LITMIR.BIZ

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needed. She kicked him, then knocked him down on the ground in a tantui move, a martial arts form of kickboxing. In seconds she’d wrestled his hands behind his back and cuffed him.

      Abruptly the other two men groaned and grabbed their stomachs. They staggered several feet and dropped their weapons.

      Wynne was on them in a flash, throwing them to the ground, cuffing them, while Aja grabbed their rifles.

      “It took a long time,” Aja said. “Did you use enough lobelia on the money?”

      Lobelia—a tobacco derivative—contained poisonous caustic latex, more potent than digitalis. It was one of the tricks Aja had taught her. “I did, but I didn’t want to kill them. Next time, I’ll make the powder more potent. But I did bring the mamba as a diversion.”

      “Huh, a mamba.” Aja shook his head, then the wrinkles stretched around his eyes in disapproval. “I would have found a cobra.”

      Wynne was used to Aja’s criticisms. He was the master in the African bush; she was only his student. She knew how fortunate she had been to have his friendship and tutelage, and she always showed him the deference he deserved, though it never stopped her from hoping to hear him compliment her one day.

      Her gaze shifted to the three downed men as Snow sniffed them. The thought of losing five elephants to these creeps ate at her. However, it gave her pleasure to watch them trembling not only from sickness but from having a full-grown leopard breathing down their necks. An idea came to her.

      One hand signal from her and Snow paused, bent down and sniffed the leader’s neck.

      He stiffened, his body trembling all over.

      “You probably don’t know this, but albino leopards stay hungry all the time. Has something to do with their genetic anomaly.” Not true, but sounded good. “And Snow here hasn’t made a kill in days.”

      “P-please…” His voice was a raspy whisper.

      “I know you were trying to make a little extra cash with this deal. Was it your idea, or your boss’s?”

      “Ours alone.”

      “Whose?” Wynne motioned to Snow and the big cat plopped one paw on his back.

      “Mine.” He struggled not to move.

      “Where is the meat?”

      “Packaged for b-bush meat….”

      Wynne grimaced. Bush meat. The most devastating kind of poaching. It was the illegal use of wildlife for meat and had caused the near-extinction of animals in Africa. Also it exposed consumers to diseases such as Ebola, and twenty-six kinds of SIV—Simian immunodeficiency virus—two of which had been identified as the origin of AIDS. Bush meat poaching meant a highly organized, commercial illegal operation. They could wipe out the park’s wildlife in a few weeks.

      “How are you transporting the meat?”

      “Supposed to drop it at a contact point.”

      “When?”

      “Tonight…midnight.” His eyes squeezed shut as Snow sniffed his ear, and his trembling turned to full-blown shudders.

      “Where?”

      “Near Sausage Tree Camp….”

      “How is it moved?”

      “Z-Zambezi River.”

      “Through Zimbabwe?”

      “Yes.”

      “Where does it go from there?”

      “I don’t know. I-I swear.”

      “Who is behind this ring?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “Okay.” Wynne shrugged. “Snow, it’s poacher dinner for you, girl.” She signaled the leopard with one finger.

      Snow let out a roar that Wynne felt deep in her chest and she was certain rocked the poacher’s eardrum a little. Then the big cat flopped down across his back.

      “Haah! Please… Please! I-I don’t know! Money and instructions come through e-mail.” Perspiration streamed down his brow, and he blinked it back.

      Wynne believed him, not because he was scared out of his wits and wouldn’t dare lie to her, but because the ring leader had been clever enough to set up a bush meat ring right under their noses, even had a spy, or two, in their camp. He’d definitely be clever enough to keep his identity hidden. She motioned for Snow to back off.

      Shots rent the air. Wynne’s head snapped up. Buzzards scattered into a black haze.

      Aja glanced into the forest and asked, “Where is Eieb?”

      “Oh, my God! Eieb!” Wynne should have known this arrest had gone down too easily. There must have been a lookout. She snapped a hand signal at Snow. “Guard.” She pointed to the poachers and heard another staccato blast of shots.

      “Please, watch them,” Wynne yelled over her shoulder at Aja as she ran into the forest, whipping off her slingshot. Wynne prayed Eieb was still alive and that the poachers hadn’t won this round, too.

      Wynne slowed as she neared the gun battle. It was seventy yards ahead of her. She crept forward, using the dense undergrowth as cover. She couldn’t see Eieb or the poachers. Only heard them. A semiautomatic rapid fire, rat-tat-tat-tat, layered by Eieb’s shotgun, ka-plow. At least she knew Eieb was still alive. It sounded like the middle of a war zone.

      Abruptly the shots stopped, the quiet deafening.

      Her pulse drummed in her ears. She smelled the bitter scent of gunpowder, thickened by the humidity. The air pressed in around her as she searched for movement, a quick rapid scan. Left. Right. Only lush green jungle. She tuned into the faint sound of moaning, jagged breathing. Was that Eieb?

      She didn’t dare call out. Poachers could still be in the vicinity, ready to play the Kill the Warden game. She prowled toward the sound, then heard…

      Whisper of leaves. Footfalls behind her. She loaded her slingshot and whirled it, arm poised, ready to fire.

      “It’s me,” Eieb whispered, his voice wired from the gun battle.

      She relaxed, relieved to see him, and let the slingshot drop. “Any more around?”

      “Only one. The shots came from this way. Pretty certain, he’s down.”

      Eieb headed toward the sound, Wynne on his heels. They spotted the fallen African at the same time. He was barefoot and wore ragged civilian clothes. His body was curled into a fetal position and he held his stomach. Blood oozed between his fingers and ran down his arm. An AK-47 lay next to him.

      Wynne kicked the rifle away. Then she and Eieb must have seen the young man’s face at the same time, for they gaped at him.

      “Mehan?” Wynne said, aware she shouldn’t feel empathy for a poacher who had tried to kill Eieb and probably other rangers. But she had seen Mehan’s smile every morning in camp for the past two years, knew his wife and four children, and the promise within him; he was an artist and had carved a leopard out of wood for her. It resembled Snow. How could she distance herself from someone she had called friend?

      “Why, Mehan?” Eieb looked as tortured and in pain as Mehan.

      Mehan squeezed his eyes shut, as if he couldn’t bear to look at them or face what he’d done. “Need…” he spoke in Nyanja. “Feed…family.”

      It was always about need. Mehan needed to poach to feed his family. Wynne needed to stop bush meat poachers. She grabbed a nearby Balsam plant, stripped the leaves with one glide of her hand, then crushed them between her palms. She pulled her dagger from its ankle sheath, tugged her shirt from her waist, and cut the bottom off; Mehan probably had two shirts to his name—if he was lucky.

      Wynne squatted on the

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