The Killing Game

by Anderson, Toni

  ***

  “One of the snares has been triggered.” Axelle strode into the tent to check the satellite download. She needed to know where each of the collared cats was. “What’s the data telling us?”

  When in range of the satellite, the units transmitted positional data every hour. The rest of the GPS coordinates were stored ready to be downloaded when they retrieved the device after the collar fell off—theoretically two years after they were deployed. Anji had found Sheba’s collar yesterday—sans snow leopard—which left no doubt in her mind that they had a poacher on their hands. A big, fat, murdering poacher who was targeting the animals using telemetry devices she’d attached.

  They had to be careful how this played out. It was a political and ecological nightmare.

  She stabbed her keyboard. Wanted to rip out the sonofabitch’s heart with her bare hands and stomp on his fingers so he could never hold a rifle ever again.

  Josef grabbed the backpack of supplies, slung the tranquilizer rifle across his chest. “Which snare?” he asked, eyeing her as she rapidly typed instructions into the computer.

  “Sector three. The first one we set yesterday.” She’d fallen in love with the sublime beauty of cats and had discovered something worth living for. Now someone was trying to rip that away from her, the way an IED had ripped away her husband all those years ago. If she weren’t so insignificant she’d think this was divine payback for her mistakes, but it was man who craved vengeance, not God.

  She wiped the dust from her cheeks. Despite her morning wash she already felt grimy and hot. Tension drew tight across her chest. They needed to move fast because theoretically the snares could be used the same way the collars were. If the hunter took a leopard out of one of her traps she would track him to the end of the earth and crucify him. Forget justice and the law. You couldn’t bring back a snow leopard with a heavy fine or prison sentence. You couldn’t revive a species from an expensive fur coat.

  She pushed away from the computer and grabbed her water canteen. “Sven’s signal is closest to the snare. Let’s get over there before this bastard beats us to it.”

  “Can we both make it on the bike?”

  “Damn straight.” Axelle went outside and swung onto the dirt bike and started it. The suspension sank considerably under the additional strain of Josef’s weight. She took a moment to readjust her balance. “Hold on,” she yelled and opened up the throttle.

  She couldn’t go as fast as she wanted, the terrain was too rocky. She reminded herself that whoever was hunting these animals was either on horseback or on foot, and the bike was faster. “Come on, baby,” she urged the Yamaha.

  They sped past scrubby bushes and over shallow streambeds that were bursting with spring melt. They slid sideways in the shale but Josef put his boots down and steadied the machine. Her heart sped as they climbed the last ridge into the canyon where they’d set the snare. The collars had an accuracy of about five meters so even though the signal showed Sven was nearby, it didn’t mean he was actually caught in the snare. A markhor or wolf could have been captured, and Sven could be nearby hoping to score an easy meal. If so, she didn’t want to scare the leopard away. Josef muttered under his breath in Danish.

  She cut the engine at the entrance to the gully and waited for Josef to get off the bike before she lowered the kickstand and hopped off. They jogged cautiously forward, glancing uneasily around them as they made their way along the worn animal trail. A pissed-off hiss warned them to back off as soon as they came into view.

  Relief hit her solar plexus like an explosive fist.

  “Sven,” she whispered. Named after Josef’s late father, this was the first leopard they’d caught and collared. He wasn’t as aggressive or as liable to attack as Samson, but he was a fine, healthy specimen complete with requisite claws and teeth.

  Josef loaded a dart, walked forward to take aim at the cat. Aside from an angry swipe of his extra-long tail, Sven seemed resigned to what happened next. Josef darted him in the rump and within a few minutes the cat was completely out of it.

  Axelle strode forward and covered Sven in a sleeping bag to keep him warm while Josef worked on the collar. She released the cat’s front paw from the snare, checked for damage but there was none. She examined his other massive front paw and noted he’d lost a toe—probably to a wolf trap. Unfortunately one of the most endangered species in the world had more to worry about than losing a toe. Josef popped the collar and Axelle prepared the antidote to bring the cat around. Just as she was about to stick it into his flank, the sound of two rifle shots split the air in quick succession.

