does not concern me.” He rang off a moment later, the bulldozers’ diesel engines roaring too loudly for further conversation. Not that it mattered. Every
thing happening benefited him, from the ivory being crushed under the eyes of thousands to the power vacuum desperately in need of filling. All around, the poor and downtrodden waited to fuel his machine, an endless source of manpower to line his pockets. And the local government paved their way. That foolish police chief and his spotlight-hungry boss, the Lord Mayor. Politicians never presented a problem here, where everyone had a price. Law enforcement, though, could prove tricky. With everything at stake, burying a meddlesome police chief didn’t concern him one bit.

  “Let’s go,” he said, turning away from the spectacle. His guards parted the crowd, elbowing and shoving through toward a waiting vehicle. Juma jumped into the car’s cool interior. Now he planned on making a lot of money in short order. The market demanded the product at any price, and nature offered a new supply, ready for the taking.

  Chapter 2

  Two Kimble Safaris Land Rovers raced along dirt roads slicing through the savanna. A small herd of zebras joined the caravan, their tails flicking and dust billowing in their wake as they kept pace with the vehicles. Cameras flashed from the windows, a team of touring zoologists from New York wide-eyed and open-mouthed at every turn.

  Two gates stood open at the camp entrance, with an oversized sign warning in graphic pictures to watch out for lions, hyenas, cheetahs, leopards and any number of indigenous animals. Beneath it all, a smiling face reminded everyone to have fun.

  Dr. Sarah Hall didn’t need a reminder. The past six weeks spent in America had moved at a snail’s pace, each day longer than the last, and not only because that time had stood between her and a vacation. Of course she loved the animals and the Serengeti, a sun-drenched land of lions and leopards, giraffes and hippos.

  But one of the reasons Sarah was coming here didn’t walk on four legs. Yes, the wildlife drew her back to Africa, but so did the man who stood waiting to greet them. The owner of this operation. Reed Kimble.

  “Welcome,” he said as the scientists disembarked. “I hope you enjoyed your trip. We’re excited to have you here.”

  Sarah quickly ran a hand through her auburn hair as colleagues from the Wildlife Conservation Society shook hands with Reed. None commented on the jagged red scars on Reed’s forearms, though some stared a half-second too long.

  Finally, she got her turn. “Hey, stranger.”

  From under a baseball cap pulled low against the sun, Reed flashed her a cheeky grin. “Thought I got rid of you.”

  “Ever the charmer,” she said. “Considering you nearly got me killed last time, you’re lucky I came back.”

  Reed chuckled, then turned to the group. “I’m sure everyone’s tired, so we’ll get you to your cabins so you can settle in. A late lunch will be served in three hours. Feel free to rest until then.” His eyes sparkled. “We have a very special afternoon planned. You get to meet my best friends in Tanzania.” Every eye met his, Sarah’s included, even though she’d heard this before. “The Rolling Stones are in town, and we have front-row seats.” He waited a beat. “That’s the nickname I gave to the herd of elephants who live not far from here. As long as we don’t wait too long, you’ll get up close and personal with the biggest elephants in town.”

  Reed took Sarah’s bag as the group dispersed. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room.” A dozen structures comprised Reed’s camp, buildings arrayed in a rectangular format, with a mess hall in the center. Reed led her to a cabin tucked into one corner. “I’m sure you remember my place is next door,” he said. “Stop over if you need anything.” Barking came from Reed’s cabin. “The boys are up from their naps,” Reed said, grinning again. “They’re always afraid they’ll starve each time I leave.”

  Sarah walked in to her simple cottage, all the more charming for the clutter it didn’t have. A couch, television and computer desk occupied the main room, and there was a wood-burning stove in one corner. Through one doorway she saw a refrigerator and kitchen table. The air conditioner whirred to life and a cool breeze lifted her hair.

  Reed had followed her in; he set the bag down. “See you at lunch. You know where to find me.”

  He turned to walk outside, pulling the front door open. The screen door creaked, and Sarah looked back to find him with one foot on the porch, the other still inside. Waiting. “Forget something?” Sarah asked.

  He came back in. “It’s good to see you,” he said. Tanned arms encircled her, clenching as he pulled her in. “I’m glad you’re back. No crazy adventures this time, I promise.” Then he turned and left.

  Long after the screen door clicked shut, Sarah stood unmoving. Interesting. She shook her head. It wasn’t often Reed showed his personal side. Very interesting, indeed.

  She’d scarcely unpacked when a knock sounded at the cabin door. “Come in,” Sarah yelled over a shoulder. “Reed, is that you?”

