I guess I’d been impressed by those words, if a little surprised – it wasn’t every day that a man whose money came from oil spoke out in favor of the environment.
But, as I joined the small group on the jeep as it headed out into the park, the sun already warm over our heads, the proof of Badrock’s intentions was plain to see. The park was, as advertised, an almost perfect replica of the African savannah, the grasslands interspersed with occasional trees, giving way to higher ground beyond; and just like on the African plains, herds of elephants coexisted alongside wildebeest, buffalo, giraffe, zebra, gazelle and hippopotamus. They were all here, ready and waiting to be seen by the hordes of eager tourists; and yet even though the parking lot was full and I’d passed by hundreds of families at the entrance, out here we could barely see another human because the ranch was so vast.
Somewhere in front of us was a large tour bus filled with eager onlookers – I knew this because I’d seen it leave about ten minutes before our jeep – but it was nowhere to be seen now, and I easily imagine myself almost alone in the Serengeti. And at a fraction of the cost of a trip to Africa, I could see why Badrock Park was so popular.
It was true what Ortiz had said back in Albuquerque – Badrock’s idea of mixing predators and prey was controversial to say the least. Some people – including the directors of most zoos in the United States – were up in arms over the affair. On the other hand though, there were many that approved of Badrock’s maverick stance, claiming that a natural approach was the best to follow and citing the success of Africa’s own game reserves as proof of how it could work. Badrock Park was a much smaller operation perhaps, but a lot of people believed that the principle should hold true there as much as it did at Kruger or Okavango.
There wasn’t much of the circus about it either, if truth be told. From Ortiz’s description, I had envisaged crowds baying for blood as buffalo were herded toward the water’s edge, to be attacked en masse by crocodiles. But instead it was just as Badrock himself claimed – nature taking its course. He had just invited people onto the property to watch it happen, but he wasn’t manufacturing any of it.
Safety concerns from local residents about the predators escaping were groundless – as well as fifteen feet high double perimeter fencing running the entire forty-mile perimeter of the ranch, the rivers flowing through the property were also netted to prevent the crocodiles leaving, while allowing fish and smaller marine animals to move through.
The male lion was far behind us now, and I felt the bumpy ride of the jeep easing up as we came to a stop.
‘There,’ the guide said in his strong accent, pointing across the grasslands to a stand of trees in the distance.
The other three passengers and I moved to the side of the jeep and raised our binoculars to get a closer look at the troop of giraffes eating leaves from the tree branches, incredibly long necks at full stretch to reach the tastiest and most nutritious specimens.
‘Wow,’ the girl next to me said to her boyfriend, ‘they’re amazing.’
‘I know honey,’ the guy replied, mesmerized by the scene. ‘I know.’
‘Those four that you can see are fully grown adults,’ the guide said, ‘about twenty-one feet – hold on.’ The guide interrupted himself as his own field glasses swept left. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘we’ve got zebra as well, a whole herd of them coming up.’
We all dutifully looked left, and were rewarded with the wonderful sight of about two dozen zebra moving gracefully across the grass.
‘And if you look closely,’ the guide continued, ‘about a kilometer further off and slightly to the right, you’ll see a small parade of elephant too, I see six of them.’
I adjusted the focus on my binoculars and had a look. ‘Seven,’ I said after a quick count.
There was a brief pause, then the guide nodded. ‘Yeah, seven mate, you’re right. Good eyes.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. I knew my years of close target observation in the Rangers would come in handy one day.
It was then that my peripheral vision caught movement, and I swung the binoculars toward it. ‘What was that?’ I said as I saw the grass move again.
‘Where?’ the girl next to me asked. ‘Where?’
But the guide had already seen it, and nodded his head in seeming satisfaction. ‘Where the prey goes, the predators follow,’ he chuckled to himself.
‘Leopard?’ the single guy asked, but the tour guide shook his head.
‘Dogs,’ I said, picking them up now, my eyesight just as keen as it had been on operations more than a decade before.
‘Yeah,’ the guide agreed. ‘African wild dogs. They hunt in packs, bloody efficient too.’
The guide had barely finished speaking when six dogs broke from the cover of the high grass and raced for the zebra herd, scattering it in wild panic. They immediately locked onto the slowest animal, left confused and seemingly dazed by the escape of the herd; when it ran, the six dogs were right behind it.
Despite its confusion, the zebra was still fast and looked as if it might outrun the dogs, but still they kept on in dogged pursuit. The zebra tried to jink to the right, but two more dogs were there waiting for it, and it veered immediately to the left instead; but as it raced that way, another two dogs emerged, forcing the animals back onto the straight, right toward a small stand of trees.
‘They’re funneling it,’ I said, and the tour guide nodded.
‘Yeah,’ he confirmed, ‘that’s how they do it. Clever little buggers.’
The zebra, despite the endurance of the dogs chasing it, was opening up its lead as it reached the trees; but then as soon as it got there, four dogs – which had been hiding in wait – leapt out from cover and pounced onto the racing zebra, jaws pinching around its back legs and belly, hanging on as the animal reared and bucked and kicked out wildly. But it was no good, as the rest of the pack arrived and leapt onto the zebra, bringing it down to the ground where two of them latched onto its throat.
