Shoot the Bastards Read online

  Also By Michael Stanley

  The Detective Kubu Mysteries

  A Carrion of Death

  The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu

  Death of the Mantis

  Deadly Harvest

  A Death in the Family

  Dying to Live

  The Crystal Nguyen Thrillers

  Shoot the Bastards

  Copyright © 2019 by Michael Sears and Stanley Raynes Trollip

  Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by The Book Designers

  Cover images © flovie/Shutterstock, Jandrie Lombard/Shutterstock, Lovely Bird/Shutterstock, AndreAnita/Shutterstock, Olesia Bilkei/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Part 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part 3

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part 4

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Part 5

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Back Cover

  To the men and women involved in rhino conservation

  Cast of Characters

  Boss Man: Crys Nguyen’s name for Chu Nhan, boss of a smuggling gang in Ho Chi Minh City

  Chikosi, Bongani: Game guide at Tshukudu; also works with an anti-poaching team in Kruger National Park

  Chu Nhan: Boss of a smuggling gang in Ho Chi Minh City; Crys calls him Boss Man

  Davidson, Michael: A journalist who investigated rhino poaching and rhino-horn smuggling before Crys

  Dinh Van Duong: Official in the Vietnamese Department of Environmental Affairs

  Do: Associate of Dinh Van Dong in Ho Chi Minh City

  Donald: Associate of Søren Willandsen at End Extinction NGO in Ho Chi Minh City

  Goldsmith, Sara: Editor at National Geographic magazine

  Ho Van Tan: Vietnamese man who survives plane crash in the bush

  Joe: Seller of rhino horn in Ho Chi Minh City, who works with the smugglers

  Le Van Tham: Seller of rhino horn in Ho Chi Minh City

  Mabula, Colonel: Son of Anton Malan

  Malan, Anton: Owner of the Tshukudu Nature Reserve, who breeds rhinos and harvests their horns

  Malan, Johannes: Son of Anton Malan

  Ng: Supplier of rhino horn in Saigon Port

  Ngane, Petrus: Night guard at Giyani police station

  Nguyen, Crystal: Minnesotan journalist of Vietnamese descent

  Phan Van Minh: Translator in Ho Chi Minh City

  Pockface: Crys Nguyen’s name for a thug from Mozambique involved with the rhino-horn smugglers

  van Zyl, Hennie: Leader of an anti-poaching team in the Kruger National Park

  Willandsen, Søren: Director of End Extinction NGO in Ho Chi Minh City

  Wood, Nigel: Director of the Rhino International NGO in Geneva

  Prologue

  Michael Davidson wiped the sweat off his face, irritated that his hand was unsteady.

  He’d been following the white pickup for almost two hours. He was actually surprised that he hadn’t lost it somewhere along the way because he’d had to keep a long way back, as there was very little traffic. But the roads were straight with few major intersections—that had helped. Eventually, near a small town called Giyani, the pickup had turned onto a dirt road. After that he’d been able to drop even further back and just follow the dust train. The dust had stopped at the gate of a smallholding.

  He drove slowly past at the entrance. The pickup was nowhere in sight and had probably been driven round the back of the ramshackle house. The entrance was nothing more than a double metal farm gate that you pulled closed by hand, with a cattle grid below it. It was secured with a padlock, but it wasn’t much of a barrier.

  He was very tempted to call it a day—he’d already connected most of the links in the rhino-horn smuggling chain. But there was still the crucial connection to establish—the one between the local traffickers and the people who would smuggle the horn out of the country to Mozambique. He had to document that. And if his tipoff was correct, the transfer would happen today. This would be his one and only chance. And if he succeeded, the payoff would be big—both in money and reputation. But these were very nasty men, and they had a lot to lose.

  He drove on until he found a driveway where he could pull off and be sure his vehicle wouldn’t be seen from the road. Then he grabbed his camera and walked back to the padlocked gate. Perhaps he could just hide near it and photograph who came and went.

  But once he reached the gate, the lure of a scoop was too strong to resist. If he merely photographed a vehicle leaving the farm, what would that prove? The chain would not be joined.

  Anyway, they wouldn’t be expecting anything—he was sure they hadn’t noticed him following them. So, it wouldn’t be such a huge risk, and there was thick brush around he could hide in if he had to.

  He wet his lips and carefully scanned his surroundings. Nothing. Quickly, he clambered over the gate, dropped to the ground and moved off the driveway into the veld. A couple of cattle on the next property raised their heads and looked at him, but there was no other response.

