Bloodhorn: Chris Stone Series 2

By Graham Spence

"If you truly want to grasp the situation facing conservationists, do what a poacher does and look at a rhino and see a three-foot-long scimitar of pure gold on its nose. Yet you don’t have to tunnel into the earth for it. One bullet is all you need."

Alaskan fishing guide Chris Stone’s future sister-in-law Josie Gordon, a game ranger, has been kidnapped in South Africa by a murderous gang of rhino poachers. She was investigating the illicit horn trade, now among the most lucrative crimes in the world, and was on the verge of exposing the international wildlife mafia.

With the help of a South African private detective and a former Vietnam Green Beret, Chris and his fiancé Debra vow to find her.

They follow Josie’s trail, from South African hunting reserves that are little more than drug-fueled bordellos in the bush to Ho Chi Minh City, where ground rhino horn is regarded as a wonder cure for anything from cancer to impotency.

The final showdown is back in Africa, where game rangers using ancient bolt-action rifles take on the heavily-armed mercenaries of the wildlife mafia.

With the rhino fast facing extinction, the author of the international bestseller The Elephant Whisperer explores the scourge of wildlife smuggling in this searing novel taken from today’s headlines.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WildRiver Publications
• Release date: Feb 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386079835

Graham Spence

Born in Africa, GRAHAM SPENCE was a journalist for twenty-five years during South Africa’s turbulent apartheid era. He has written several books on Africa, including the global bestseller The Elephant Whisperer which he co-authored with the ‘Indiana Jones of conservation’ Lawrence Anthony, as well as Saving the Last Rhinos and Rewilding Africa with environmentalist Grant Fowlds. He currently lives with his family in England.

Book preview

Prologue

JOSIE GORDON’S RAGE was infinite.

It was so intense that she physically shook. She knew such gut-wrenching fury was corrosive and killed more people through strokes or heart attacks than anything else, but she couldn’t help it.

It wasn’t like her. She was usually good-natured to the point of being taken advantage of, although as a former game ranger, she was tougher than most men she knew.

But seeing the young rhino lying in gallons of dried purple-red blood, its face an obscenely gaping Halloween mask, sent her to the brink.

A crime against innocent creatures – a crime against the wilderness – was to her a crime against the universe. There was no forgiveness. There never could be.

She had received the phone call two hours earlier. It was from the manager of the Nzuri Reserve. She had recently worked there as a game ranger before becoming a freelance wildlife crime investigator.

Josie went into shock when she heard the news. The night before poachers had just killed one of the rhinos that she had hand-reared. The rhino, itself an orphan after its mother had been killed by poachers, had only been released into the wild last month. Before that, as a trauma-stricken infant it had sometimes shared Josie’s camp bed until the wooden struts collapsed. She had loved it like a child. Successfully reintroducing it back into the bush had been her most satisfying achievement.

She had even named the rhino, something she seldom did with a wild animal. A creature that is a force of nature should not have a pet name, like a tame dog or pampered cat. But in this case she had made an exception. She had called it Sipho, which in Zulu means ‘gift’.

Immediately after hearing the news, Josie had driven to Nzuri to sift through the crime scene, now twelve hours old.

The amount of blood pooled around the dead animal indicated its heart had been pumping when the poachers performed their brutal surgery.

The Nzuri rangers, some of them weeping, were standing around the corpse, now starting to bloat in the harsh sun. She knew all of them well, comrades in the escalating war to protect the planet. Vusi, the head ranger, walked over, his eyes wild and red. To see this tough man of the bush crying like a child brought it all home to her. She remained dry-eyed as he told her what had happened.

The killers were armed with assault rifles. They had flown into Nzuri in an unmarked helicopter, shot a ranger called Gumede who had confronted them with his ancient .303, then shot the young rhino and hacked off its horn with a chainsaw. Although it was still a juvenile, its immature stump would fetch many thousands of dollars in the Far East.

The only reason they didn’t kill a second rhino was because tough old Gumede had regained consciousness. Even though his one arm had been smashed by an assault rifle bullet, he had somehow managed to work his battered bolt-action Lee-Enfield with his good hand and scare them off.

She looked at the carcass that several hours before had been a vibrant creature, cavorting in the bush as its ancestors had done since the Jurassic age. Whether its heirs would survive this century was up for debate.

Josie walked off into the bush to be alone for a few moments. She leaned against a tall Marula tree in the scorching African sun.

She wept silently, her fists clenched. She vowed vengeance.

One

IT HAD BEEN a fantastic season. The mix of good and bad clients tilted towards the former, but more importantly, reflected fishing guide Chris Stone, there had been a lot of good-sized fish.

The salmon runs had been bountiful and even though it was his first season as a guide on the more remote stretches of the Anvik River, an off-shoot of the mighty Yukon, he had the uncanny ability to ‘smell’ fishy waters. He had put his clients, usually big-tipping North Americans but also some European piscatorial thrill-seekers, onto whatever they wanted: King salmon, Silvers, Cohoe, Grayling and trophy Arctic Char.

An added bonus was that Debra had loved it. She had left her nursing job at the Schefferville Hospital in Canada to be with him and had spent much of her time tending to ailing Athabascans at nearby settlements. She had instinctive empathy with the Athabascans, hardy people most of the rest of the world would call Inuit or Eskimos. Sadly, alcoholism was rife, and the local rotgut vodka was at the root of many ailments, either through violence or addiction. The quiet desperation of ethnic minorities straddling two cultures gnaws at the soul. Debra had seen it with the San people, also known as Bushmen, of her native South Africa who simply had no appetite for a life out of the wild. But the untamed lands and plentiful free-roaming animals were no more. That way of life was gone. Liquor was the easiest release.

Perhaps it was due to her upbringing in Africa that gave her that connection with indigenous people, although many still look at white South Africans as hardwired racists. Chris, who had spent a month in South Africa fishing in the mountains knew this was often not the case. He had been hijacked by black South Africans and discovered from first-hand abuse that racism comes from all hues.

Far worse had happened to Debra. She had been almost killed by thugs in her homeland and the trauma still festered. That’s why she had left to start a new life, initially in Canada. But Chris could see the trouble slowly easing from her beautiful eyes. She told him that she had never been happier than she had during the past six months of the fishing season.

Nor had he. So much so that he was considering asking Debra to marry him, something he had vowed he would never do again after his previous failed attempt.

The problem with that was Debra would not say ‘yes’ until she had presented him to her parents, whom she adored, and her sister, whom she adored even more. That meant a trip back to South Africa with all the emotional baggage that involved for both of them.

It would be better to fly her whole family to Alaska, but although the season had been good, fishing guides were not exactly a wealthy bunch. They did it for the love of the outdoors rather than money and he would be without work until next summer. He had to budget carefully as his prime mission in life was never to work for another boss again.

Okay, technically Daniel Whittaker owned the fishing outfitters he guided for, but Daniel was a friend more than a boss. Daniel also did not consider Chris an ordinary employee, particularly as Debra’s free medical services to Athabascan communities gave him massive goodwill on the rivers and lakes jealously guarded by the indigenous people. Daniel definitely had the edge over his competitors because if ever there was an honorary native Alaskan, Debra fit the bill.

The clients also loved Debra and many wondered how Chris had hooked her. They openly told him so. Chris was not bad-looking in a tanned sort of way and hard outdoor work had honed his physique to professional athlete status, but after a season on the Anvik River he looked exactly what he was – a weather-beaten fishing guide. Debra, with her chestnut hair and green eyes looked like a model.

Chris smiled as he rowed the McKenzie drift boat towards the log cabin-style fishing lodge on the bank. It was not private land, but the local community had given Daniel permission to build there.

He could see Debra on the veranda, a mug of steaming coffee in her hand. A glow sparked in his core.

He roped the boat with a hitch-knot onto the tree stump that acted as a bollard, then waved to her as he strode up the cedar-wood steps, two at a time.

She met him at the door. They hugged and the strength of his grip surprised her. She knew there was something he wanted to say, but it could wait until dinner. It was the first evening they had been alone in the lodge for almost six months, as the summer bookings had seamlessly merged into each other. Chris’s reputation of having survived a hijacking in Africa, a kidnapping in Colombia, and evading jihadists in Chechnya while seeking to cast the perfect fly to fish that had never seen anglers before, had generated an inordinate amount of interest in the angling press. His memoir, The Apocalypse Chase, had become a cult among outdoorsmen. The legend of the guide who not only knew how to put clients onto fish, but who had put his own life on the line fishing in the world’s most dangerous places, grew organically. Daniel, as shrewd a businessman as he was a woodsman, shamelessly capitalized on it.

Alone at last, Debra whispered in his ear.

She released him and threw the remnants of her coffee into the sink. The lodge was open plan and you could cook a meal, pour a drink or collapse on a sofa without having to move out of the room.

It’s nearly sundown. Let’s have a glass of wine.

Beer first – been sweating it out on the oars, said Chris.

He popped a can for himself and grabbed a bottle of Merlot from the rack. After a long season, there were not many bottles left. There had been a lot of parties, amid all the fishing.

However, Chris was an expert in nursing a single glass all evening, no matter how many times the clients thought they had topped it up. They remarked how well he could hold his booze, marvelling at his clear head as he rowed several miles before sunrise while they were silently cursing their hangovers. The truth was Chris didn’t drink that much while working. Guiding and excessive drinking didn’t mix – well, not if you were approaching your forties, as he was.

This afternoon was different. I feel like getting drunk tonight.

Debra nodded. Me too. It’s been a long summer. But a good one.

Chris raised his glass. To the beautiful past summer. He tipped his glass towards her. And to the most beautiful creature of all.

She smiled. Flattery will get you everywhere.

Chris took another gulp. The clients keep telling me how lucky I am.

She looked at him. She knew him so well... He never said anything like that without a ‘but’.

But what?

But nothing. I just agree with them. So I want to make it official. Will you marry me?

She looked at him quizzically then took a quick sip of wine.

Don’t you know you’re meant to present a girl with a big fat ring when you say something like that? Preferably made from precious metal and embedded with several glittering stones?

Chris looked thoughtful for a while then pulled the opening-ring off the top of his beer can.

Put your left hand out.

She spread her fingers and he slipped the aluminium loop on her engagement-ring finger.

This is symbolic. When we get to Anchorage, I’ll buy you the biggest, fattest most glittering diamond you’ve ever seen.

Her green eyes sparkled with tawny flecks that so intrigued him. Hmmm... maybe I’ll wait for that before I say yes.

She stood. Chris, you don’t have to do this, you know. I love you anyway. Maybe we should just leave it as we are.

No. I really want to do it. And I want us to go to South Africa to meet your family.

She paused. I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to. Or even if I can. Go to South Africa after all that has happened, that is.

Debs, I know how much you love your family. But they won’t be that keen to fly out here with the weak Rand-dollar exchange rate. It’ll cost them a fortune. We have to go there.

She took the beer-can-ring off her finger and smiled. I’m into symbolism. But give me a diamond anytime.

So is that a ‘no’?

Absolutely not. It’s a ‘later’.

She gently took his hand and pulled him up. Looking over her shoulder and holding his gaze, she led him upstairs.

...

THEY FINISHED THE WINE while grilling two thick salmon fillets, deep orange and sizzling in their succulence.

Chris then rummaged through the remnants of the liquor cabinet and found a Wild Turkey bottle with a few sloshes still inside. He poured them both a shot.

We have to talk about South Africa, he said. One day... someday, we have to go back.

She nodded. I know.

No one will hurt you. I will not let them. Or die trying.

I know that, too. I think I could only go back with you, she said.

Let’s do it. Let’s go back and you can introduce me to your folks. Let them have some reason to feel sorry for their dear daughter. Let them wonder where they went wrong.

She smiled. Maybe.

The next morning Chris used the satellite phone to call Daniel in Anchorage. It was the first time he had spoken to him in weeks, so hectic had been the summer schedule.

Hey Chris. Daniel’s bass boomed through the static.

Hi, boss.

Don’t call me that. Not anymore. You’re now my partner.

What do you mean?

After last season, I’m giving you shares in the business, with the proviso that Debra also stays. Minority shares, sure, but I want you to be here with me.

Chris was silent for a moment – stunned. How come so much good fortune was coming his way? What was the catch? But he knew with Daniel there was no catch. Daniel’s handshake was firmer than any bloodless paper contract.

Okay, thanks... partner. Just wanted to let you know I’m closing the lodge and we’ll be flying back to Anchorage tomorrow, so keep the beers cold.

Look forward to seeing you. I also need to pass some messages on. Debra’s folks phoned last night and asked that she contact them urgently.

Funny, we were also talking about South Africa last night. Can you tell them Debs will call as soon as we get to Anchorage?

Sure will. He paused. Chris, you’ve done a great job. It’s really neat having you on board. I just wish I could find something for you to do that pays in winter. Gold diving in Nome or something. So making you a partner is just more method in my madness. I want you back next summer.

Dan, you know I’ll be back. This has been the best summer of my life. You’re the best boss.

Partner.

Yeah. Okay. See you later.

Debra had been listening in. I wonder what my parents want? It’s unlike them to try and contact me when they know I’m in the bush.

We’ll find out tomorrow. But big coincidence with us talking about them last night as well, huh?

She nodded, frowning. I’ve got a feeling it’s bad news.

Don’t be like that. Parents do phone their daughters, you know. They sort of like to know what’s happening in their kids’ lives. Want to know if they’ve met a decent good-looking guy... that sort of stuff. Be prepared to lie a little.

She nodded and gave a tight smile, but Chris could see she was worried. You’re probably right.

They woke early and watched the bush pilot taxi down the river in his float plane. Chris had shut down the lodge with spiked boards on the windows and doors to prevent bears from breaking in. A bed of nails would not always stop a determined Grizzly, or even the marginally better-tempered Black, but Chris planned to make it as difficult as possible. His Athabascan friends would also keep an eye out for him. Some of them had trap-lines nearby and promised to make detours to check everything was okay.

Two hours later they were in Anchorage, greeted by Daniel’s beaming craggy face. He hugged them both with vigor, again repeating his pleasure at the way they had both handled the previous season.

When Debra laughingly asked if he was serious about them becoming partners, he hugged her again. Contract’s already been drawn up. Won’t cost you guys a cent – ‘cept I got you by the short and curlies if you don’t come back to me next season.

Ouch! In that case, we’ll be back, she said.

Daniel drove them to his office. Debra walked straight to the phone and dialled South Africa. Her face radiated joy as she and her stepmother swapped news. Suddenly she frowned.

Mom – please repeat that.

Debra nodded. Okay, okay. Chris and I were talking about coming over just last night. We’ll be there as soon as we can get on a plane.

She put down the phone.

Poachers killed a rhino on a reserve where Josie used to work. She vowed to go and catch them. Now she’s missing.

Debra sat down. She felt as if she had been punched with a knuckle-duster in the stomach.

Josie Gordon was her sister.

Two

JOSIE COULD BE MISTAKEN for Debra’s twin, although she was dark blonde while Debra had a luxuriant chestnut-colored mane.

Both had a sprinkling of freckles around their nose and jade-green eyes. Debra was also fuller, an hourglass figure, whereas Josie was chiseled like an Iron Woman triathlete, toned almost to the point of gauntness from hard work in the bush.

They may not have been twins, but they were as close as if they had shared a womb. Debra was four years older, now far away in Alaska, and Josie missed her every day. Debra had cared for her when their mother died giving birth to their brother Brian, and their father had sunk into a shell of corrosive self-pity fueled by alcohol. Throughout Josie’s childhood, Debra had been the sole constant. She had walked her to school, dressed and fed her, with baby Brian strapped to her back, African-style. It was Debra, who at 15-years-old had confronted their father in a rage way beyond her years, accusing him of being a loser and a drunk. Josie had watched, awed at her gentle sister’s sudden wrath.

To his eternal credit, Andrew Gordon listened. He silently got up and poured every drop of liquor down the sink. He then found a regular job and married a good woman who filled both his emptiness and the void his children’s biological mother had left.

Anne Gordon tried hard to have children. After a while, she decided it didn’t matter. She grew to love Andrew’s two beautiful daughters and young son as if they were hers. In turn, Debra and Josie loved her even more than the mother they could barely remember.

The two sisters were inseparable. To this day, whenever Debra hugged her, Josie felt safe and warm. Those flashbacks to her childhood when she’d thought there were only the two of them together against a mean world could never be erased.

Josie later repaid that childhood debt with interest, nursing Debra back to strength, physically and mentally, after she had been raped when a gang of thugs forced the vehicle she was in off the road and beat her fiancé, who had been driving, to pulp. They then took Debra into the township shebeen where drinkers could have her for 10 rand, the equivalent of less than a U.S. dollar. Debra escaped when one drunken rapist passed out on top of her and a local woman risked her life to take her to the nearest police station. Josie spent months trying to find that woman and say thank you on behalf of Debra.

It was dangerous for white women to go into some of the Transkei townships, but Debra and Josie thought this was something that had to be done. They eventually found the woman. She refused payment.

Debra then asked what school her children were at. The woman, whose name was Sibongile Mbogo, told them her only child, a daughter named Jabu, was at the village school where lessons were held under the nearest acacia tree.

A month later, as Jabu was preparing to walk the three miles to her rudimentary classroom, a car arrived outside the family hut. Inside were Debra and Josie. They drove Jabu and Sibongile to a private school in East London, the second largest city in the Eastern Cape. Jabu was given a bright new uniform and was welcomed by the head teacher in person. The bills would be paid for by the Gordon family. Sibongile did not know what to say.

Jabu was a good pupil. She passed with a first class matric andwas accepted by University of Cape Town to study law. The Gordon sisters would foot that bill as well. They were immensely proud of Jabu who kept in touch with daily texts and long monthly emails, regularly admonishing Debra to come home and stop this ‘Alaska nonsense’.

Just as Debra had put her passion into nursing after her horrific attack, Josie had done the same for wildlife management. She had studied conservation at university and got a job at a Zululand game reserve called Nzuri, run by the late, great conservationist Kent Hazzard. Nzuri was the Swahili word for beautiful, and it was a true description.

Kent didn’t pay that well. Instead, the inspiration, passion, and drive he instilled was worth infinitely more than mere coins and notes. But only to those who listened. Kent had never suffered fools and those who didn’t live up