Free Fatal by Arno Joubert

ear, the gunpowder flash scorching his hair. He aimed a boot below the poacher's knee, the tibia snapping with the impact of the blow.  
    He grabbed the gun and aimed at the fleeing man, a high-pitched note humming in his ear. He pulled the trigger and the rifle exploded into his shoulder.  
    The guy went down in a puff of dust.  
    Bruce bolted towards the guy he had shot. The man was screaming, writhing on the ground, blood pumping from the wound in his leg. The bullet had gone straight through the calf, the entry wound round and tidy, but pieces of bone and flesh were protruding from a gaping hole in front. Soft-nose shells are vicious ammunition. Grabbing the guy by the collar, he dragged him towards the camp.  
    The poacher in the tent was trying to crawl away, feeling his way forward blindly, the knife still in his head. He would die soon. Bruce walked to him and smacked the rifle butt down below his coccyx. Hard. The poacher stopped dead in his tracks, twitched and spasmed for a while, and then lay still.
    Bruce cut some twine from the tent cords. He shoved the two poachers together and made them sit with their backs to each other, then he threaded the cord around their heads and through their mouths, like horses clamping down on their bits. They howled in pain and anger. He cut another length of cord and fastened their hands and their feet. This was temporary.
    He search all three of them and found a cell phone in the back pocket of the guy with the hole in his head. Bruce walked away as he dialed a number from memory.
    "Hi, Robby, Bruce here. Coordinates at 24014 degrees south, 31481 degrees east. There is one left in this group. I'm going after him now.” He disconnected the call, not waiting for an answer.  
    Bruce headed towards the hill where he last saw the plume of dust. A mile from the foot of the outcrop, he noticed something was wrong. The dust hadn't subsided, and he could hear the baying of angry animals, stamping their feet and snorting loudly. He headed east and took a difficult route up the hill, climbed up some rocks, then moved back towards the commotion.  
    He positioned himself on an outcropping of rock eight feet above the angry herd of animals. A group of ten bulls and three large female buffalo were tossing what looked like a rag doll between them. They rested for a couple seconds before continuing this savage ritual. The body was gouged and trampled, but one eye was still open. The animals were blind with fury.
    The poacher lifted one arm towards him. His fingers splayed open and closed, clutching at some invisible tuft of grass, beckoning for help.
    The body was a beaten to a pulp by horns weighing hundreds of pounds then battered by hooves. The body soared through the air in another graceful arc and fell with a dull thud to the ground.  
    Bruce stood up and walked back to the camp while the mauling continued. He wasn’t finished yet.
     

CHAPTER FOUR

Kruger National Park
    Close to Tshokwane Rest Camp

    Colonel Daniel Roebuck took aim through his rifle's scope. The sun was setting, bathing the rock he was lying on in reds and ochers. He squinted and centered the crosshairs on Bruce Bryden's chest, then he pointed left and looked at the tied-up poachers. He lowered the rifle and dialed a number on his cell phone.
    “He killed them. No, not all of them. Yes, I have a clear shot, but his backup has arrived. I'm outnumbered, and they have a chopper. I'll take him down when he's alone.”
    He hung up and took a swig of water from his bottle. The water was tepid, and it tasted like dust. He grimaced, squinting at the setting sun. He swatted a fly from his sweaty brow. He hated the stuffy camouflage uniform that he had been issued. It would have been more comfortable in the cooler climes that he was used to. In Africa it was a bitch.  
    He looked back at the group of men. Bryden wouldn't be leaving with the helicopter; his mission was still far from over.
    Colonel Roebuck lay back on his