In the Company of Killers, Bryan Christy [love story books to read .txt] 📗

bastard, had not heard him. Krieger took a deep breath, sending his mind to the .45 he wore on his belt. He was glad to be in and out in two days, yet concerned that such a narrow window made him an easy target. Botha was out there somewhere, and a sniper-quality shot. Krieger was drawn to the challenge presented by Botha on the loose, refusing to bring his bodyguards with him. Or Mapes. She would meet him back in Jo’burg. The Kimber was the Kimber. He came here to be alone.

“Did you want to freshen—”

“No, Pete. And she’s zeroed. Let’s go. I’m wheels up by midnight.” His instincts suddenly told him to alter his schedule, narrow the threat window even further.

“Right,” Zoeller said, accepting the change. “Well, we’re set for you. ’Bout an hour out to him.”

“All right.”

Krieger climbed into the Land Rover’s passenger seat. Zoeller took the wheel. He glanced at the pair of teenage trackers sitting in the back of the Land Rover. New boys. That was good.

He had been watching a Pats game in his den when Zoeller’s email arrived. The big buffalo, Minotaur, had killed some villagers, got his name in the damn newspaper. The community was in an uproar. The Saudis were asking about him, too, wanting to schedule a hunt. “Somebody’s going to take him, Tots,” Zoeller had written.

Krieger studied the animal he’d missed. Rock-hard bosses gnarled like oyster shells, ears worn like aged moth wings, chest as broad as a truck. The old bull lived alone now. Moving at his own pace. Many considered the Cape buffalo the most dangerous game in Africa. Black Death, they called it, Africa’s widow-maker. Miss your shot and, well, that had happened once already. Krieger had sent Zoeller a single-word response: “Mine.”

Under his safari shirt, Krieger wore the new Vulcan bulletproof undershirt, manufactured by a Perseus Group subsidiary in Mexico using chitin harvested from mantis shrimp. It was a terrific product, a little stiff but lightweight and effective against just about any handgun out there. When the first shipment arrived, a few ex-operators got a kick out of donning Vulcan shirts and shooting each other in the chest. It was great for morale—and the YouTube videos didn’t hurt sales—but then a couple of his guys from Dallas got the idea to put the bulletproof shirts on passed-out homeless men. They woke them up and shot them center mass. The videos were the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Had to fire them all, of course.

Undershirts didn’t help against a headshot. Krieger pulled his Filson hat down over his eyes and lay back in his seat. Not sweating what he couldn’t control was one of his rules.

An hour later, Zoeller tapped his shoulder. “The boys have him over the next rise,” he said, slowing to a stop. Krieger examined the setting. Wide-open tall grass, no trees. Minotaur over the next hill. Or maybe something else.

Zoeller seemed to be his usual self. Old Pete had been on the Kimber since Krieger was a boy. Krieger thinking he had to learn to trust somebody someday, then laughing inwardly at himself. Sure, and yoga—he’d take up yoga, too.

“Sticks?”

“No sticks,” Krieger said.

He knew the whole thing bothered Pete. Driving up on a target violated Pete’s rules. You gave fair chase. But Krieger didn’t have time for that. He’d brought a double rifle this time, the H&H in 600. A true cannon. No time for nostalgia. He wanted his trophy. He deserved his trophy. The Chinese were completely on board with his cloaking program. He had sold China the power to impose doubt on its enemies. From now on, no one would know what was an accident and what was an act of war—it was disruption on a new and lucrative scale. Minotaur scale.

The new boys were eyeballing him. They’d heard what he’d done, of course. No secrets on the Kimber. Which meant they knew what he was capable of. Stay in your lane, boys, Krieger thought, and nobody gets hurt.

At the top of the rise, Krieger paused. Grass turned from brown to green as the land below fell away into a deep vale with knots of acacia trees along a river’s banks. Krieger lifted his binoculars and glassed the land. The grass was thick and tall until it reached the river, where it lay matted by animals that had braved the crocodiles to drink. Krieger could see the crocs lolling on rocks, their bellies full. Some zebra looked in his direction. A few buffalo grazed peacefully. No sign of Minotaur.

“Wallowing other side of those trees, I’ll bet,” Zoeller said.

It would be a long, slow walk down to the buffalo through grass as tall as he was. Krieger rechecked the sight lines. Nothing higher than him at the moment. Whatever it was, the action would come in the trees below.

“Light’s burning, Pete,” Krieger said. “I don’t want any surprises.”

Zoeller signaled. The taller boy plunged into the grass in the direction of the trees. He did it without hesitating. Krieger liked that.

While Krieger searched the landscape for Minotaur, Botha emerged silently from under a tarp in the back of the Land Rover. He came up behind Krieger and put a pistol in his ribs. “Hunt’s over, Tots,” he said, lifting the big rifle from Krieger’s hands.

Krieger’s right hand flew to the pistol on his hip. Pete Zoeller caught it there, the older man’s iron grip swallowing weapon and hand as one. Zoeller removed the pistol from Krieger’s hand as easily as if Krieger were a child.

Krieger laughed. “Okay. Bravo. Well done.” He looked Botha up and down. “None better. Back of the truck, right?”

“Where the servants are,” Botha said.

“Well, bring me the papers.”

Botha whistled. The Land Rover came up, driven by the tracker who had disappeared into the long grass. Botha reached into the back of the vehicle and withdrew a set of contracts for the sale of the Kimber. “Lawyer in Polokwane drew them up for me.” He handed Krieger a pen.

Krieger signed