Scent of Fear

  About Scent of Fear

  Afghanistan veteran Sean Bourke’s world explodes when an IED detonates in South Africa’s Sabi Sand Game Reserve.

  On a routine anti-poaching patrol, Sean and his tracker dog Benny watch in horror as over-eager rookie Tumi Mabasa is almost killed and her dog gravely injured in the explosion.

  Along with Tumi and best mate Craig Hoddy, Sean is determined to hunt down the elusive bombmaker who has introduced this destructive weapon to the war on poaching.

  But Sean is his own worst enemy. Haunted by nightmares of the war and racked with guilt from driving away his ex-wife, Christine, he soon discovers she and Craig are in the midst of an intense affair.

  And there’s another enemy at play . . .

  As bombs target Sean’s team, can he get himself back on track and win the fight for Africa’s wildlife – and Christine – before it’s too late?

  ‘Gripping action thrillers . . . never disappoints as a storyteller’ daily telegraph

  Contents

  Cover

  About Scent of Fear

  Title page

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Tony Park

  Also by Tony Park

  Copyright page

  For Nicola

  Prologue

  Sabi Sand Game Reserve, South Africa

  I hate cats.

  Don’t worry if you’re a cat person. I’ll win you over. I tend to grow on people. Sure, I have my faults. I’m messy, my farts stink, and my best friend says that all I think about is eating and chasing tail.

  And work.

  I love my job. I’m good at it, which is why I’m alive and still working today. My idea of hell is to be cooped up indoors somewhere, or unemployed. It’s cool if you like to have your nails done, your hair fixed, to get a new outfit or a new toy every week. If that’s your thing, that’s OK. But it’s not mine.

  While I like my job, I like my sleep even better, so I was annoyed at being woken by the cat. I was having a dream, and it was a good one. I was chasing pussy. I like that, as well.

  Did I tell you I went to war?

  Want to know the truth? I liked it.

  It’s not for everyone; not for those who need gourmet food, a comfy bed, endless amusement. Not for the ones who need to be carried through life, or adorned with jewels or taken to the doctor at the drop of a hat for a check-up.

  But it’s not all fun.

  War is crazy. Mad and bad. I lost a couple of friends and that was sad. I howled. I got hit, took some homemade shrapnel from an IED, an improvised explosive device, they call it. Me, I call it a big fucking bang, worse than any firework you could ever imagine.

  That’s another downside of war, too many bangs.

  But on the whole, the chow was good, the work was fun, and I made some great friends. Buddies for life, in fact, and that’s how I ended up back home, in South Africa.

  I knew Africa, as soon as I came back. One time, when I was on a helicopter – I hate them, too, by the way – I thought about grass. Not marijuana, though there was plenty of that in Afghanistan (I can sniff that shit out half a mile away), but the kind you roll in and like to feel under your feet. I was so damned used to walking on rocks and dirt and sand, and through mud and crap and ice-cold rivers, that I almost forgot what it was like to walk on grass.

  It was after the IED had gone off. I had a metal screw, part of the bomb, stuck inside me, near an artery, and I was bleeding bad. A US Army Special Forces medic had put a field dressing on me and inserted an IV to keep my fluids up. He saved my life and he was crying as he worked on me. Sean was next to him, holding me still, and he was crying too. I have that effect on people – told you that you’d grow to like me.

  As I passed out, from loss of blood, the last thing I thought of was grass. I remembered the summers, when I was small, when the grass was green and soft, like running on velvet. By the time I finished training it was the end of the dry season and the grass was the colour of gold, brittle, dry, spiky to the touch. Still, it was better than dirt and rock.

  I woke up in the hospital and I freaked out. I hate going to the doctor, always have. Give me gunfire and explosions any day, but there’s nothing that makes me whine and cower and hide under my arse more than the prospect of a trip to the sawbones. It’s the smells, you know? All that disinfectant and piss and drugs, and that look in the eye of the person taking you there. You just know it’s going to be bad.

  I survived Afghanistan, and so did Sean. Got me a scar where the hair won’t grow to this day, and a promotion, to US Army corporal, honorary of course, and a medal. I saved a guy, my buddy Sean, and a whole bunch of American GIs. It didn’t really mean anything to me; I was just doing my job.

  I can sense it, you know, when there’s danger. It’s what the guys liked about me.

  They came to visit me in the hospital, brought me food, and even a beer, though the alcohol-free kind. I lapped it up and I wolfed down that hamburger like it was the best meal of my life, the best day ever. It was both of those things. It took a while, but I got back to work, and so did Sean.

  But where was I? Oh, yeah, cats. Right.

  Hate ’em. I can hear the one that woke me up, right now. It’s just outside my place. I live back in South Africa now. Different job, same rank. I’m still a corporal, although now instead of looking for Taliban and bombs, I’m hunting poachers. There are no IEDs, but that doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous, or scary; it’s both.

  The cat’s calling, keeping me awake and pissing me off, because I’m on duty and I need my sleep. I can be called out at any time, day or night. Poachers don’t keep regular hours, but that’s fine by me.