A minute or two later, the zebra stopped moving and the feast began, the dogs working fast to strip the meat from the bone, furred faces and jaws covered in bright red blood.
The girl next to me had put her binoculars down. ‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ she said.
‘That’s nature at its finest, honey,’ her boyfriend said as he continued to watch in amazement.
‘Fuckin’ A!’ the single guy on the other side of me said, obviously enjoying the gory spectacle. ‘That’s what it’s all about! Fuck yeah!’
I was left wondering what to think. A part of me admired the dogs’ tactics, and their tenacity. And like anything else in the world, they had to eat. It was a natural process, and there was nothing wrong with it.
And yet the older guy’s reaction had left a bitter taste in my mouth. Had Ortiz been right? Was the park’s appeal due to this kind of blood sport spectacle?
Truth be told, I couldn’t be sure.
But what I was sure about, was that I’d seen enough.
It was time to get some answers.
Chapter Four
‘No,’ the man said as he handed me back the Polaroid of Benjamin Hooker. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve never seen him before.’
I was sat in a comfortable leather armchair in the plush, modern office of Professor Donald P. Groban, the man Ortiz had identified as the person who had recruited TJ back in Albuquerque.
We’d completed the tour of the park, and as the hours went by, I’d continued to be impressed. I still wasn’t sure about the idea of people getting excited about watching animals kill each other, but I had to admit that the overall impression was of a pretty professional operation which looked just as good as anything running in Africa. As far as I was concerned, General Badrock deserved every success with the place.
When I’d returned to the front gate and the visitor center, I’d found the company offices and asked to speak to Groban. I’d had to wait, but had eventually been granted an audience.
Groban was the park’s
director of operations, the recipient of a PhD from Cornell and the previous assistant director of San Diego Zoo and Singapore Zoo. He was obviously an expert in his field, and once again I had to question Ortiz’s assertion that Badrock Park was being mismanaged.
There were some anomalies though.
Such as the other person in the room with us, seated far behind me at the other side of the office.
He’d not been introduced, but I recognized his craggy, weather-beaten features from my online investigation the night before.
His name was Miles Hatfield, and he was head of park security. An ex-Delta Force operative, his pedigree was unquestionable. After retiring, Badrock had set up a security contracting company called the Vanguard Corporation, providing personnel to active trouble spots around the world to support military operations, as well as private security jobs back home. Hatfield – not long out of Delta – had been recruited into Vanguard during its early days, and was one of the organization’s top men. At the park here, security was provided by Badrock’s Vanguard group, under the presumably very effective leadership of Hatfield.
I was all for security of course, but even I felt that Hatfield’s presence here was a bit like overkill. This was a man used to fighting the Taliban, Al Qaeda and Isis, a man who had protected presidents and fought wars, a member of a Tier One special operations unit who was skilled in counter-terrorism, demolitions, sabotage, guerilla warfare and more. His last job before Badrock Park was assisting the Afghan police in Kabul, during which time his unit had faced suicide bombings, IEDs, mortar fire and angry mobs armed with machetes and Kalashnikovs.
So why had he taken this job at Badrock Park? Did he just fancy a paid vacation?
The simple answer was that General Badrock had ordered him to take it; and Badrock never did anything without a reason, which made me wonder if there wasn’t more to this place than met the eye.
After accepting a cup of strong black coffee, I’d opened the conversation with some compliments about the park before hitting Groban with the picture of TJ.
He’d just denied ever seeing the kid, but the twitch at the corner of his eye betrayed him; Groban had seen him alright. I suppose I’d just have to tease it out of him.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked.
He regarded me with a cool stare. ‘Absolutely sure,’ he confirmed.
‘That’s interesting,’ I said. ‘Because Mr. Ortiz from the Rio Grande Zoo was sure that he saw you talking to him, about four weeks ago.’
Groban’s eyes twitched nervously over toward Hatfield, then back to me. ‘Then I am very much afraid that Mr. Ortiz is mistaken.’
‘So you weren’t there four weeks ago?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Groban said after a pause. ‘I just said that I didn’t see that kid. I was there, yeah, I had a meeting with the director.’ He looked again over toward Hatfield, then back to me. ‘Look, what did you say your name was again? What’s your interest in this?’
‘My name is Tom Hudson,’ I said, ‘and I’m a friend of the family. They’re concerned because nobody’s heard anything from him since your meeting with him.’
‘Mr. Groban has just told you that he didn’t meet with him,’ a deep and gravelly voice came from behind me. Hatfield. ‘So I think there’s nothing more for you to learn here. It’s time to leave.’
I turned in my seat, looked at the man directly.
He was big, but not overly so; he wasn’t a gym queen, but a man whose body was a tool to get the job done, entirely functional.
A dangerous man; I could see it in his eyes.
‘Hello, handsome,’ I said, deciding to change my approach. Being nice hadn’t got me anywhere; and the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. I wondered momentarily who’d first said that. Benjamin Franklin? Albert Einstein?
