Wild Encounter (10 page)

Chapter Seven

Zambia, Africa

June, six months later

Exhaustion bubbled like nausea in Clare’s stomach.

It was a long haul from her home in Boston’s suburbs to WildLyfe’s camp in central Zambia. A two-day stopover in London to collect their equipment, two more flights, and finally a long road trip split by an overnight bivouac in the empty transporter until they reached the remote Kafue National park in the middle of Zambia.

This final leg was the shortest but the most unbearable.

She just wanted to be there. She wanted her dogs back.

The giant tires of their people-mover sped over the roasting asphalt, a shimmering mirage ahead keeping pace with them. Clare twisted against the itch of drying sweat beneath her clothes.

“I kid you not,” Nadia said to Mitch, WildLyfe’s man-on-the-ground in Africa. “I’ve never seen a customs clearance like it. It usually takes
hours
.” She looked back at her from the front seat. “Doesn’t it, Clare?”

Clare hauled her focus back from the trees and grasses whizzing by outside. Getting their electronics, dart guns, and drugs waved onto their flight at Heathrow with nothing more than a signature from a uniformed stranger certainly wasn’t normal. “I struggle to believe that Britain’s customs procedures could have changed that much in a year.” She turned to the dark-haired man next to her, his long legs creeping over into the space beneath her own seat. “Are you sure you had nothing to do with that, Tim?”

“I’m too tight to pay what it would cost to influence Crown security,” he said with a laugh.

But not too tight to balk at sponsoring WildLyfe’s recovery mission to the tune of thirty grand. That made his company the major sponsor, and Tim Fergusson had earned himself a tourist spot on the recovery team.

“Gift horses, Clare,” Mitch called back from the driver’s seat. “Maybe some greater power just thought it owed you a break.”

“Pretty sure we used that favor up when
SOS Rhino
trackers picked up the pack’s signal,” she said. The conservation group were in Zambia monitoring a small herd of bred-for-release hook-lipped rhino when they stumbled on the WildLyfe signal. Amazingly, the dogs had established a territory deep in the Kafue national park and held their own for six months. A pity the Zambian government decreed they couldn’t stay there.

She shook her hands absently, settling her tangle of wire bracelets more comfortably on her wrists. It was a new habit, born since her return from Africa last year. She wore them because she’d grown tired of the speculation in strangers’ eyes when they saw the still-healing cable-tie scars on her wrists.

She knew what they all thought.

In truth, she kept them hidden so that they stayed private. Like her connection to Simon. It was something that no one beyond her shrink needed to know about.

The terrain surrounding the convoy of vehicles was practically identical to the bush surrounding the farmhouse where she’d been held captive. A mix of low scrub, tortured Acacia trees, pockets of tall razor grass. It was easy to see how the pack had just…evaporated into the Zambian bush after their ordeal. She sympathized entirely with the instinct. Even now, crowds of strangers made her palms sweat. In fact, even crowds of people she knew.

She stared out at the rugged landscape and wondered if they were driving right past where the dogs were hiding out. She took a deep breath.
Or maybe past the farmhouse itself
.

They were midway through the Kafue Flats—which was where the police had told her she’d been held. No one else in the convoy was aware of that, she was certain. As long as they kept driving and kept up a good healthy speed they’d be through it within the hour, and then she could relax again. And hopefully her stomach would settle. She told herself that lightning didn’t strike the same place twice, but a part of her still felt ill.

Her psychiatrist, John Douglass, had warned her in their most recent session that her subconscious would start tossing up reminders of her ordeal the moment she hit African soil. Not to mention the rich, peppery tang of the air. The cadence of Mitch’s accent. The rhythmic bounce of the Zambian language or the perpetual scent of wood smoke permeating its villages. Even the feel of the crisp, fresh straw in the transporter.

She’d done a good job keeping all those memories at bay these past months, but maybe there was a price to pay for that. All the images and fears were lining up now for their chance at daylight.

“Clare?” Tim leaned in, his voice lowered. “Are you okay—being here again?”

He glanced at her wrists and she battled to keep her color down. Her story had been big news at home in Boston, but she doubted it would have rated a mention over at the headquarters of their sponsor, Island Organics in New Zealand. However, she wouldn’t put it past her boss—at all—to have traded her privacy for the financial support of the chivalrous family corporation. Artie Lyfe would have sold his own mother into slavery if it made money for his projects, and he’d always been too easily dazzled by the wealthy. But Artie was counting on her, and she owed him—big time—after what he’d done to get her home safely last year.

She forced a smile, and lied, “I’m fine, Tim, just eager to get there.”

Mitch passed a map back to Tim who unfolded it on his lap. “We’ll be making camp where the brown arrow is,” he called back.

“Where are the dogs?” Tim asked, raising his voice above the thrum of the engine and the high-pitched whine of their tires on the Trans-African Highway.

Clare pointed to a red shaded area that incorporated their base camp inside Kafue National Park. “The pack was originally active but they haven’t moved in the past two months, so we’ll be heading here.”

“And the release site?” Tim asked, folding the map out bigger.

“Kasanka.” Clare pointed to a park in the central north of Zambia, wedged between a range of hills and a massive swamp land. “The topography doesn’t lend itself to serious agriculture so it’s relatively undisturbed, and there’s no copper, so no mining. Should be good territory.”

The convoy rumbled on for a few miles while Clare thumbed through the latest update from the
SOS Rhino
trackers.

“Clare…” Mitch’s hesitancy made her lift her gaze. “There’s something else.” She met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I’ve been contacted by the British Embassy.”

“Is there a problem with our permits?” She frowned. Artie had assured her all was well. That’s just what they needed—a bureaucratic snafu.

“No, no. Uh, they’re sending us protection. For the journey north. They don’t want a repeat of last time. Apparently…well, they’re insisting.”

The American in her bristled at being dictated to by the British Government. But the practical side of her was relieved at the idea of an escort for the journey up to Kasanka.

“The more guns the merrier.” She shrugged. “I hope they’re Republic Police. They might prove useful beyond their official duties.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re Men in Black, judging by the agitation of the Secretary to the Ambassador. I think we’re being punished for the embarrassment we caused last year.”

Tim shot a glance at her.

Embarrassment.
She jangled her bracelets down harder on her wrists. “Right.”

She turned to stare out the window. In the distance, a pair of giraffes stretched for the most succulent leaves at the top of a sprawling and thorny acacia tree, tangling necks in their quest for the juiciest tips. Claire snorted inwardly. The perfect metaphor for her relationship with Africa, really. All that she loved—all that she craved—of this beautiful country was so tightly interwoven now with her memories of that week. For better and for worse.

“Nearly there,” Mitch said, over brightly.

She was going to see the dogs again, see which ones had made it and which ones hadn’t since their illegal dumping six months ago. But being alive was only half the battle. WildLyfe could only release the animals if they were in reasonable condition. She needed them healthy and functional if this project was to go as the Embassy hoped it would—without a hitch.

Portly baobab trees whizzed by in a blur, rising out of seemingly endless stretches of long veldt grass. The same type she’d hidden in with Simon this time last year, the first time she’d escaped.

She shook her head. Squeezing him out of her thoughts might have been manageable back in Boston—somewhat—but just twenty-four hours back in Africa and she knew she was kidding herself. No matter how much she tried to keep her mind on the dogs, it kept drifting to Simon. Whether he was alive. Whether he was safe.

Why hadn’t he wanted to come with her? Surely, dealing with the police would have been a walk in the park compared to facing the brutality of the other men—or their bosses—when they found out she’d escaped on his watch. A woman who could identify all of them.

Maybe it would have been kinder to use the Pentobarbitone.

For sanity’s sake, she’d steadfastly imagined him alive and well, living barefoot and anonymous on a beach somewhere, having exchanged his life of crime for one building boats or making fishing nets or running a diving school. Just like the movies. In reality, he was probably still swallowed up in whatever illicit activity he’d been enmeshed in all those months ago. Maybe things had even gotten worse. Maybe he’d sunken deeper.

But at least he’d be alive.

She took a deep breath and fought the nagging sensation that she recognized one particular clump of acacia, another cluster of flat-topped miombo trees. Her heart pumped faster and she rubbed her damp palms on her jeans while quietly taking herself through some of the breathing exercises that Dr. Douglass had taught her.

Don’t look
, she told herself.
Just close your eyes
.

Trouble was, since landing back in Africa, every time she closed her eyes a pair of smoky gray ones glared back at her from the darkness.

Hurt.

Confused.

Regretful.

…

Setting up camp took the better part of the afternoon, but at least it well and truly forced her mind from her worries. Men’s tent. Women’s tent. Mess tent. Veterinary station. Latrine right out at the edge of camp. Roughly four hours work from the time their convoy trundled down the long, bumpy track arriving at the campsite.

Her muscles ached from the hard labor after days of sedentary travel and she hung herself off the lowest limb on the sycamore fig at the center of their camp to stretch out the kinks. A thick layer of African bush surrounded the camp clearing and beyond that—stretching from horizon to horizon—a ring of ancient mountain ranges, tall and still like sentinels.

Off in the distance, a handful of locals worked off in the distance put the finishing touches on the holding yards for the dogs, directed by Musai, a small Zambian man with a head full of super-tight, gray-black curls, and decades of experience working on conservation projects. He’d been driving the transporter on their last trip and had been left on the side of the road with the others when she was hijacked.

The hired hands kept up a constant stream of incomprehensible chatter and laughter as they bent, hammered, and fixed, making quick work of building the last parts of the yard that would hold the dogs when they were recaptured for transport to their new home. It didn’t matter that Clare couldn’t understand more than a word here or there of their specific dialect. Their sense of camaraderie and anticipation needed no translation.

“The yards will let us channel the dogs one-by-one into the examination area from the crush at this end,” she explained for Tim’s benefit as they inspected the work. “Then we can check and sedate each dog before loading them into the truck.”

But that was a long way off. First they had to lure the pack in, and that wasn’t going to be easy. “It’ll take a day or so to get the dogs moving in this direction. We’ll leave chunks of meat each morning and evening to draw them closer. As long as Jambi isn’t spooked, he’ll come right in to the yards for a feed.”

“Jambi?”

“He’s the alpha male.” The one—she liked to think—that must have taken off one of the hijacker’s hands, to have been released with his tracking collar intact. “He was the dog the rhino team tracked.”

“And the rest of the pack will follow him in?”

“Any that don’t, we’ll need to dart. But that’s a last resort.”

He glanced at the large gates. “Are they motorized?”

“Nope,” she grinned. “We hide behind a bush and hold one end of a rope. The other end is attached to the swing gate.”

Tim blinked. “All day?”

“And all night. We draw straws to establish shifts. But, we do have a camp tradition.” Tim cocked his shaggy head. “The work experience kid goes first.”

The world’s most expensive and over-qualified work experience kid, in this case.

That triggered one of Tim’s deep laughs. “Fair enough.”

Mitch appeared behind them, wiping his hands on his jeans. “We’ve got company.”

Clare looked over to the main campsite to see a navy SUV pulling up. She groaned. These weren’t Republic Police, who at least might have been useful in the bush, but Men in Black, after all. Make that one Man and one Woman in Black. Both in expensive suits and designer sunglasses. And they were definitely not Zambian.