He couldn’t believe she was headed to college. To him Blaze was still the little seven-year-old girl who had taught Krieger’s brother what a liberal was. It had been Christmas at the Montana ranch. James, a dermatologist from San Francisco, was tucking Blaze into bed when Blaze said, “Uncle James, Daddy says I shouldn’t talk politics with you because you’re a liberal.”

James had been amused. “What’s a liberal, Blaze?”

“Daddy says if I get an A on a test and a lazy girl gets an F, a liberal will take away my A and give it to the lazy girl so she gets a C and I do, too.”

That was Blaze. She had politics in her future. Or maybe even Perseus Group—if she could step up today.

“We’ll need to bait him, Tots,” Zoeller said, looking up at the lion. “He’s breeding age and nothing’s going to get him off those females.”

“Who’s Tots?” Blaze asked.

Krieger smiled. “It’s my bush name. Ras Botha gave it to me when I was a boy. Tots because I was the baby Krieger when your great grandfather hunted here. If you do well, maybe Pete will give you a bush name.”

Blaze gave a short laugh. “I think I can live without one, Tots.”

•   •   •

While Zoeller set up a blind, Krieger sat in the passenger seat of the open Land Rover, closed his eyes, and breathed in the warm air. Behind him, Blaze was looking at her phone. Their trackers, a father and son named Njovu and Isaac, went off to find a zebra to use as bait.

Krieger could feel Ras Botha’s presence on the Kimber. Even when they were boys, Botha had been something out of mythology. He’d been there for Krieger’s first lion. Krieger’s father and grandfather had painted Krieger’s cheek with the lion’s blood, but Botha had cut out the big cat’s testicles and handed him one for him to swallow. Botha was a little younger than Krieger, but only in years. In the bush Botha was an ancient, a true Boer. Unfortunately, a true Boer in more ways than just hunting: Botha couldn’t avoid trouble in an empty room. For as long as Krieger could remember, Botha had been on his way into, or out of, prison. “Recruiting trips, Tots,” Botha called his frequent incarcerations. The man was indomitable.

It had been a criminal trial that had inspired Botha to sell him the Kimber. “Tots, my bru,” Botha’s phone call had begun. “Lekker investment opportunity for you . . .”

Krieger had laughed when he heard Botha’s scheme. Botha proposed to sell him the Kimber, quietly and off book, in order to plead poverty to his judge. “If I’m so poor, how can I be the head of a fokken international crime syndicate? Right, Terry?”