Klay looked into Eady’s eyes as he considered what Eady had done and why. The old man had staged the boy’s homicide to destabilize Klay, opening him to his CIA offer, ensuring that either way Klay would keep it quiet, leveraging Klay’s guilt over his mother’s murder to manipulate and control him for years.

Klay struck Eady then, connecting just below the older man’s cheekbone. Eady went down, taking a net and fishing rods to the floor with him. He could have killed Eady with one punch, but he didn’t have to.

“You become what you kill,” Bernard had warned him once. “So choose wisely.”

Klay lifted Mandela’s photo off its nail and threw it across the room.

Outside, he started his Toyota. In his rearview mirror he watched Eady emerge from his house wearing a fisherman’s vest and make his way unsteadily down the grassy slope, a fly rod in one hand, trailed by a pack of dogs.

Klay adjusted his rearview. On the opposite slope two men descended toward the pond.

He put the Land Cruiser in drive. After a few yards he stomped on the brake. The mutt with the bull’s-eye on its leg was sitting at the edge of the driveway, watching him with an expression that reminded him of a little chicken-stealing Kenyan dog he’d seen looking down at him from a rooftop.

Klay opened his door and gave a short whistle.

The dog didn’t jump in. It flew.

WE BURY THEM ONE AT A TIME

Kimber Conservancy, Zimbabwe

Krieger’s G650 made another low pass to scare off a few stubborn waterbuck before circling wide and touching down on the Kimber’s airstrip. Pete Zoeller waited beside a freshly washed dark green Land Rover, his big sleeveless arms crossed over his thick chest.

“Howzit, Pete?” Krieger said as he descended his jet’s final step.

“We got the boys on him, Mr. Krieger,” Zoeller said, taking a duffel bag from Krieger, knowing well enough not to ask for his briefcase. Knowing enough to erase Krieger’s previous attempt at Minotaur from his memory, too.

“Mr. Krieger is it?” Krieger said, and quick-scanned the perimeter.

Zoeller, the deaf bastard, had not heard him. Krieger took a deep breath, sending his mind to the .45 he wore on his belt. He was glad to be in and out in two days, yet concerned that such a narrow window made him an easy target. Botha was out there somewhere, and a sniper-quality shot. Krieger was drawn to the challenge presented by Botha on the loose, refusing to bring his bodyguards with him. Or Mapes. She would meet him back in Jo’burg. The Kimber was the Kimber. He came here to be alone.

“Did you want to freshen—”