  Shock ripped the air from her lungs. Distress flashed along every nerve ending and over her skin like a blast wave. It took a moment to catch her breath and swallow her anger before she stabbed the needle into Sven’s lax flank. They backed away to let the animal recover.

  “Maybe he missed.” Josef’s voice was gruff.

  She stared at the blue sky and cursed.

  Sven clambered slowly to his feet and staggered in a circle.

  “Go!” she yelled. “Go, go!” Run from this terrible place. The cat turned to growl at her before bounding away. She stalked over and reset the trap because Goran also patrolled this canyon, and Sven better have enough sense to avoid the area for the next few days.

  Dammit. She rested her forehead in her palm. Josef moved closer and put his hand between her shoulder blades. She might have taken that simple comfort if she didn’t think she’d buckle under the knowledge that one of her beloved animals was probably dead or dying.

  She jerked away and looked over the valley with the jagged ramparts of the Hindu Kush bearing down on them from the south. Afghanistan was locked down by violence. Even if they got a message through to the right person in Kabul, the officials there might rate the plight of the snow leopard a poor runner-up to the troubles of their people.

  The enormity of the task began to seep in and overwhelm her. Why were humans so callous? What made them think they had the right to destroy something as rare and precious as a snow leopard for something as unquenchable as greed? She didn’t understand and knew she never would.

  She needed to act now or the leopards could be annihilated by the end of the week. It was a race against time and she didn’t know who she was racing with or how to stop them. A fine tremor of rage vibrated through her bones.

  She set the receiver on the ground and checked the other snare frequencies. The base camp was too low to catch the signals but they were more elevated here. No point heading home if another trap had been sprung. All the signals beeped slow and constant, indicating the snares were empty.

  “Let’s head back to camp.”

  Josef nodded.

  “Then I’m going to see if I can locate the cats south of the camp.” In the direction of the gunshot.

  His skin paled beneath his tan. “We’ll go together—”

  “No.” She took in the commanding panorama of mountains and wanted to raise her fists in challenge. “One of us needs to be at base camp in case one of the snares gets tripped. Anji has to take care of the cubs.”

  Josef’s blue eyes protested. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Damned if she was going to sit around while some asshole took potshots at her animals.

  Josef grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh as he shook her. She blinked at him in shock.

  “It is too dangerous,” he repeated firmly.

  She broke his grip and glared at him. “There’s no choice.”

  “We can monitor the snares and wait for the Trust to send back-up.”

  “This country is shut down, Josef. It’ll take weeks to get people in here.” She fisted her hands, wanting to punch something. “I’m not waiting. You’re capable of managing a release on your own and that’s what I’m telling you to do.” Fury against the poacher burned the back of her throat. Anger seared her body.

  Josef stood straighter, ready to argue.

 
; “What if he got another one?” Her voice cracked in the morning quiet. She snatched up a rock and hurled it against the canyon wall.

  “What if he’s still there, skinning his prize?” Revulsion swirled in his blue eyes, making them darken with rage. “What do you think a man like that would do to woman like you?”

  Pent-up energy raged inside her with nowhere to go. “I don’t care!” The thought of these innocent creatures being hurt tore her apart. “I won’t approach if I see anyone.” Liar, liar pants on fire. “I’ll track the collars. We’ll send Anji down to the village to hire men to help us search.”

  He muttered something blasphemous.

  She climbed back on the bike.

  His fingers touched her arm. “Axelle, you can’t put yourself at risk.” The gentleness startled her.

  “I’ll be back before nightfall.”

  “And if you’re not?” His hand dropped away.

  “Then I’ll be keeping my promise.” She twisted to hold his stare. “Helping save an endangered species.”

