by Nell Brien
Cat caught the look, the amusement in Tom’s voice, and shook her head. “Tom, that’s not funny—”
Holding up his hand for silence, Tom made a show of listening. “Dan’s explaining that we have to meet our men, says we have plans to make for an early start. Ah, too bad, he’s giving our apologies.”
Cat joined in the goodbyes, threw smiles toward everyone as she made her way through the crowd of women. She stood by Campbell’s Land Rover, listening to the calls of farewell, the bursts of laughter. The Maasai seemed loath to let the two men go, walking with them through the gate, crowding around the Land Rovers.
Cat touched Campbell’s arm to get his attention. Above the clamor of voices, she said, “You can’t do this. You’re breaking your word. You said you would continue with my safari, not do whatever it is you’ve just planned with these people.”
“Well, you’re stuck now. I canceled the plane that was coming to take you back to Nairobi.” He got behind the wheel, turned on the engine. “Tom’s waiting. You can get in, or you can stay here until this is over.” He nodded toward the smiling women crowding around his vehicle. “They’d be glad to give you a bed.” He gunned the engine gently, moving forward through the throng. Then the Land Rover stopped, and Campbell leaned out of the window and called to her.
“It’s the men we’re going after. If we get to them in time, Ahmed will keep his tusks.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then we’ll have to go after Ahmed. But we’ll get them.”
My God, she thought, she was caught in an African range war between poachers. Is this what had happened to Joel?
She slid in beside Tom. The engang dropped into a blue distance. Ahead, the round hills deepened into purple. Cat wondered why Campbell had bothered to reassure her. It wasn’t like him.
Fifteen
“You have to keep up. You understand?” Campbell looked up briefly from the weapon he was loading by the light of a lantern, then slammed home the clip with the heel of his hand and set it down on the camp table.
“I’ve always kept up,” Cat said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I won’t. I’ll park you in a Land Rover and lock you in if I have to.” He turned toward the men loading their vehicle. “’Twalla,” he called. “Check the ammunition. Take extra clips.”
“N’dio, bwana.”
“I still think we should leave her here with Thomas.” Tom’s skin merged with the blackness of the predawn hour. “It would be safer—”
“Christ, Tom, we’ve been through all that. You’re like an old bibi with one goat,” Campbell said impatiently.
“I don’t like it.”
“You’d like it a bloody sight less if Reitholder manages to get through. He knows she’s here.”
Cat looked from face to face. “Who’s Reitholder?”
After a moment’s silence, Tom said, “The man we’re after. Deals in ivory. Rhino horn, if he can find any. Skins.”
“Oh. The competition.”
Neither man answered. Tom reached for an ugly, snub-nosed weapon. Cat turned away, walked to the Land Rover. Excitement undulated through her empty stomach. All she’d had this morning was coffee, and Thomas for once had been too busy to stand over her and insist that she eat more, as he’d taken to doing lately.
She clenched her teeth to prevent them from chattering, wishing she had brought her ski thermals. Jess had told her to, but she just hadn’t believed it could be this cold in East Africa. Cat looked at her watch. In Malibu about now, Jess would be bathing Rosie, settling down with her for a story before Mike got home. A born wife and mother, Jess. If only Joel could have seen how good she would have been for him.
Cat held her arms across her chest, trying not to think of the hours ahead. Around her the men worked with a spare discipline, their voices punctuated by laughter.
Finally, Campbell walked toward her. “Right, memsahib. Get in.” He waved to the men. “Let’s go. And keep that engine quiet.”
He settled behind the wheel. Cat slid in beside him, Tom crowded against her. Engines turned over, and they drove into the darkness. Behind them, the dawn sky lightened.
Cat pulled her dark heavy sweater closer. She was pressed against Campbell. Each time he changed gear—every other minute it seemed as the Land Rover ground up a dry water-course—his hand brushed her thigh. She found herself waiting nervously for the next contact and inched toward Tom.
“Besides, I can’t let her out of my sight.” Campbell spoke into the silence as if continuing a conversation already under way. “You know that, n’duga.”
“Yes,” Tom said. “I know that.”