Well, whoever it was, they’d been right; and it was time for me to follow their advice.
‘I thought you were just there to look pretty. You know, Groban has the office well done out. Potted plant here, painting on the wall there. Random guy on a chair at the back, makes the place feel complete.’
There was a moment’s pause, as tension seemed to increase in the room almost visibly.
And then Hatfield smiled; but it wasn’t a smile that offered any sort of comfort or warmth.
It was the smile of a predator, absolutely confident of his place at the top of the food chain.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You’re even prettier when you smile.’
My own confidence was starting to trouble Hatfield, I could see.
It was a test really, to see what sort of operation they had going on here. Innocent, and they’d just ask me to leave – politely and without any trouble. Anything else, and . . . well, I’d just have to wait and see.
‘I think it’s time for you to leave,’ Hatfield said simply.
‘I still don’t have answers yet,’ I replied, still twisted in my seat so that I could see him.
‘There are no answers,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ I asked with a raised eyebrow. ‘Then what are you doing here, Hatfield?’ I saw the reaction at the mention of his name, despite himself – an involuntary twitch of the eyebrow. ‘What’s Vanguard protecting?’
‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Who are you really?’
‘I’ve already told you.’
Hatfield shook his head, even as I saw him depress a button on the radio by his side. ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you,’ he said. ‘But as head of park security, I’m going to have to find out.’
The door to the office opened then, and four security guards entered the room, looking to Hatfield for orders.
‘Please escort “Mr. Hudson” here to our offices for a little interview,’ he told them, and I could see the looks of satisfaction on their faces. If they were Vanguard contractors, ex-military, I knew exactly why; it was the thrill of some action at last, what they were born for, what they craved.
They moved toward me past Hatfield, who was still sitting comfortably in his chair by the door, and I assessed them all quickly.
They all moved in a similar way, well trained and agile; their body types were also similar, hard and athletic and primed for action. They wore the dark uniforms of park security, and I could see that their utility belts held Tasers, pepper spray, extendable batons and – worst of all – Sig Sauer P226 .40 S&W handguns. Again, a bit of overkill for safari park security guards.
I could see that they were confident, though professionally cautious. The first two men approached me, one to each side, while the other two hung back, hands near their gun belts in case something happened.
I knew that if I went with them, the ‘little interview’ would take the form of a severe beating and possibly – like TJ before me – my mysterious disappearance.
So I really only had one option left.
As the first two men got to my chair, I stood and turned hands raised, trying to relax them.
But then, as they reached for me to take hold of an arm each, I burst forward, ignoring them completely; and a second later I had reached the two at the rear, too surprised to have yet reached for a weapon.
But I already had mine out, the baton extending quickly as it swung toward its first target; it reached its full twenty-one inch length just as it connected with the head of the man to my right, the thwack of the cold metal audible throughout the entire office.
He dropped instantly to the floor, and the baton was already moving again. I’d followed through with the first strike, and now reversed the swing and came back the opposite way, smashing the second man up underneath the nose, the whiplash cracking his head back and knocking him out immediately as his broken nose geysered blood all over the polished wooden floor.
I’d checked Hatfield out when he’d entered the office, and he didn’t appear to have any weapons on him, which made him – at this stage at least – the least dangerous of the Vanguard men. He was also the furthe
st away, and to target him would give the other men time to draw their guns and shoot me dead.
And so before the second man’s body had even hit the ground, I’d whipped back toward the two ex-soldiers by the desk, burying my right boot into the gut of the guy to my right. As he bent double, I saw the second man going for his Sig, and I instinctively moved in, my left hand trapping his right on the holster, gripping tight so he couldn’t make the draw. At the same time, my head bucked forward, smashing my heavy brow line into the weaker bones of his face.
I cracked the first man across the neck with the baton in a backhanded slice, dropping him heavily to the ground, then whipped a knee up into the other guy’s balls.
He gasped and sagged, and I span him round and rammed his head down onto the edge of the desk, finishing him off.
The altercation had only lasted a few seconds, and Groban was struggling to deal with the shock, eyes wide in panic.
I knew that Hatfield would be quicker to recover though, and didn’t stop moving; and instead of turning to face him, I threw myself into a roll across the desk top, pulling out my Benchmade knife as I went.
My feet hit the ground on the other side and – dropping the baton – I turned, my arm wrapping itself around Groban’s neck and pulling him from his chair, the knife’s three-inch blade pressed hard to the man’s jugular.
I finally looked across the room and saw that Hatfield was on his feet, the unnerving, icy smile back on his face, a small H&K USP Compact in his hands. The man was good – I’d not spotted the gun on him earlier, which meant he was practiced in concealment. Fast, too.
But now we had ourselves a stalemate.
I was careful to angle Groban’s body in front of me to minimize Hatfield’s options; if he took a shot, there was a good chance that Groban would get it before I did.
Hatfield still didn’t speak, just kept aiming the USP at me as he stared with those icy blue eyes.
THE THOUSAND DOLLAR HUNT: Colt Ryder is Back in Action! Page 4