  It’s like the war, you know? You train a lot, and that can be fun, but the real excitement comes when you get a callout. There’s nothing like it, that thrill of the hunt, running through the bush or finding a bad guy. And like in the war, you sleep when you can.

  I heard a stretcher creak, and rolled over. Sean was awake.

  ‘Howzit, boet?’

  Like me, Sean was born in South Africa, in Durban, but we both ended up working for the US Army in Afghanistan, as contractors. He calls me his boet as we’re brothers, inseparable.

  I didn’t say anything, but he could tell from the look on my face I wasn’t happy.

  ‘I know. Bloody cat.’

  I sighed. He picked up his phone off the upturned box that served as a side table in the permanent safari tent we shared and checked the time. ‘Middle of the night still.’

  He stretched and yawned, and I did the same. It was cold, and the full moon’s watery light seeped into our room.

  We both heard the sound of gunfire.

  ‘Shit.’ Sean switched on the tent light.

  I jumped off the stretcher.

  Full moon nights used to be really busy, but it had been some time since we’d been called out.

  ‘That’s near.’ He cocked an ear. There were more shots, and they were very close. Sean pulled on his boots and was buttoning his bush shirt when his phone rang.

  ‘Howzit . . . OK,’ he said into the phone, then ended the call and turned to me. ‘We’re on, Benny.’

  I was ready to go. Couldn’t wait, in fact. I hadn’t slept much – the cat had seen to that – but I was awake and alert and ready to do my job. It was a cold, clear night, but the chill in the air was nothing compared to the sleet and snow in the mountains of Afghanistan.

  Sean opened his mouth to speak, but as I looked up at him – he’s much taller than me – I already knew what he was going to say. At that very second, when I heard the noise, that dull thwap-thwap-thwap of rotor blades bouncing around the night sky and heading our way, I wanted to turn tail and hide under my blanket. In fact, I got up and started to move.

  ‘Benny. It’s OK, boy. How many times do I have to tell you, it’s only a chopper?’

  Only a chopper?

  ‘Quit your whining, Benny,’ he said. ‘You’re a dog, not a pussy.’

  I was reluctant, but I followed Sean outside into the cool night air. Swivelling my head in the direction of the noise, I saw the reflection of the landing light rippling its way along the surface of the Sabie River in the distance.

  Only a chopper. And people call me a dumb animal.

  Chapter 1


  Sean Bourke slung his LM5 rifle over his shoulder and grabbed Benny by the scruff of the neck. He buckled Benny’s green nylon webbing tracking collar on him and the dog’s alert status instantly ratcheted up a notch.

  Benny knew that when his collar came on it was time to go to work, that this was not play. However, as much as Benny loved working he did not like flying, and he started to whine again.

  Sean clipped on Benny’s short lead and held him steady as the anti-poaching helicopter settled into a hover, and then touched down on the cleared landing pad adjacent to the anti-poaching camp hidden in the bush not far from the luxurious Lion Plains Safari Lodge.

  ‘Eish, man, you’re getting heavy,’ Sean said to Benny as he picked him up and headed to the chopper. ‘Too much biltong.’

  Benny was a Belgian Malinois, and when Sean described him, and the breed, to people who didn’t know them, he usually said his dog was like a compact German Shepherd and faster than the bigger dog. He had a black muzzle and a deep tan–coloured coat.

  Sean screwed his eyes shut against the wave of dust and grit that washed over him as he jogged, hunched over the dog, then turned and slid, butt first, into the helicopter. He was barely in when Francois, the pilot, started lifting off.

  Like all dogs, Benny loved riding in cars, even when confined to his travel kennel or a cage, and he was fearless in the bush, but flying reduced him to a terrified, whining mess. It was hardly surprising. Sean wasn’t mad about helicopters either.

  He hugged Benny closer. ‘It’s all right, my boy. We’ll be on the ground soon.’

  There were two other green-clad men in the chopper and when Sean had found a seatbelt and fastened it on he nodded to Charles and Oliver. They were armed members of the team who accompanied the dogs and handlers, providing extra firepower. When they were rostered on duty, Charles and Oliver stayed in the same camp as Sean, but this evening they had gone out on patrol at dusk and, once it was dark, had set up a night observation post on a koppie, a rock-studded hill that overlooked a large chunk of the reserve. Both were good trackers in their own right. The leader of the anti-poaching unit, Craig, who doubled as another dog handler, was off duty. Charles smiled and waved to Sean; Oliver stared out the open side door of the aircraft, watching the ground.

  Benny barked and writhed in Sean’s embrace and it was only when Sean followed the dog’s gaze that he saw there was someone else on board, a woman, on the far side of Oliver, and another dog. Sean didn’t recognise the mouse-grey Weimaraner or the other handler, partly because she was all but obscured by Oliver’s bulk.

  The other handler on their team, Musa, had left the previous week to take up a job closer to his Zululand home, at the Hluhluwe-iMfolozi Park, and the team had been expecting a replacement who they knew had just finished training at a place up at Hoedspruit, north of where they were. Sean had met women handlers in the police and the military and working in war zones overseas, but females were still something of a rarity in this particular role.