Cat didn’t look at them. Their words cloaked so much, but they wouldn’t tell her anything if she asked. An hour passed with only monosyllables exchanged. The sky brightened, the passing terrain took form. Trees and rock formations appeared. They were in the hills they’d seen from the village the day before.
On a downslope, Campbell thrust his arm out of the window, drew his clenched fist down sharply, then cut the engine. Behind them, the second Land Rover cut out, and the vehicles coasted silently, drifting to a stop.
The heights above were wreathed in mist. The men made no noise as they took weapons from the gun racks. Cat crossed her arms, fists tucked into her armpits, and leaned against the warm hood of the Land Rover, waiting to be told what to do.
Campbell took off his jacket and threw it into the back of the vehicle, then reached behind his seat, emerged with a long coiled leather whip. He thrust an arm and shoulder through the coils, then looked up to see her eyes on him. He grinned, and suddenly she found it difficult to breathe and looked away.
Campbell motioned to the men and led the way onto a narrow game trail. In single file, they worked their way upward. Cat felt dwarfed by Sambeke and Olentwalla in front of her, Moses behind, then Thomas and Tom at the rear. It was like being out for a hike with a basketball team, except that their silence was eerie. Almost the only sound she heard was the strike of her own boots on stone.
They kept up a sharp pace, and when they stopped below an outcropping, she was sweating in the cold air, glad of a breather. Campbell hunkered down, the men around him.
Campbell spoke softly. “The moran will be in position by now—”
“What’s that, the moran?” Cat interrupted in a whisper.
Campbell glanced at her impatiently. “The young warriors of the village. Tom’ll explain later.” He looked at the intent faces of the men. “So let’s go over it again. The moran will form two columns. They’ll swing down from above, close from the east and west. Moses, Sambeke, ’Twalla, we’ll press up the middle and herd them into the horns, and the horns will close. It’s the old Zulu flanking movement we’ve used in the past. I know we’re a bit short on men, but it should work. Now, I want Reitholder alive. Understand?” He looked at each man in turn, waiting until he received a murmur of agreement. “Right. Tom, be ready in case any of them get through.”
Tom protested. “Dan, we’re outgunned. I’d feel better if I were on the hill—”
“No, you and Thomas stay down. We’ve already agreed on that. If Reitholder slips through, he’ll come for her. Don’t attempt to take him alive at that point. Just kill him.”
Tom nodded.
“The two white men the Maasai say are with him are unknown to us. Don’t take chances with them. Shoot to kill.”
Cat swiveled her eyes from face to face. She felt almost numb. Shoot to kill. They were talking about men. Killing men.
She jumped her eyes back to Campbell. “Why would this man Reitholder want to kill me?”
“There’s no time for that, now,” Campbell said shortly. “If Tom or Thomas gives you an order, don’t argue. Just do as you’re told immediately—”
“Is the elephant here? The one you’re after. Ahmed? Is he here?”
Campbell shook his head impatiently. “Listen to what I’m saying to you. Do what Tom or Thomas tells you. If either of th
em gets hit, no heroics from you. Your job is to stay under cover. You understand?”
“Yes, don’t worry.”
The men rose to their feet. Campbell looked at the gold-streaked sky. He grinned and struck Tom’s shoulder. “Great morning for it, Tom.”
Above them, gray peaks stood against an apple-green sky and the morning was filled with birdsong.
Reitholder nudged his boot against the prone form of Peter Stone.
“They’re coming,” he said. “Get on your feet. Get Watson awake.”
He went over to the men’s fire and kicked at the first sleeping body. “Get up, you bastards.” The man rolled and was on his feet, weapon leveled, before he had a chance to kick again. The rest of the men sat up, rubbing their eyes, grabbing weapons.
The goddamn kaffirs had dozed off while keeping watch. When he’d got up to piss, he’d swept the glasses over the area as he did out of habit every chance he got. In the shadow of some rocks two miles away, he’d picked up a Land Rover. No way of knowing how long it had been there, but he stayed alive by not taking chances.
“Get up.” Reitholder ground the words out, keeping his voice low. He didn’t want to give Campbell a sound he could pick up. “The men who’ve been tailing us are halfway up the bloody hill. If you want to be paid, you’ll kill them before they get to the ivory.”
He looked around the hunting camp. Tusks and skins, loaded drying racks. Four months’ work threatened because the fucking kaffirs couldn’t keep awake.
“Wait a minute, Reity.” Bobby Watson stamped into his boots, grabbed his bush hat from the branch he’d hung it on before turning in. “Got to pee first and have a cup of tea. Round our way, it’s not civilized to ask a bloke to kill anyone before breakfast, without even a cup of tea first. Right, Peter?”
“Tea? What do you mean, tea?” Reitholder exploded. “Fuck tea.”
“Careful, mate,” Watson said. “That’s our national beverage you’re talking about.”
Stone laughed. “Come on, Bobby. It’s a bit early for old Reity here. Poor bugger hasn’t got a sense of humor at the best of times, let alone before breakfast.”
“Well, tell the truth, I’m not too keen on killing some bloke I don’t even know,” Watson said.
“He doesn’t know you, either,” Reitholder said. “And I assure you, it won’t stop him from putting a bullet in you.”
“Well, if you put it that way.” Watson picked up his AK-47. “We’d better get going. You got a plan of action?”
“Keep them downhill, away from the ivory, kill them before they kill us.”
Frowning, Watson pondered the words, then nodded. “I like it, Reity. It’s got class.” He grinned. “Simple plans for simple folk, always the best way to go, mate.”
“Can’t we just sort of run ’em off?” Stone asked. “Wing a couple of ’em, maybe?”
“Campbell has five seasoned men, we’ve got twelve kaffirs who can’t even keep awake on watch. No, he will not be run off, my friend. Fortunately, he’s handicapped by the Stanton woman.”
“Ah, Jesus, don’t count on me to shoot any women, mate,” Stone said.
“Well, you better think about that, mister.” Reitholder gestured around the camp at the skins and tusks. “We’ve got almost a million dollars here. Four months’ work, and you get equal share for a couple weeks.” Yes, and a good man gets through the eye of the needle, he thought.
Watson said, “What do you want to do?”
“Get downhill as far and as fast as you can. Spread out and take cover. Just make sure there are no survivors to tell the tale.”
He saw the glances the Australians exchanged and grinned. After this they’d be in too deep to get out. “Come on, you’ve killed enough,” Reitholder said. “Animals, men, what’s the difference? You’ve got the balls for it. Them or us. It’s the only way. Let’s go.”
Sixteen
Campbell and the three Maasai climbed silently. The hillside gave plenty of cover—with luck they’d catch Reitholder with his pants down. Campbell scanned the heights above. The moran was up there somewhere, but no one would know it. Not a leaf moved.
A shrike called from his right. Sambeke’s call. He nodded at the Maasai, then stared upward to where Sambeke pointed, realizing this would be no surprise visit. Reitholder not only had his pants on; it looked as if he had his men deployed below a small escarpment. Campbell nodded, signaled to Olentwalla and Moses, then picked up a large rock in each hand. He waited until the Maasai had each found rocks, then raised his hand, gave a silent count of three. Together they loosed a shower of rocks far to the right.
Gunfire crashed across the mountain, rolled from rock to rock.
Reitholder waved his AK, yelled at his men to hold their fire. Bastards. None of them had a target. They were giving away their positions, just what Campbell wanted.
“Do you see anything, Bobby?” Stone called.
“No, mate. Just a lot of bloody rock being blown apart,” Watson replied. “You?”
“Nah—”
From above them, a series of shrieks tore through the silence, then faded to a gurgle.
“Christ!” Watson called. “What the hell’s that?”
A clamor of voices shouting in half a dozen dialects fought to be heard. Reitholder roared at his panicked men for silence. Ignoring him, men broke from cover, firing as they ran. A barrage from below cut through them. Three men fell. Again, unholy challenging screams came from above.
“What the hell’s going on?” Stone searched the hillside. “Who the hell’s up there?”
“Reitholder!” A voice reverberated, thrown back from the rocks. “Can you hear me?”
“Fuck you, kaffir lover.” Reitholder stood, sprayed a wide arc of bullets in the direction of Campbell’s voice, then dropped back into cover.
“Who are you?” Stone shouted.
“You are surrounded—”
“Bullshit,” Reitholder yelled. He jumped from the cover of the tree, rolled, threw himself under the protection of a rock, closer to the voice.
“Look above you,” the voice shouted.
The two Australians searched the terrain above them. “I can’t see anything, Bobby, can you?”
“Nothing, mate. Bloke’s got us on.” Watson stood, fired toward the voice.
A rain of spears thudded into the earth. Shrieks resounded over the hillside. Both Australians whirled, fired upward toward the unseen target. The voice shouted again, this time in Swahili.
“Reity, what’s this bloke saying?” Stone shouted.
“I’m telling them to throw down their weapons,” the voice shouted back. “You haven’t got a chance.”
“Yeah, and what happens then?” Stone yelled.
“Nothing. You go home.”
“Without a dollar in our pocket,” Watson called to Stone. “That’s no offer.” He eased his AK over the edge of the boulder, squeezed off a few rounds.
Reitholder could see Campbell now, climbing toward them, his men spread out behind him. More men were pressing down from the trees above, men he couldn’t see, couldn’t pinpoint, men killing with spears. Kaffirs, coming after the ivory he’d endured four months of hardship to gather in this hellhole of a camp.
Rage, hot and powerful, poured through his body like magma. He welcomed it, welcomed the strength and power rampaging through him. He half stood, crouched against protecting rock, peering upward.
“They have a woman with them,” he shouted to his men. “Do you hear me, kaffirs? A woman. She’s yours. You want her? Come on, take her.”
“Now wait a minute,” Stone shouted. “We won’t go along with anything like that—”
“Shut up! What does it matter? We need these bastards to fight.”
Reitholder fired at Campbell, then raced forward. Half a dozen of his men emerged from cover and started to follow.
“This is going to be bad, Bobby,” Stone yelled. He stood. Bullets struck the trees and bushes, the ledge behind him. He staggered,
looked down at the blood spreading across his belly. Slowly he leaned back against the rock, sliding down until he sat.
“Peter!” Watson hurled himself across the few yards of sun-drenched hillside. He threw down his gun, dropped to his knees. “Christ, mate—”
Stone looked at him. “I’m shot, Bobby.” He touched the blood oozing from above his belt. “I’m bloody shot.”
Watson wrestled with the buckle, then yanked the blood-soaked jeans apart. He tore off his shirt, wadded it against the exposed intestines, gobs of flesh. “It’ll be all right, Petey,” he said. “We’ll get you out of here.”
Reitholder clambered toward the two men. “Leave him,” he shouted. “He’s gut shot. Finished.”
“No, he’s not. No. He’s hurt—”
“Get on your feet. They’re coming for the tusks.” Reitholder grabbed Watson’s shoulder, tried to pull him to his feet.
Watson fought him off. He pulled Stone against him, cradling his body. “Hey!” he shouted. “Hey, down there. Don’t shoot. We’re finished.”
“Get on your fucking feet,” Reitholder shrieked.
Watson seemed unaware of the tears pouring down his face. He held Stone’s head against his chest. “It’s okay, mate,” he whispered. “Don’t worry, Petey. I’ll see you okay, mate.”
Reitholder turned his AK-47 toward the Australian. A red film of rage obscured his vision. “Leave him. I need you.”
“Fuck you.”
Reitholder pulled a 9mm Glock from his belt, held it against Stone’s left eye. He squeezed the trigger. A spray of white bone fragments, gray brain matter, blood spewed over the red rock, coating the lichen, dripping like vomit down the rock face.
Bobby Watson screamed. He lunged for his AK. Reitholder turned the Glock toward him. The bullet crashed into Watson’s chest, blowing it apart. Reitholder thrust the Glock back into his belt. He heard a sound from above and looked up.
Campbell dropped from the ledge the Australians had used for cover, thudding into him. The spongy rock gave way, gathered momentum, tumbling them together to ride the avalanche down the hillside, grappling in the rising red dust. Reitholder labored for breath, knocked from his lungs when Campbell landed on him. He fought to stay conscious, resisting the blackness clouding his brain, scrabbled for the AK as it slipped from his grasp.