Fatal (8 page)

“What do you need?” Metcalfe asked.

“A professional.”

“I’ll get on it,” Metcalfe answered and disconnected the call.

Alexa twisted her hair through an elastic hair band and into a ponytail. She sauntered to the window and parted the drawn curtain an inch, peering out. The divers were assembling at the pool.

“Do you think you have enough evidence, General?” Alexa asked Laiveaux, cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear.

“More than enough. I've run the videos by Lefarre, our Interpol contact. He was pleased with the footage. We have their full support,” Laiveaux said.

Alexa pressed the forward button on her media player. A day of illegitimate deals sped by in less than a minute. Lobera was a busy man.

“You've met them all?” Laiveaux asked.
 

Alexa slipped out of her dress and pulled on a pair of jeans, bouncing on one leg to keep her balance. She moved the phone to the other ear.

“Only Lobera and Sharkie. Malan I don't know,” she answered.

“Well they clearly implicate themselves in the footage. Did you take the bills’ serial numbers?” he asked.

“Exactly as you told me to, General. I will send the photocopies through to you today,” she said, threading on a leather belt.

“Thank you, Alexa. The French government is gravely concerned about the smuggling situation.”

Alexa smeared on some lip gloss and fumbled in her chest of drawers for her dive watch. “What happens next?"
 

“We identify everyone involved and take action. Leave it to me. We're receiving new intel every day, we'll monitor them for a week or two and then deal with the guilty parties,” Laiveaux answered.

Alexa strapped on the watch. “Arrest them?"
 

“What do you think, my girl?”
 

“I didn't think so.”

“How is Bruce, by the way? I haven't heard from him for more than a week,” Laiveaux said.

“In his element, General.”

“In the bush?”

“Yes, General. Dealing with Perreira's cronies. Apparently he's been having a swell time,” Alexa said, biting her lip. “Any news on the container, General?”
 

“No, Captain. They are still in coastal waters. But we'll get them, don't you worry.”

“Anything else, General?” she asked.
 

The man hesitated. ”No, Captain. You be careful. Send my regards to Bruce.”

“
Au revoir, Général
.” Alexa disconnected the call. She punched Bruce's number into her phone. The call was redirected to a voice message.

“Dad, call me, I'm worried. Please be careful.”

She disconnected the call. “Phone me, dammit,” she whispered to the phone. He would phone; he always did. She nodded resolutely then grabbed her dive bag and slammed the door behind her as she left.

Washington, D.C.

Senator Robert Metcalfe studied the man seated opposite him. He leaned forward and tossed a transparent folder across the desk towards him.

“Here is all the data I could gather on them. Bryden goes way back. Mossad, tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He is a killer.” Metcalfe steepled his fingers in front of him. “Allen you know.”
 

Roebuck nodded. “And the girl?” he asked, looking up from the papers.

“Guerra has come up empty. We’re guessing she's probably Allen's floozy, the eye candy his type usually attracts.” He jotted a note on a notepad. “But we’ll run a trace on her to make sure.”
 

Colonel Daniel Roebuck opened the folder and shook out the contents. He scanned through the photos and briefly read the bios. “What is this?” he asked, holding up a silver USB memory stick.

Metcalfe smiled. “Everything in an electronic format. We're moving with the times, Colonel.”

Roebuck rolled his eyes and arranged the paperwork in a neat pile then put it in a leather folder. He slipped the memory stick into his breast pocket. “When do I leave?”

“Tonight. I've commissioned my personal jet. You'll be there by tomorrow afternoon.” Metcalfe leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. “Perreira’s waiting for you with a dozen additional men.”

“I won't need them,” Roebuck answered. “I work better on my own."

Metcalfe lifted his shoulders. “Whatever suits you. Just get the job done. Funds have been wired to your private account.”

Roebuck stood up. “I’ll be in contact.”

Metcalfe slid out of his chair and stuck out a hand. “Good luck, Roebuck. This is important to me. You wash my back, I wash yours.”

Roebuck nodded and gave Metcalfe a firm shake. He turned around and exited the office.
 

Metcalfe pressed a button on his intercom. “Sandy, get Perreira on the line.”
 

A moment later the call was patched through to his phone.

“Where are the goods? I've been waiting for damn ages,” he barked.

“The delivery will be made tonight,” Perreira answered.

“It better be good quality. Better than the last stinking batch.”

“How do they say? Fillipino sunshine in a bottle. I've had my first taste,” Perreira said with a chuckle.

“That good?” Metcalfe grinned.

“You won't be disappointed.”

Metcalfe hung up and leaned back in his chair, then put his feet on the table. Filipino sunshine was what he needed. He buzzed the intercom again. “Sandy, cancel all my appointments for this evening. Something important has come up.”

“You have dinner with your wife, sir; reservations have been made,” Sally answered, taken aback.

“Cancel them. Send over takeout. The kids enjoy junk food.”

“Yes, sir. Will do,” Sally answered, an irked tone in her voice.
 

“They’ll get over it,” he mumbled.
Efficient bitch
.

He leaned back in his chair, swiveled around, and glanced up at the American flag above his head. He was worried about Roebuck. Worried about what Roebuck would do if he found out about his little smuggling operation. He did not think Roebuck would approve.
 

He shrugged his shoulders and swiveled back around. Losing him would be a pity, but it could not be helped.

Senator Metcalfe took a Cuban cigar from a box on his desk. He relished the aroma, clipped the end, and lit it, savoring the rich smoky taste in his mouth.
 

Perreira, on the other hand, was still useful. He always sent such nice gifts.

Kruger National Park, South Africa

The world came alive with the familiar sights and sounds of a blistering Lowveld afternoon. Cicadas chirped and buzzed their undulating monotone.
 

The promising smell of rain drifted in from the east of the Levubu Mountain range, and the thrill of a balmy summer breeze sounded through the mopani leaves. Bruce Bryden balanced precariously on a ledge with a three-hundred-foot drop to a dry riverbed below. The familiar adrenaline rush, systolic beats pulsing in his temples. A faint plume of smoke drifted lazily in the distance below.

He focused on his breathing, steadying himself as he lifted his head above the granite outcrop. He scanned the shimmering expanse of veld and red anthills below him. Umbrella thorns were dotted sparsely throughout the savanna grassland, offering tendrils of shade to some resting wildebeests. A brief reflection, a mile to the south, caught his eye.
 

He lay flat on his belly and inched his way closer to the edge of the ledge then pulled his binoculars from his backpack and scanned the horizon. Judging from his shadow, the time would be half past noon, and the sun was positioned directly overhead. There would be little chance of the reflection from the binoculars’ lenses being noticed. He cupped the lens to make sure.

A makeshift corral had been built from bush, brambles, and broken branches. Four men were sitting outside the corral, roasting meat over an open fire, talking, gesturing and gesticulating in the excited way Shangaan warriors do after a hunt.

Hunting rifles were being balanced between knees or leaned against some trees. One of the poachers was loading his rifle with shiny .303 shells. Two tents had been pitched on either side of the corral, and a pile of dried branches and twigs were packed haphazardly next to a fireplace at the entrance to the enclosure. One kudu and four impala carcasses were stacked on a plastic tarpaulin inside the pen. Easiest way to keep predators such as hyenas and jackals at bay.
 

In the corral, half a dozen donkeys were drinking from old five-gallon plastic paint drums. Rhino horns, wrapped in plastic shopping bags, were neatly strapped to each one of the donkeys, whose legs were caked with mud.
 

He pushed himself away from the abyss, stood up, and shook the stone chips from his shirt.
 

Judging from the amount of rhino horns strapped to the donkeys, they had spent a couple of weeks traversing the southern regions of the Kruger National Park. The donkeys had been sent ahead by another group of poachers, making it difficult for the antipoaching unit of the Kruger National Park to track them.
 

The corral would be a rendezvous point where the donkeys knew they would be fed and watered. The poachers would take the donkeys on a hunt, load them up, and send them back home one by one. If a game ranger happened to come across the donkey spoor, it could easily be mistaken for other game, such as zebra. Zebra spoor were abundant; rangers weren't on the lookout for zebra. Clever idea, Bruce thought.

The men at the corral were responsible for feeding the donkeys and getting the meat and the ivory or rhino horns out of the park and over the Mozambican border. It meant the hunting party was still out there. The .303 rifle wasn't a rhino killer. There had to be more of them, probably working in shifts.
 

Bruce ran back the way he had come up the hill. He sped past a lone buffalo cow who was watching him warily, ears twitching. The matriarch. He slowed down to a brisk walk and noticed half a dozen teen bulls look up at him through the brush, sniffing the air, heads lifted high. The first arrivals of a herd. He slowly headed down the hill, keeping clear of the herd. They were dangerous bastards.
 

At the bottom of the rocky outcrop, he rested, caught his breath, and then headed south. After a mile he changed direction and veered in a northeasterly direction. He scanned the terrain and headed towards another hill. He wanted to stay on rocky terrain; it would make tracking him more difficult.
 

Bruce's heightened senses took in all the sights, sounds, and smells around him. He was in his element, right where he wanted to be.

Bruce didn't plan on wasting any time. More than four hundred rhino carcasses had been found by the rangers over the past year. Some were still alive as their horns were hacked off. Most were riddled with bullet holes and bled to death. The rhino population was dwindling; fast and desperate measures were needed to ensure the prosperity of the species.

He hiked one mile north of the poacher camp and circled his way towards them, staying downwind. A mile from their camp, he took shelter beneath a Shepherd's Tree and took out his binoculars. Two men sitting at the makeshift camp. He panned over the horizon and could see a faint plume of dust about six miles beyond the camp. A group of animals had been startled, probably by someone in a hurry to get to his previous observation point on the hill. He guessed someone must have seen him.

Bruce slipped the backpack onto his shoulder and drifted towards the camp. He passed by a Jackalberry bush and ripped off some of the low-hanging red berries, popped them in his mouth, and savored the powdery, sour taste. About two hundred feet from the camp, he stopped and crouched behind a potato bush.
 

He dropped to his stomach and leopard-crawled through the brush towards the corral, cautiously making his way to the tent on the western side of the enclosure. These men were killers; they wouldn’t think twice about dispatching him to the afterlife. He needed to strike fast, keep the element of surprise on his side. Someone inside the tent snored noisily, and the faint outline of a skull pushed out on the side of the tent.
 

Bruce unholstered his hunting knife then slammed it into the sleeping man’s skull.

The poacher let out a bloodcurdling scream and stood straight up in the tent. Tent pegs broke loose from the ground. Bruce aimed a kick at the midriff area of the poacher, and he went down in a mass of tent material and peg lines.

He skirted around the corral as one of the poachers lifted the rifle in his direction. A third man was running away without looking back. Bruce jumped towards the armed poacher and smacked the muzzle away with the palm of his hand. A shot exploded next to his left ear, the gunpowder flash scorching his hair. He aimed a boot below the poacher's knee, the tibia snapping with the impact of the blow.
 

He grabbed the gun and aimed at the fleeing man, a high-pitched note humming in his ear. He pulled the trigger and the rifle exploded into his shoulder.