  ***

  Dmitri Volkov knelt on the bare earth, slid his knife into the mechanism that secured the tracking-collar and popped the device. He tossed it aside and rolled the snow leopard onto its back and pulled the plush fur away from clinging sinew. He made a hole in the pelt with the tip of his curved blade and carefully drew the whetted edge down the animal’s still-warm belly. He avoided nicking the gut, and took a moment to remove the intestines and stomach, and throw them in an opalescent heap where they couldn’t mar the prized pelt.

  Using fingers and the blade, he worked the skin off the muscle in small, circular motions, revealing an intricate weave of deep pink fibers beneath. The tail took time, as did the legs and the head. The enormous paws were heavy and soft like velvet against his fingers, reminding him of the curtains in his grandmother’s house when he was a young child. He squeezed them regretfully, but refused to think about the animal it had once been.

  Fifteen minutes after he’d shot the beast, he had his hide. He climbed to his feet, ignoring the pain in his knee as he batted away clumps of lingering snow. He wiped away a single smear of blood that somehow streaked the inside of his wrist. Then, with agonizing care, he rolled the pelt inside a blanket and tied the roll to the back of his yak.

  There were men in Xinjiang who’d pay tens of thousands of dollars for each animal. The rarer they became, the more the pelts were worth. The money would help pay for the transplant his grandson needed, just as soon as he got his family out of Russia. Suddenly wary, he scanned the hillside—heard no one, saw no one. Sweat beaded his upper lip as he stood staring down at the glistening corpse. A sense of danger and urgency drove him even though he was tired and needed rest. He spotted the discarded collar and swore, snatching the thing and striding to the edge of the nearest cliff and flinging it over the edge. Fool. He would be caught out by his own cunning if he wasn’t careful.

  The hair on his nape prickled.

  He touched the rifle strung across his back like an old friend, the weight feeling right again after all these years. His breath steamed the air as he looked across the narrow corridor that fingered its way between these formidable mountain ranges. The ancient Silk Road was a barren wasteland since Mao Zedong had blocked the eastern passage to China.

  He should have died in these mountains thirty years ago but fate had intervened. He recognized the remorseless weaving of timely threads leading him back to this valley at this moment in time. He just prayed he was smart enough and lucky enough to rescue the one thing that truly mattered. He hurried back to the leopard. There was no time to waste. Skinning was the easy task. Getting the bones was a bitch.

  ***

  Dempsey did not like what he was seeing. They’d moved their OP that morning after the man and the woman had raced off on the bike looking like Mad Max and Xena. Now he and Baxter were embedded southwest, in a small cave that gave them better cover, farther away from the well-worn trail up the side of the mountain where the camp inhabitants seemed to travel on an hourly basis.

  Down below, the woman was saddling the gray gelding and packing her saddlebags, obviously arguing with the redheaded giant and the short local man. From the set of her jaw she wasn’t budging, and something told him he’d have sided with the guys if he could hear the conversation.

  She wore her androgynous clothing and hid her long brown hair beneath a woolly hat. Because of her height, from a distance she could pass for a male—unless you’d seen her naked. Then even the heavy sheepskin jerkin and canvas trousers didn’t disguise the subtle curves or delicate bone structure she was trying hard to obliterate. She mounted the horse, which whirled in a tight circle, and then she urged the animal south, toward the direction of this morning’s gunshot.

  It had sounded like a high-powered hunting rifle, the sort of weapon their target had been reported purchasing in Pakistan. All they needed was a starting place and they could hunt this bastard down and neutralize his ass.

  But now the woman was going toward the shooter. Shit.

  Taz and Cullen were off searching for the source of the gunshot but, given the steep terrain, not to mention the fifteen square miles it could have originated from, he doubted they’d find any trace. Even if they did, it didn’t mean the shooter was the guy they were looking for, though instinct told him it was. Unfortunately, the British Army needed more than his instincts. They wanted a flesh-and-blood terrorist to hang on their placard.