  Sean leaned as far as he could past the two men and waved to her. He yelled his name.

  He couldn’t hear what she said, but guessed she was introducing herself. She didn’t need to speak for him to recognise her fear. Her uniform was so new it was shiny, the creases factory-fresh. He looked down at her boots. They were spotless, still gleaming from weeks of spit-polishing during her basic training.

  Benny sniffed and his tongue lolled, his fear of flying overcome by his curiosity over his fellow passenger.

  Sean nodded to the Weimaraner. ‘Female?’

  The woman must have heard, or read his lips. She nodded vigorously. ‘Gemma.’

  The dog looked in good condition and her handler was pretty, big eyes, luscious lips, and Charles obviously thought so as well, because he started talking to her and whatever he said made her laugh.

  Sean looked out through the perspex windscreen of the cockpit. Francois was pointing. Sean unclipped a spare headset from the bulkhead and put it on.

  Oliver, who was also wearing a headset, tapped Sean on the arm, and also pointed ahead. ‘Francois has spotted the carcass.’

  Sean craned his neck and saw the inert mass on the ground, lying in an open grassy vlei. ‘Downwind of the carcass, please, Francois.’

  The pilot nodded. The dogs, Benny and Gemma, would initially be trying to air-scent, to pick up the trace of the people who had done this or their weapons and ammunition from their targets’ smells, tiny particles blowing in the night breeze. For this reason, they tracked, where possible, by walking into the wind to give the dogs’ noses a better chance of success. There was a large waterhole not far from where the killing had happened and they could all see the directions of the ripples caused by the wind on the moonlit surface.

  Francois knew the drill. He brought the helicopter down, flaring the nose. Sean undid his seatbelt, and the moment the skids touched the earth he and Benny were out. Oliver freed himself of the headset and he and Charles jumped out after them. Sean set down Benny, who was tethered to him by his lead, which was fixed to his webbing harness with a D-ring, and used his left hand to yank back the cocking handle of his LM5. He let the working parts fly forward, chambering a 5.56-millimetre round. The simple action triggered a shot of adrenaline, charging his senses and readying him for the pursuit to come. Benny also knew that sound and was ready for action, nose up, sniffing the breeze. Charles was kneeling in the grass next to them.

  Sean would have set off, but the helicopter was still turning and burning behind him. Francois should have been gone by now, Sean thought. He looked around and saw that the young woman and her dog were still on board. Oliver was on the other side of the chopper, yelling at the woman. Was she scared? Sean wondered.

  He unclipped the D-ring securing the leash and Benny bounded away, then stopped and looked back at Sean, tongue out, eyes bright, waiting for him to follow.

  ‘Sit.’

  Sean ran around the front of the helicopter. He saw the problem immediately. The other dog, Gemma, had got her lead wrapped around the woman’s legs and the handler herself was having trouble getting out of her seat.

  Oliver was swearing at her.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Sean said. He brushed past the male ranger, looked in, and assessed the situation. Gemma’s leash was knotted into a loop and the woman had somehow threaded her seatbelt through the loop. He reached in, found the belt’s buckle, which was hiding under one of her ammunition pouches, and undid it. Next he unthreaded the lead. Gemma, confused and also panicked, jumped down and ran towards Benny, the lead trailing behind her.

  Sean took the woman’s hand and helped her out and down. He saw now that she was young. Francois, shaking his head, lifted off.

  Silence returned, but Oliver started his tirade, albeit in hushed, urgent tones.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, you stupid girl? We have important work to do.’

  ‘Chill, bru,’ Sean said.

  Oliver glared at him. ‘Don’t tell me what to do. Get your dog, start working.’

  Ignoring him, Sean turned back to the woman. ‘You all right?’ She nodded, but he could see she was biting her lower lip. ‘Come.’

  She nodded again and followed him, and Gemma returned to her side. Benny looked back, eager to get on with the job.

  ‘Check, Benny.’

  On that command Benny went towards the dead rhino, sniffing. It was big, probably a bull, Sean thought, and its blood was a dark stain on the ground. Its horn had been taken off, down to the white bone. Benny circled the dead animal, nose down, then he stopped. He went tense, instantly even more alert. His body language told Sean he had picked something up.

  Sean came to him and looked down and ahead of where Benny was sniffing. The grass had been trampled and further on some low branches had been broken off a sapling.

  Sean shrugged off his twelve-kilogram backpack. Amid the six litres of water – four of which were for Benny – first aid kit, marker panel to signal a helicopter, food, toilet paper, GPS, handcuffs and extra ammunition, were Benny’s tracking harness and a six-metre long lead made of stout nylon cord encased in rubber.

  Sean quickly fitted the harness and this act, like attaching his collar, told Benny that they were about to get serious. Benny strained against him, eager to get on the trail. Sean stowed his gear and Benny’s short lead, but tucked the long lead behind the pouches fixed to his webbing, across his chest.