“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type.”

Cobus rose and pointed the shotgun at Nimpini’s face. “Get up and take a piss and a shit. Now.” Nimpini stared at him, confused. “Take a piss and a shit, or I’m leaving your body here for the vultures. And don’t get any on your clothes.”

Cobus would have to get through at least one border checkpoint with Nimpini in his truck, and there was always the possibility of being stopped by the cops on some bullshit traffic violation. It would be a long drive—a half day at least—and should Nimpini soil himself on the journey, the odor could lead to suspicion, which in turn could lead to inspection and subsequent incarceration for Cobus. Hell, if the tables were turned, Cobus would have shat himself in a heartbeat to tip off the South African border agents that he was being smuggled into their country.

Nimpini squatted and whimpered as he tried to force himself to defecate—surely no easy feat under the current circumstances. With his life hanging in the balance, he ultimately succeeded, which got him a brief stay of execution back on the floor in the back of Cobus’s pickup.

Cobus then dug in the glove compartment and took out a syringe he had stolen from the veterinary offices at Kruger. He stuck Nimpini with the needle, which was loaded with the same barbiturates the rangers used to sedate big game for transport. It was a long journey ahead, and Cobus didn’t want his captive mustering the courage to try to flee along the way. Since Cobus was just guessing the appropriate dosage for a human, he knew there was the possibility the drug could make Nimpini stop breathing altogether. Nimpini’s survival, however, was low on Cobus’s list of concerns right now.

Cobus reached his hometown of White River shortly after 10:00 p.m. and continued west out of town on the road to Pretoria. The road between the park and the administrative capital of South Africa was sparsely populated, and Cobus easily found a quiet place to turn off right after the 30 km marker. He could hear Nimpini groaning behind him.

Cobus circled to the back of his pickup and opened the sack full of guns, withdrawing one of the suppressed high-powered hunting rifles. He then removed the blanket covering Nimpini and led his blindfolded prisoner to an open patch of dirt behind the Triton. Nimpini stumbled, still lethargic from the remaining barbiturate in his system.

Cobus withdrew a small shovel from the back of his truck. The tool had served him well over the years and gotten him out of more than one ditch on South Africa’s rutty back roads. Now it would be used to make a ditch. Cobus tossed the shovel at Nimpini’s feet and cut his bindings. “Dig,” he ordered his prisoner.

Nimpini hesitated, looking into the makeshift suppressor mounted on the hunting rifle. Out here, no one would hear him scream, and no one would hear him killed. He picked up the shovel. His life was now being measured in minutes.