Black Order (Sigma Force 3)

"Rachel's wonderful."

"She is. And I think it's great that you're finally opening up more. But man, talk about setting up impossible barriers."

"What barriers?"

"How about the goddamn Atlantic for one. Standing between you and a full relationship." Monk waggled three fingers at him.

Wife, mortgage, kids.

"You're not ready," Monk said. "I mean, I mention Kat's pregnant and you should've seen your face. Scared the crap out of you. And it's my kid."

Gray's heart beat heavily in his throat. He found himself breathing harder. Punched in the gut.

Monk sighed. "You have issues, my man. Maybe something you need to work through with your pops. I don't know."

Gray was saved from responding by a chime over the jet's intercom.

The pilot reported, "We're approximately thirty minutes out. We'll be beginning our descent soon."

Gray glanced out the window. The sun rose to the east.

"Maybe I'll try to catch a little downtime," Gray muttered to the window. "Until we land."

"Sounds good."

Gray turned to Monk. He opened his mouth to respond in some way to Monk's words, but he resorted to the truth instead. "I do love Rachel."

Monk reclined his seat and rolled over to his side with a grunt. "I know. That's what makes it so hard."

7:05 a.m.

HLUHLUWE-UMFOLOZI PRESERVE

Khamisi Taylor sipped the tea in the small parlor. Though it was steeped well and sweetened with honey, he tasted none of it.

"And there's no chance Marcia could be alive?" Paula Kane asked.

Khamisi shook his head. He did not shrink from the reality. That was not why he had come here after his dressing-down by the head warden. He had wanted to retreat to his one-bedroom home at the edge of the preserve, where a row of squat houses were leased to the wardens on duty. Khamisi wondered how long he would be able to remain at the house if his suspension turned into a full dismissal.

Still, he had not returned directly home. Instead he had driven halfway across the park to another settlement of transient housing, a small enclave where park researchers resided for as long as their grant money lasted.

Khamisi had been to this particular whitewashed two-story Colonial home many times, with its giant shady acacia trees, tiny garden, and small courtyard where a smattering of chickens roamed. The two residents here never seemed to run out of grants. In fact, the last time Khamisi had been here was to celebrate the women's tenth anniversary here at the park. Among the scientific community, they had become as much of a fixture at Hluhluwe-Umfolozi as the big five trophy animals.

But now they were one.

Dr. Paula Kane sat on a tiny divan across the low table from Khamisi. Tears filled her eyes, but her cheeks remained dry.

"It's all right," she said. Her eyes wandered to a wall of photos, a panorama of a happy life. He knew the pair had been together since graduate school at Oxford so many years ago. "I hadn't held out much hope."

She was a small woman, slight of figure, with salt-and-pepper dark hair, cut square to her shoulder. Though he knew she was somewhere in her late fifties, she appeared a decade younger. She had always retained a certain hard beauty, exuding a confidence that surpassed any camouflaging makeup. But this morning, she appeared faded, a ghost of herself, something vital gone. It looked like she'd slept in her khaki pants and loose white blouse.

Khamisi had no words to ease the pain etched in every line of her body, only his sympathy. "I'm sorry."

Paula's eyes returned to him. "I know you did everything you could. I've heard the rumblings out there. A white woman dies, but a black man lives. It will not sit well with certain types out here."

Khamisi knew she was referring to the head warden. Paula and Marcia had butted heads with the man many times. She knew the warden's ties and memberships as well as any other. While apartheid might have been crushed in the cities and townships, out in the bush, the myth of the Great White Hunter still reigned supreme.

"Her death was not your fault," Paula said, reading something in his face.

He turned away. He appreciated her understanding, but at the same time, the warden's accusations had stoked his own guilt. Rationally, he knew he had done all he could to protect Dr. Fairfield. But he had come out of the bush. She had not. Those were the facts.

Khamisi stood. He didn't want to intrude any longer. He had come to pay his respects and to tell Dr. Kane in person what had transpired. He had done that.

"I should be going," he said.

Paula stood and accompanied him to the screen door. She stopped him with a touch before he left. "What do you think it was?" she asked.

He turned to her.

"What killed her?" Paula asked.

Khamisi stared out at the morning sunlight, too bright to speak of monsters. He had also been forbidden to discuss it. His job was on the line.

He glanced down to Paula and told her the truth.

"It was no lion."

"Then what—?"

"I'm going to find out."

He pushed through the screen door and climbed down the steps. His small rusted pickup sat baking in the sun. He crossed to it, climbed into its stifling interior, and headed back home.

For the hundredth time that morning, the prior day's terror unfolded. He barely heard the rumble of his engine over the echo of the ukufa's hunting screams. Not a lion. He would never believe that.

He reached the line of stilted houses, makeshift and without air-conditioning. The homes comprised staff housing here at the park. He braked with a cloud of red dust beside his front yard gate.

Exhausted, he would rest for a few hours.

Then he would seek the truth.

He already knew where he wanted to begin his investigation.

But that would have to wait.

As he approached his front yard fence, Khamisi noted that the gate hung ajar. He always made sure he latched it before leaving for the day. Then again, when the disappearances had been reported last night, someone might have come here to check if he was at home.

Still, the edge to Khamisi's senses had never dulled…not since the moment he heard that first cry in the jungle. In fact, he doubted his senses would ever relax.

He slipped through the gate. He noted his front door seemed secure. He spotted mail sprouting from his mailbox, untouched. He mounted the steps, one at a time.

He climbed, wishing he had at least a sidearm.

Floorboards creaked. The sound had come not from under his own feet—but from inside his house.

All of Khamisi's senses urged him to run.

Not again. Not this time.