“No, Pete. And she’s zeroed. Let’s go. I’m wheels up by midnight.” His instincts suddenly told him to alter his schedule, narrow the threat window even further.

“Right,” Zoeller said, accepting the change. “Well, we’re set for you. ’Bout an hour out to him.”

“All right.”

Krieger climbed into the Land Rover’s passenger seat. Zoeller took the wheel. He glanced at the pair of teenage trackers sitting in the back of the Land Rover. New boys. That was good.

He had been watching a Pats game in his den when Zoeller’s email arrived. The big buffalo, Minotaur, had killed some villagers, got his name in the damn newspaper. The community was in an uproar. The Saudis were asking about him, too, wanting to schedule a hunt. “Somebody’s going to take him, Tots,” Zoeller had written.

Krieger studied the animal he’d missed. Rock-hard bosses gnarled like oyster shells, ears worn like aged moth wings, chest as broad as a truck. The old bull lived alone now. Moving at his own pace. Many considered the Cape buffalo the most dangerous game in Africa. Black Death, they called it, Africa’s widow-maker. Miss your shot and, well, that had happened once already. Krieger had sent Zoeller a single-word response: “Mine.”

Under his safari shirt, Krieger wore the new Vulcan bulletproof undershirt, manufactured by a Perseus Group subsidiary in Mexico using chitin harvested from mantis shrimp. It was a terrific product, a little stiff but lightweight and effective against just about any handgun out there. When the first shipment arrived, a few ex-operators got a kick out of donning Vulcan shirts and shooting each other in the chest. It was great for morale—and the YouTube videos didn’t hurt sales—but then a couple of his guys from Dallas got the idea to put the bulletproof shirts on passed-out homeless men. They woke them up and shot them center mass. The videos were the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Had to fire them all, of course.

Undershirts didn’t help against a headshot. Krieger pulled his Filson hat down over his eyes and lay back in his seat. Not sweating what he couldn’t control was one of his rules.

An hour later, Zoeller tapped his shoulder. “The boys have him over the next rise,” he said, slowing to a stop. Krieger examined the setting. Wide-open tall grass, no trees. Minotaur over the next hill. Or maybe something else.

Zoeller seemed to be his usual self. Old Pete had been on the Kimber since Krieger was a boy. Krieger thinking he had to learn to trust somebody someday, then laughing inwardly at himself. Sure, and yoga—he’d take up yoga, too.

“Sticks?”

“No sticks,” Krieger said.