Rare Breed. Connie Hall

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      “I feel like I’ve done nothing. Poachers are hitting us more often, right under our noses. Why didn’t we know these guys were operating right in the park? We should have known. They’ve been here at least three days.” Wynne remained pensively quiet and stared at the road ahead.

      “It is as if they know our every move.” Eieb studied Wynne a moment. “You think we have a spy in camp,” he said with certainty.

      “How else could they be killing animals right in the park?” Wynne asked, aware Eieb knew what she was thinking. He probably knew her better than she knew herself sometimes. “Someone must be directing them, and that someone has to know where the rangers are at all times. And if we don’t catch them, they’ll expand. I’ll bet that if we hadn’t kept this sting to ourselves, we wouldn’t have been able to set it up.”

      “We were lucky Aja received that tip from the villagers about the poaching.”

      “If Aja hadn’t come to us with the information and arranged the buy, we wouldn’t have known a thing.” Wynne thought of Aja. He had been her first friend in Zambia, and her teacher. Without his help, she would never have learned to survive the harsh extremes of Africa. He was the most revered tracker in Zambia and a poacher’s worst nightmare.

      “We have to find out who it is.” Eieb rubbed his jaw and seemed to be ticking off names in his head.

      “I know.”

      “It will be a good mystery. Something to look forward to when we get back.” A hard, unrelenting glint twinkled in Eieb’s eye, an unusual contrast to his typical restrained facade.

      Snow, one hundred and ten pounds of white fur, perked up in the cargo area of the Rover. The leopard’s unusual pink eyes gleamed in the mirror as she lifted her nose and scented the buzzards. Or the kill. Wynne didn’t know which.

      “Some powerful and dangerous predator you are,” Wynne said to Snow, the irritation still in her voice, though it was directed at herself for allowing this poaching ring to thwart them at every turn. Wynne finished with a guttural moan, cat language Snow understood.

      The leopard responded by rubbing her whiskers against Wynne’s arm, nudging her into the side of the door.

      The Rover veered toward the ditch. Wynne jerked the wheel back. Her collection of Simpsons bobble-head dolls on the dash nodded in unison.

      Eieb frowned at Snow and said, “You know, you’re going to have to take her to another reserve one day and set her free.”

      “I can’t until she’s hunting on her own.”

      “Uh-huh. I saw her drop a kill at your door yesterday.”

      Wynne didn’t answer him. Snow had been hunting on her own for three weeks now. Wynne thought she’d done a pretty crafty job of hiding it, until now.

      “You’ve tamed her so much she may never assimilate back into the wild.” Eieb reached back and scratched Snow behind the ears.

      “We’ve bonded, that’s all.”

      “Uh-huh. What about the Big Five Habitat? You bonded with those creatures, too. You keep bonding as you say, the habitat will be overflowing.” Eieb gave her his most critical glance.

      “Hey, we just turned a bush baby and an eland loose last week.”

      Wynne thought of the Big Five Habitat, one of the few accomplishments in her life of which she felt completely proud. She had convinced the park’s veterinarian to train older school children in helping to care for wounded or motherless animals. It aided in recruiting volunteers for the reserve and educated the children on the delicate ecological balance maintained by all living creatures. They not only learned the importance of conserving the big five wild animals of Africa—the elephant, rhino, buffalo, lion, leopard—but all wild animals and their habitats. Some of the happiest moments in Wynne’s life were watching the smiles on the children’s faces as they released the animals back into the wild.

      “But you do nothing to set Snow free.” Eieb motioned toward the cat.

      “I raised her from a cub,” Wynne said, hearing the desperation in her own voice. “I won’t throw her to the poachers and hunters. You know her white fur is prized.”

      “Survival is not guaranteed in the wild, as you know. But if you do not let her go, she’ll never have a normal life or live free. Want to know why I think you keep her?”

      “No, but you’ll tell me anyway.”

      “I think you’re using Snow as an excuse to remain alone.”

      “That’s not true. I don’t keep her on a leash.”

      “No, just in your hut at night.”

      Wynne thought she’d hidden that as well, but obviously nothing escaped Warden Freud here. “She’ll leave when she’s ready,” she said, her voice adamant. “I won’t drop her somewhere and abandon her, and that’s that.”

      She knew firsthand what it felt like to be disowned, severed from those dearest to her, and she wouldn’t discard Snow in a strange place to fend for herself. One day she would let Snow go, when they were both ready.

      Eieb lapsed into silence, and Wynne was glad when they neared the site. For now, the third degree was over, but Eieb would bring it up again. He was just as stubborn as she was.

      She couldn’t stop thinking of the Judas in their operations base as she left the main road, keeping her eyes on the vultures. The Rover bumped through the tall grass, past a herd of blue wildebeest. The lead bull raised his head and shot them a casual glance, then went back to grazing.

      She breathed in the scent of dung, fresh pasture and last night’s dew, the raw scent of vastness, primitive earth and pulsing life. The self-reliant, adventurous part of her craved that solitary open scent. She felt needed and wanted here.

      “Let me out up ahead.” Eieb picked up the rifle resting near his right leg and hung it over his shoulder by the strap. He checked his walkie-talkie to make sure it was turned on. “Frequency four?”

      “I’m already there.” Wynne patted the unit inside her vest pocket, and the handcuffs in an adjacent pocket rattled slightly.

      “I’ll circle around through the forest and come in on the east side.”

      “I’ll go in from the west side.”

      She parked the Rover near the forest’s edge and cut the engine. She checked to make sure the leather slingshot wrapped around her waist was secure. It wasn’t a modern slingshot with an elastic band attached to a forked base. No, she was schooled in the art of the sling; a ballistic weapon David had made famous in the Bible when he slew Goliath. It had been one of the most important weapons in an ancient army’s arsenal. It was still used in some African cultures today. Two long cords were attached to the ends of a leather strap. The strap held the projectiles—she preferred smooth stones—and the cords allowed her to whirl the stone overhead or at her side. The cords were long enough to go around her waist, and she had disguised the slingshot to look like a belt from a Ralph Lauren Congo collection. But in her trained hands it was a lethal weapon.

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