  He checked his belt kit and pockets for gear, then grabbed his bergen.

  “Where we off to?” Baxter asked, grabbing his pack.

  “I’m following the woman. You’re watching the camp.”

  “Bollocks.” Baxter blew out a frustrated laugh. “The excitement might kill me.” He settled back in his trench. “She packed a gun.”

  Dempsey tapped his carbine. “Mine’s bigger.” He was beginning to think he knew who these people might be, or at least, what they were doing here. He slipped out the OP and up behind the knoll of the mountain. He could see the trail of dust her horse left and started moving parallel to her wake.

  “Don’t wait up. I should be back in a few hours,” he said into his mike. The headsets had limited range so he was surprised when Taz responded.

  “Inshallah.”

  Got that right. “See anything?” he asked the trooper.

  “Not even a mouse.”

  “Eyes open, boys and girls. Something tells me our prey is near. Let’s wrap up this mission and get back to the lads.”

  “Amen, to that,” Cullen intoned.

  Dempsey moved quiet but fast over the rocky land. The first blades of grass had started to sprout, and buds were swelling on the bushes, preparing to take advantage of the brisk alpine summer. The sky was a cloudless blue, the tips of the mountains so high they seemed to rend the fabric of the atmosphere. Nothing moved. There was an eerie silence to the world that felt like watching eyes, or ears pressed tight against stone.

  Mile after mile, he followed the woman’s trail, shadowing her on the opposite side of the ridge. She raised enough dust he didn’t have to see her to know where she was headed.

  Was she meeting their quarry? Was the Russian someone she knew? Someone she worked with? Or was this some unconnected scouting trip? The idea that she might lead him directly to his target made him increase his speed while doubling his caution. She scaled a bare hillside and Dempsey waited until she was out of sight, then hauled ass up and over the slope. At the summit he found an area he could crawl over without making a noticeable silhouette against the skyline. He slid behind a rock and caught his breath. It was cold at this altitude, but in the bright sunshine and heavy clothing, he was starting to sweat—not a good thing. He kept hydrated.

  She wasn’t doing anything to conceal her presence, which made him wary. She didn’t seem to be bothered by the idea of the shooter seeing her. She was looking at something in her hands. He raised the scope to his eye and spotted a GPS unit and a radio receiver.
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  There was snow on the ground here. Large patches of ice trapped in the constant freeze-thaw cycle of night and day. She got off the horse and tied it to an anemic-looking sage bush. Dempsey edged closer, keeping out of her line of vision. She took out the handheld receiver and he heard a faint beep, then she attached an antenna and held it like someone trying to get the picture on an old telly.

  She was tracking a signal.

  Her head shot up and left, and she disappeared into undergrowth along a dry streambed. Dempsey moved closer to the horse, who raised its nose and then shook his mane. He did a quick search of the saddlebags. Food, water, notebooks, sleeping bag, tranquilizer darts. He pulled the latter out and inspected it carefully. Animal tranqs. It fit with his theory about who and what the woman was.

  The clatter of a stone behind him made him freeze. Shit.

  CHAPTER 4

  He held up his hands and turned, relieved to see the woman and not some Taliban nutter or aging Russian terrorist squaring off with him.

  Unfortunately the woman was holding a Glock-17 as though she knew how to use it.

  “Afternoon,” he observed calmly.

  “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t put a bullet in you right now.” Her accent told him she was American.

  A joke about the second commandment probably wouldn’t work considering his Diemaco and SIG Sauer were locked and loaded with one in the chamber.

  “Is there anyone who’d actually give a damn about a man like you?” Her throat convulsed, and hatred sculpted the lines of her mouth.

  The question jolted him. He had mates in the Regiment, but no one else really cared if he lived or died. But she didn’t know that.

  He looked at her white knuckles and the pulse beating frantically at the base of her throat. There was something going on here that he didn’t understand.

  She stood close. Not close enough.

  “You need to put the gun down,” he told her calmly.