  He started to think about ways he could get close to the house. The problem was that the area immediately around it had been cleared. Some optimist had planted scraggy grass, but it had mostly lost the battle with the hard, dry ground. He couldn’t see anywhere near the house where he could hide safely.

  Then he heard a vehicle approaching.

  He was surprised. T
he pickup had just got there.

  Davidson dropped to the ground behind a low bush, thankful for at least a little cover.

  He felt the familiar effects of an adrenalin surge. He’d done a stint covering the war in Afghanistan and, while he hadn’t enjoyed the danger, there’d been a peculiar exhilaration in knowing that every step you took might be your last. But there also had been fear. And that was what he felt now.

  A man came down the driveway and opened the gate for the vehicle that had just arrived. It headed up to the house, and he heard the man following it.

  Then the footsteps stopped.

  Michael pressed his body into the ground, annoyed with himself for not moving further into the bush. The footsteps started again.

  Were they coming closer?

  There was a snap of a twig.

  Davidson realized the man wasn’t on the road anymore and wondered if he should make a run for it.

  But the man was close and almost certainly armed. Davidson’s heart hammered.

  He lay dead still, feeling the stones and grit through his jeans, and realizing that he’d picked up some thorns when he hit the ground. The back of his neck itched with sweat, and something many-legged was crawling on his arm. He forced himself to ignore it.

  The man had stopped. Then he heard the sound of a urine stream hitting the dust. He heard a zip being pulled up, and the footsteps resumed up the driveway. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  Shortly after, he heard voices and vehicle doors slam, but then it was all quiet again. They’d all gone into the house.

  He lifted his head and looked around cautiously, but there was no sign of either vehicle. He decided the main entrance to the building must be on the other side.

  He scrambled to his feet and rapidly worked his way further into the bush and round the house, trying to keep low and out of sight of any of the windows. After a few minutes, he could see the door with the pickup and the new vehicle parked in front of it. The problem was that from where he was, he wouldn’t be able to see what was happening or take pictures, and if he tried to get much closer, he’d be exposed. He needed elevation.

  He spotted a large sausage tree between him and the vehicles. He’d have preferred to be closer, but then, further away was safer. The tree would have to do.

  Hoping that the men were all engaged inside with their transaction and that they hadn’t left a lookout, he worked his way forward, keeping the tree between him and the house. There were no sounds except those of the bush—the trill of insects, the harsh cackles of green wood-hoopoes. Reaching the tree, he stood up and realized he’d lucked out. From here he actually had a good view, and from up the tree he’d be able to see the front entrance and the vehicles clearly. He’d just have to climb high enough to be hidden by the large leaves and huge sausage-shaped fruits.

  There was a convenient branch not too high off the ground, but it was dead. He’d have to use it to lever himself up, and if it broke it would attract attention. He clenched his teeth and reached up for it, trying to grab smaller side branches at the same time to distribute his weight. He could feel that the dead branch was brittle, felt it protest…felt it crack. But it held long enough for him to lift himself into the canopy. His haste caused some rustling, and the dead branch had made some noise. He held his breath, his heart racing again. There were still only the bush sounds.

  He checked his camera and blew some dust particles off the lens. Then he got some pictures of the new vehicle—a beaten-up panel van—including its license plate, which indicated that it was from Mozambique. Just as he suspected. On the side was painted “Maputo Electrical” with a lightning logo.

  Then he waited.

  It took a while, but at last two men—Asian, by the look of them—emerged from the house, each with a holdall, obviously heavy. One of the white men he’d been following came out after them.

  Davidson wondered if the other man was still in the house.

  Michael slowly lifted his camera and rested the lens on a branch.

  It wasn’t long before his patience was rewarded in a way he couldn’t have dared hope for. To open the back door of the van, one of the men had to drop his holdall—and it wasn’t fastened. For a few seconds, Davidson could see into the bag quite clearly through his zoom lens.

  It was stuffed with rhino horns.

  The man picked up the bag and tossed it into the back of the van, making no attempt to hide it, and his partner did the same.

  As Davidson zoomed out to get a wider shot, the missing second white man walked into the viewfinder. He was at the side of the house. Michael froze, his heart thumping. The man was scanning with a pair of binoculars.

  In a few moments, he would be focused on the sausage tree.

  Part 1

  Duluth, Minnesota

  Chapter 1

  Crys caught Kirsten, the leader, fifty yards before the crest of the hill. At the top, she was five yards ahead. It was all going to hinge on the last downhill.

