Normally Klay would give a guy like Botha all the time he wanted to tell his stories. He would come back again and again and listen as long as his target would talk, letting the guy unleash his ego. Rope-a-dope him with innocuous questioning; then, when the target was worn out, Klay would wade in with his real questions. But this time he didn’t have that luxury. Unchaperoned time with Botha might never come again. He needed to move Botha toward something Hungry could use to prosecute him. Investigate Botha so Hungry can take down Ncube—that is your mission, he told himself. And control yourself.

Still, something about Botha’s story smelled funny. Something about the man said, Wait.

“You listening to me, counselor?”

“I’m waiting for the movie to come out.”

Botha shook his head. “You know,” he said, wagging a finger, “you are some fucking crazy fucker. You remind me of me. So the fucking client waves the shooting sticks away. Wants to free-hand his shot. Now, he’s carrying a .416 Rigby. But it’s a single, and if he misses—? I have a motto for my camp: never leave a wounded animal behind. If it’s shot, we kill it.”

“Your camp? I thought it’s not your property anymore.”

“Yeah. We’ll see. Client asks Old Pete Zoeller for a range check. Pete carries my Holland and Holland double rifle in five hundred nitro express. If anything goes wrong, he’s there to second him with two. Pete’s making his check when the client fucking shoots. Misfire. Round’s a dud. No time for a second with his fucking single shot. It’s on, and it’s no joke. Minotaur is no fucking joke, I’m telling you. They got a locomotive coming down on them. Now here’s the part—client doesn’t sweat it. He pushes Old Pete out of the way, takes a step to the side, pulls a .45, and wham, shoots the boy.”

“The boy?” Klay said.

“Shoots Isaac, dead. Confuses ’em,” he tells Pete. “Says his lads did it with the hajjis in Afghanistan. Called it a Crocodile Dundee. He was right, too. Minotaur stopped mid-charge. ‘Send me the funeral bill,’ he tells Pete.”

Botha wiped a few drops of Klay’s blood off the tabletop with his paper towel. He looked at Klay.

Klay’s mind was spinning. He scanned Botha’s eyes, his breathing, his posture, and was startled to find no clue whether the man was lying.

“You know a lot of fucking assholes. That your point?” Klay asked.

Botha leaned forward. He punctuated his words carefully. “My point, counselor, is that boy never knew he was fair game. My point is, you take care with your assumptions. Didn’t they teach you that at the Farm? No? Maybe things have changed.”