  “No, Dr. Hall. It is Paul.”

  A wide grin splashed across her face. “Paul, how are you? And it’s Sarah.” The young man grinned broadly as Sarah wrapped him in an embrace. “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Good as new, Dr. Hall. I mean, Sarah.” He rolled one sleeve up to reveal a jagged scar running across his deltoid. “One bullet will not slow me down. It was only a graze.”

  “More than that,” Sarah said. Her eyes narrowed. “It looks well healed.”

  “That we are all alive is what matters.” Silence hung in the air for a moment as Sarah recalled the nearly fatal encounter she, Reed and Paul had had several months before. Almost unbelievable that an international research facility would play dice with nature, subverting evolution to create living, breathing hybrid monsters. And nearly kill them all in the process.

  Several months ago they had faced down genetically altered wolves and gorillas, normal creatures that had been transformed using a genome editing technique developed by Sarah and stolen by a corporation allied with the U.S. and Tanzanian governments. That adventure had ended with the creatures’ destruction and imbued the three of them with a newfound appreciation for waking up every day.

  Paul touched her arm and winked. “It is in the past. And now I have a surprise for you.”

  “For me?” All thoughts of the horrific encounter vanished. “Paul, you don’t need to do that.”

  “You asked about my ancestors before. About the Maasai.”

  “How could I not? Your ancestors have lived here for thousands of years.” Many of them still did, she knew, semi-nomadic tribes living on the savanna. “You’re still related to some of the tribesmen?”

  “I am sure of it,” Paul said. “Now I want to show you a Maasai tradition.” He leaned in closer. “Are you too tired, Sarah? It can wait.”

  She could have fallen asleep on a bed of nails right then. “Tired? I’m on vacation.” She waved an arm around the cabin. “I can sleep later.”

  “Great to hear. Come with me.” He led her outside, across the grounds and to a bench set in the shade. What looked like two black belts lay on the wooden seat. “Do you see those targets?” Paul pointed at two circular objects attached to a tree about twenty yards distant. “They are important.”

  “Is that right?” She looked at the belts, back to Paul, then back at the targets. “I give up. What’s this about?”

  “It is part of the Maasai culture,” he said. “And it is part of me. My invention.” Paul was practically bouncing off the ground. “Here, take this.” He picked up one of the belts and handed it to her.

  She examined it, turning it over in her hands. It was thick, made of soft fiber that had a surprising sturdiness to it. “Is there something inside it?” Sarah twisted the belt around, the fabric maintaining its shape as she did. “It feels like a rod of some kind.”

  “It is not a belt,” Paul said. “It is a case. Meant to carry a bow. Look inside.”

  For the first time she noticed a flap on one end. “A bow?” Sarah watched as Paul flipped the clasp open and turned it upside down. A smooth wooden stick slid out. “Oh. A bow.”

  “Maasai have used the bow a
nd arrow since the beginning of time.” String stretched from the bottom end of the curved stick to a point three quarters of the way up. “I will teach you to use it. Would you like that?”

  Sarah had no idea what to say. “Teach me to shoot?”

  “Yes.” Paul pointed to the targets. “One for me, and one for you.” For a brief second, his smile wavered. “Would you not like to learn?”

  “I would love to.”

  His grin returned in full force. “Then we begin now.” Paul picked up his bow and set one end down. “First, we must attach the string.” He waited, and she watched him. “Do as I do.”

  “Oh.” Sarah jumped into action with her bow, mirroring Paul as he put one foot against the bottom end, then stepped through the string and bow, using his legs to hold the weapon in place and bend it so the other end of the string attached to the notch at the top. “That’s harder than it looks,” she said after a few miscues. “If this bow were any bigger, I don’t think I could do it.”

  “It is not a longbow,” Paul said. “It is for hunting at close range. It is also easy to carry.” Several modern arrows appeared from within the carrying case. “These are much better than what my ancestors used,” he said when she picked one up. “Carbon shaft. Now, get the arrow ready to shoot.” He raised his own bow and turned toward the target.

  With one eye steadily on Paul, she mimicked his pose and put her arrow against the string, drawing back slightly. Damn, this thing was hard to bend. “Who’s first, you or me?”

  “Ladies first,” Paul said.

  Great. She took a deep breath and lifted the bow. Once her arms stopped shaking, Sarah closed one eye and squinted. She let go and closed her eye at the same time.

  “Nice shot!”

  When she opened her eyes, Sarah couldn’t believe it. Her arrow quivered in the target. She wasn’t sure if Paul was entirely correct, considering it had barely caught the target’s outermost ring. But it was there. “Not too bad.”