‘My hero.’
Patrick was up and moving again, so Brand made sure everyone was fine and they carried on along the riverbed, keeping to the shade of the trees along one side. Ahead of them, the near-dry watercourse curved around to the left.
Patrick pushed ahead, outstripping the rest of them. As he approached the bend, he stopped and dropped to one knee to study the sand. Brand stopped the group. He waited a few seconds, checked there was nothing coming up behind them, then told Darlene and the others to stay put. He walked up to Patrick. ‘What is it?’ Brand asked.
‘People,’ Patrick whispered. He licked his lips. ‘No one else walks this part of the concession and I haven’t been here for two weeks. These are fresh.’
‘Poachers.’
Patrick nodded. ‘There are plenty of rhino along here. We often see them in the riverbed. I’m going to follow them.’
‘Are you fucking crazy?’ Brand couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘We’ve got clients with us. Let’s call this in to the reserve’s security people. We need to get the guests out of here. You said it yourself, these tracks are fresh.’
‘Just as I thought, you’re gutless,’ Patrick said.
There was bold, and there was insane. If Brand had been alone, or if it had just been him and Patrick, he probably would have followed the tracks. He hated poachers, and was incensed that in this day and age rhino were still being hunted for their horn so that rich Vietnamese businessmen could impress their friends by serving up ground horn as a party drug – they claimed it prevented hangovers.
‘I’m taking the tourists back to the truck. You do what you want,’ Brand said.
‘So you’re not going to back me up?’
‘We can come back later, Patrick.’
Patrick shook his head, stood up and moved forward. Brand was furious; he backtracked to the guests. Patrick had been nothing but a dangerous liability since the moment he’d loaded his gun at the dining table.
‘What’s going on?’ Darlene asked him.
‘Patrick’s just checking something out. We’re going to move slowly back the way we came.’
‘Why?’ she asked. Patrick had moved around the bend and was out of sight.
A burst of three gunshots, fired on automatic, echoed down the riverbed. Darlene screamed. ‘Everybody behind that rock,’ Brand said, motioning to a boulder a few metres away from them. He turned to look up the river, his rifle in his shoulder.
‘Help!’ yelled Patrick. He emerged, running around the bend towards them, eyes wide and arms and legs pumping. His hands were empty.
Brand heard voices, men calling in Portuguese, which meant they had to be Mozambicans, from across the border on the other side of the Kruger Park. Someone was telling another person to hurry up. It was the language of his youth, taught to him by his half-Portuguese, half-Angolan mother. A man dressed in a green shirt and shorts and carrying an AK-47 came into view, holding his rifle at the ready. He aimed at Patrick’s back and Brand saw the man’s surprise as he caught sight of him.
Brand didn’t have time to think. His reactions had been honed in combat, decades earlier, but they were still razor sharp. He squeezed the trigger. The heavy projectile, designed to take down a charging buffalo or elephant, hit the poacher in the chest and sent him flying backwards. Patrick ran past Brand.
‘How many?’ Brand asked his back. Patrick said nothing.
‘Hudson, what do we do?’ Darlene cried as Patrick charged past her and the others.
‘Get back to the truck. Follow Patrick.’
Brand swore under his breath as he worked the bolt of his Brno and chambered another round. He wanted to run too, but his training told him he couldn’t. The poacher would not have been alone. He moved forward, hugging the bank of the riverbed, where the trees cast shadows that might give him some concealment. If there were more coming he needed to buy the tourists – and Patrick – some time. He gripped
Patrick was up and moving again, so Brand made sure everyone was fine and they carried on along the riverbed, keeping to the shade of the trees along one side. Ahead of them, the near-dry watercourse curved around to the left.
Patrick pushed ahead, outstripping the rest of them. As he approached the bend, he stopped and dropped to one knee to study the sand. Brand stopped the group. He waited a few seconds, checked there was nothing coming up behind them, then told Darlene and the others to stay put. He walked up to Patrick. ‘What is it?’ Brand asked.
‘People,’ Patrick whispered. He licked his lips. ‘No one else walks this part of the concession and I haven’t been here for two weeks. These are fresh.’
‘Poachers.’
Patrick nodded. ‘There are plenty of rhino along here. We often see them in the riverbed. I’m going to follow them.’
‘Are you fucking crazy?’ Brand couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘We’ve got clients with us. Let’s call this in to the reserve’s security people. We need to get the guests out of here. You said it yourself, these tracks are fresh.’
‘Just as I thought, you’re gutless,’ Patrick said.
There was bold, and there was insane. If Brand had been alone, or if it had just been him and Patrick, he probably would have followed the tracks. He hated poachers, and was incensed that in this day and age rhino were still being hunted for their horn so that rich Vietnamese businessmen could impress their friends by serving up ground horn as a party drug – they claimed it prevented hangovers.
‘I’m taking the tourists back to the truck. You do what you want,’ Brand said.
‘So you’re not going to back me up?’
‘We can come back later, Patrick.’
Patrick shook his head, stood up and moved forward. Brand was furious; he backtracked to the guests. Patrick had been nothing but a dangerous liability since the moment he’d loaded his gun at the dining table.
‘What’s going on?’ Darlene asked him.
‘Patrick’s just checking something out. We’re going to move slowly back the way we came.’
‘Why?’ she asked. Patrick had moved around the bend and was out of sight.
A burst of three gunshots, fired on automatic, echoed down the riverbed. Darlene screamed. ‘Everybody behind that rock,’ Brand said, motioning to a boulder a few metres away from them. He turned to look up the river, his rifle in his shoulder.
‘Help!’ yelled Patrick. He emerged, running around the bend towards them, eyes wide and arms and legs pumping. His hands were empty.
Brand heard voices, men calling in Portuguese, which meant they had to be Mozambicans, from across the border on the other side of the Kruger Park. Someone was telling another person to hurry up. It was the language of his youth, taught to him by his half-Portuguese, half-Angolan mother. A man dressed in a green shirt and shorts and carrying an AK-47 came into view, holding his rifle at the ready. He aimed at Patrick’s back and Brand saw the man’s surprise as he caught sight of him.
Brand didn’t have time to think. His reactions had been honed in combat, decades earlier, but they were still razor sharp. He squeezed the trigger. The heavy projectile, designed to take down a charging buffalo or elephant, hit the poacher in the chest and sent him flying backwards. Patrick ran past Brand.
‘How many?’ Brand asked his back. Patrick said nothing.
‘Hudson, what do we do?’ Darlene cried as Patrick charged past her and the others.
‘Get back to the truck. Follow Patrick.’
Brand swore under his breath as he worked the bolt of his Brno and chambered another round. He wanted to run too, but his training told him he couldn’t. The poacher would not have been alone. He moved forward, hugging the bank of the riverbed, where the trees cast shadows that might give him some concealment. If there were more coming he needed to buy the tourists – and Patrick – some time. He gripped
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