  Float on the downhills, her coach had told her. Don’t force it!

  Her lighter body would work against her. Kirsten was heavier and stronger.

  Float! she told herself.

  If she could get to the bottom even or slightly ahead, she was confident she was faster on the home stretch.

  She concentrated on keeping her body loose.

  The first turn was a long arc. She was still ahead as she came out of it. The second was a tester, steep and sharp. The type of turn she’d always struggled with, tightening up and not committing.

  She could hear Carl’s voice: Float!

  She struggled to relax her muscles and headed into the turn. Down and around, faster and faster.

  At the end of the turn, she was still ahead. Now a long straight. She could sense Kirsten gaining. Then she could see her, edging ahead.

  Ahead was the last curve—sharp to the left followed immediately by a tight turn to the right.

  Float!

  Suddenly, Crys was in the zone. Fatigue and fear drained away. She was on the outside watching herself. Watching herself float through the taxing S-curve. Watching herself ahead by five yards at the bottom. Watching herself cross the finish line ten yards ahead of a struggling Kirsten. Watching herself raise her ski poles in unbridled joy.

  * * *

  “And the winner of the 2017 Minnesota Women’s Biathlon is…Crystal Nguyen!”

  The small, enthusiastic crowd of skiers and spectators whooped and applauded.

  As she pushed through the crowd to the podium, Crys was experiencing an almost out-of-body experience. It was as though she was watching herself being patted on the back, relishing the taste of her first major win. Part of her was thrilled, part surprised at the positive reception, and part feeling a bit of an anticlimax after the hundreds of hours of training she’d put in.

  As she stood between the two runners-up, holding the trophy above her head, she realized what a strange sight it must be. She, a typical Vietnamese woman—short, black hair, dark olive skin; they, tall, blond women of Nordic descent. She was pretty sure that it was the first time a woman who wasn’t white had won such a high-profile race.

  The press realized they had a good story, and photographers crowded around, cameras flashing.

  “Crys, what’s it like to be the first Vietnamese winner?” shouted a reporter in the crowd.

  “I don’t know what I’m feeling at the moment,” she replied with a smile. “But I’m sure it’s no different from what other winners feel—elation, satisfaction.”

  “But don’t you feel proud that a Vietnamese can beat the Americans?”

  “I don’t think about my heritage when I’m skiing. I’m just proud to have won against such tough competition.” She indicated the two women next to her. “Being Vietnamese has nothing to do with it.”

  Let’s get this over with, sh
e thought.

  “Is there any particular aspect of your training that made the difference?”

  Crys nodded and pointed at the back of the crowd. “My wonderful coach, Carl Hansen. Without him, I’d still be on the course.” She lifted her hands and applauded in Carl’s direction.

  * * *

  It was around eight o’clock when Crys opened the front door of her rented home on the outskirts of Duluth. She, Carl, and his wife, had enjoyed a leisurely celebratory dinner at a local restaurant. Now she wanted to savor the day by herself.

  She loved the quietness of living on a cul-de-sac, with a forest as a neighbor, loved the fact that hardly anyone used the road in front of her house. No one ever peered in the windows or knocked on the door wanting to borrow a cup of sugar. Better yet, she wasn’t asked to the occasional neighborhood get together. To the few people who lived on her road, she was invisible.

  She lit the wood stove and sat down in her favorite chair. She had one thing to do before settling in. She picked up her phone. Should she phone? Or should she text? She could feel herself tense up. There was a risk either way. She wanted to phone, to speak to her mother, to tell her of her victory. But if her father heard them speaking…she shuddered at the thought of what he would do. Especially if he was in a bad mood. Which he usually was. It was a big risk. Normally they spoke when he wasn’t around, usually when her mother was out shopping and could use a pay phone. They knew he often checked her mother’s phone to see who she’d been speaking to.

  Crys took a few deep breaths. She so wanted to share her good news and have a good chat. But she’d seen her mother’s face after one of her father’s tantrums. She couldn’t take the chance.

  Even a text was risky, even though she’d told her mother how to turn off the notification sound. But it was less risky—her mother could read it later, when alone, then delete it. Reluctantly she started typing.

  After she’d pressed SEND, she unrolled her yoga mat on the floor. She needed to stretch and center herself after the excitement of the day. She sat down and slowly twisted into a half lotus, her tired muscles protesting with each stretch. She breathed deeply, closed her eyes, and quietly chanted her mantra: Úm ma ni bát ni hồng. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng.