Chasing the White Lion by James Hannibal (best free e book reader .TXT) 📗

looked back. “I know it’s hard to see, but you said it yourself. God has a plan.” She set her oars in the water again. “Come on. One more mile.”

CHAPTER

EIGHT

LOBÉKÉ NATIONAL PARK

SOUTHERN CAMEROON

ANTON GOREVSCANNED the forest preserve through the scope of his Fabrique Nationale Ballista rifle. He’d broken visual contact and advanced ahead of his targets to take up a position on a rocky perch.

He’d lost sight of them for an hour, but it mattered little. In another life, a Spetsnaz drillmaster had taught him that the hunter who understands his quarry’s mind is never far off the trail. Gorev had taken on a new name since then, and a new face, but the old lessons still applied.

A gap in the trees revealed a family of elephants—a bull, two females, and three calves. The bull’s tusks were clean and white from a recent dip in the river. They stood out well against the deep green of the foliage, making him tempting prey for Kweku Okoro and his men. The poachers would come. Gorev would wait.

He traced his scope along three potential avenues of approach before he acquired his targets, crouching in high grass five hundred meters from the elephants. Okoro and his men would take their time, avoid spooking their prize. They had no concerns about interruptions from the preserve’s rangers, because Okoro kept the local commander in his pocket with bribes. That sin also granted Gorev the freedom to stalk him.

With a gloved hand, the Russian brushed gravel and grit away from a broad stone and stretched his body out flat. He settled the Ballista on its forward bipod, pressed his shoulder to the stock, and put his eye to the scope. A minor adjustment brought Okoro under the crosshairs. But Gorev didn’t pull the trigger.

He watched.

Two of the poachers carried Chinese AK-47 knockoffs. Okoro, however, carried a bolt-action Holland & Holland Nitro Express elephant gun. A traditionalist. Gorev respected that.

The old English big-game hunters had walked this same African forest with the same weapon, but they’d trekked with local carriers who bore the weight of the gun until the hunters were ready to shoot. Not Okoro. In nearly forty-eight hours, Gorev had seen him set the weapon down only to eat and sleep. He carried it like a scepter. Gorev respected that too.

The Russian brought his eye back from the scope and frowned. Boyd was making a mistake. He dialed his smartphone using his trigger hand, with the tip of the thumb and forefinger cut away from the glove. A live video feed opened on the screen.

Livingston Boyd scowled at the camera from a white shag rug in the great room of his London penthouse. “Anton. You’re calling sooner than expected. Is the job done?”

Is the job done? Another Englishman too high and mighty to carry his own gun. Gorev took a moment to consider his answer. His own bearish visage would look enormous on the eighty-five-inch LCD monitor above Boyd’s fireplace. That always annoyed his young boss. Did Gorev dare annoy him further? “Eh . . . Not yet, boss. I have . . . question.”

“You have . . . k-vestion?” Boyd mimicked Gorev’s accent. Before the Russian could respond, Boyd’s eyes shifted to the lower portion of the monitor. “Wait. You’re bouncing this call off the satellite? You know this line comes with risks.”

“It is important.”

“I’m sure you think it is.”

Gorev checked his targets. Now that he knew their location, he could watch them without the scope. They had advanced, but not far. “I have concern about our plan for Hawk Three One Four. He is strong. An asset.”

Boyd lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows. “Our plan?”

“Your plan. Forgive my English, please.”

“I will not.” The Englishman paced in an oval on his rug. “Hawk Three One Four . . .” He scratched his temple, as if killing a poacher in Cameroon was an easily forgotten piece of his Friday. “Remind me. Which field mouse did this guy eat to earn his wings?”

“Field Mouse Eight Zero Zero Seven Five. Another poacher, across border in Nigeria. A wise move. For consolidation.”

Boyd snorted. “A lazy move. For convenience. Hawk Three One Four is old, Gorev. You know how I don’t like the old ones.”

Gorev bristled at the comment. In Boyd’s eyes, anyone over thirty-five belonged in a home. Or better still, a grave. Gorev was over thirty-five. “I think his experience is asset.”

“Do I pay you to think?”

The correct answer to that question depended on the day. “Nyet.”

“Nyet.” Boyd spat out the word. “Look. I brought you in after the fiasco in the Black Sea because you had one extremely valuable contact and one true talent. The contact was a bonus. Your talent is what led me to give you a job, a new identity, and generally save your former-Soviet bacon. Use that talent now.” He stepped closer to the monitor. “Or should I send an anonymous tip to Interpol, alerting them to your presence in Cameroon?”

Gorev tensed his jaw. “Nyet. I do as you ask.”

“Good. Here’s what you don’t see. I’ve got Jackrabbit Four Eight Two Five on the hook in Yaoundé. He’s younger and hungrier, building a top-notch ivory distribution network. If I hand him your hawk’s supply chain, costs go down and profits go up. What makes me happy, Anton?”

“Costs down and profits up.”

“Da. The old makes way for the new. Circle of life. Law of the jungle.” He picked up a remote from his coffee table. “Now go do your job. And make it quick.”

“Why quick?” Boyd had never cared how the job was done before. “For mercy?”

“No, you Neanderthal. I need you at the new towers in Bangkok . . . like yesterday. The contractors are botching up my game floors. You know how I feel about my games. Get down there and scare them straight.” He pointed the remote at the camera. “Boyd out.”

The screen went blank. Gorev stared at it for a long time, then returned his attention to the valley below. His targets had closed on the