Chapter 1

                                            “Speak softly and carry a big stick - you will go far"
                                                                                                 -West African proverb

      "What happened?" asked the lead investigator. She was more focused on getting to the truth than her colleague who seem more set on just pinning the blame on someone, anyone and closing the case.
      "It would be difficult to explain without starting from the very beginning" I answered sincerely.
      "Then tell me, from the very beginning" she replied. She was also very pretty.
      "Yeah, tell us everything" of course her partner had to add something to what she said otherwise he might look weak. A full grown man so easily emasculated, pathetic.

      "The sun was only two fingers above the horizon. The day was coming to an end and shooting-light was all but over.
       “There was plentiful game passing beneath my perch but they were all above either my budget or the capability of my borrowed rifle. Most of them were outside my own morale value system.
       “I enjoy the hunt. Every aspect of it. Harvesting an impala, a magnificent Kudu or a stout warthog is just a small part of the hunt. It would be empty without the preparation, the zeroing rifles, sharpening knifes, donning the hunter's garments, packing rations, checking weather reports, even making sure we're up to date with the latest legislation.
       “But it is the sweating part that brings me the most joy, the walking through the African bush, tracking spoor, stalking, waiting, trying to outwit the game, not disturbing the resting buffalo, or interfering with the caracal's hunt and admiring the honey-badger's tenacious commitment, braving the stinging legions of African bees to obtain the sweet reward of honey-comb and, leaving some to the chirpy honeyguide.
       “Sometimes the hunt is successful, sometimes it's not, doesn't matter, it's always enjoyable. There is always something remarkable to behold. And it is always difficult.
       “It has to be. Taxing physically, mentally and emotionally. It must be spiritual. It should be valuable but not expensive.
       “And it should be necessary.
       “The young waterbuck cow cautiously sniffed the air before walking past me. I followed her through the rifle scope, not intending to take her down but rather to maintain focus and exercise my aim, my coordination. She is well above my price-range. But that is beside the point.
       “I don't shoot female animals. Or young immature ones or the herd leader or the challengers, the main contenders for the leadership role. They are all needed to ensure the survival of the herd.
       “The betas are fair game.
       “With all these restrictions I pose on myself it makes each hunt quite difficult, sometimes close to impossible. But that adds value in my opinion.
       “Then there is the sigma. Sigma, sigma, sigma. That rebel, the lone wolf, the outsider. (A sigma is in reality just an introverted alpha, doing his own thing.)
       “On occasion you do find that lone bull..."

      "And that's why you shot them, in your sick mind you rid the world of a pack of sigma rebels" interjected the over compensating detective.
      "Intriguing, the thought of a pack of sigma males. How would they co-exist? Living separate lives but coming together for dinner, to finish-off a straggling old ewe or clumsy immature impala, you know, sharing the spoils of the hunt equally as brothers but transforming into sigma’s the moment the moment the leave the pack to roam the world as lone-wolves?" I asked with a touch of sarcasm.
      "Back-off Louis" the woman told the other detective "Continue mister Logan."
      I nodded and continued.

      "As I was saying, on occasion you do stumble upon a sigma, or the sigma stumbles upon you.
       “I myself am a bona fide sigma. Not, bragging of course, just stating and believe me I sometime wish I was not...it tends to make life difficult...
       “Enough of that, I'm a sigma. My companions know that. During the first outing, early in the day, I joined up with one of them and a guide and combed the South-Western part of the hunting concession for sign of impala or warthog. We did find some but they stole away before we could bring arms to port.
       “I believe that it was because we created too much noise and that a smaller party would cause less disturbance. That is why I offered to venture up to the North on my own later that afternoon. My companions, knowing my preference for solitude, agreed without too much fuss.
       “So, after lunch the hunting parties departed and I requested the group going north to drop me off at the central Northern watering hole so that I could cast for spoor. I also reminded them not to come and pick me up until I call for them on the radio. If they show up uninvited it might spook the already skittish game.
       “After they left I took a moment to survey my surroundings. Although I could not detect anything wrong something came over me, a premonition of something bad about to happen. I brushed the uneasiness aside owning it to mere foolishness caused by the pressure to find game on this, the last day and last shift of the hunt.
       “I cast around the watering hole and found sign of impala as well as my main prey: warthog. It seemed that the warthog favours this particular watering hole -there were a lot of warthog tracks of varying age. I decided to move one click North and lay up in ambush (rather than ambushing my quarry at the water -I detest hunters that kill at the watering hole -its scares off thirsty animals.)
       “Arriving there I found a clearing and an elevated hide. This would be a great place to ambush from. I avoided going directly through the clearing towards the hide to avoid contaminating the surroundings with my scent and tracks. After retracing my steps I approached the hide from the downwind angle and climbed up to the perch.
       “After scanning the clearing for tracks and sign through my binoculars I made myself comfortable and setup a firing position. There was clear indication that the game frequented this particular clearing, grazing on their way towards the water and back.
       “As I said in the beginning, I waited patiently but for some reason my quarry didn't cross my path that day. At three o'clock I heard a shot and could immediately tell that the bullet hit its mark. It came from the riverside where my companion from earlier were hunting. He found his hog, good for him, I thought with a smile.
       “Eventually, a lone wildebeest bull made his appearance. He didn't hang back cautiously in the thicket like the other animals but proceed into the centre of the clearing without a care in the world. He even turned his side towards me after coming within fifty metres from where I lay hidden ready to fire.
       “I was sorely tempted to pull the trigger, but refrained from doing so, this was not my intended target. Neither was the herd of impala ewes that showed up shortly after him. Besides, the bullet might go through the bull and injure or kill the impala behind him.
       “Also the light was bad and you don't shoot wildebeest after shooting-light. They are notoriously tough and though they might be referred to as the clowns of the veldt they are actually quiet clever when it comes to fleeing. When in a herd the wounded animal joins the fleeing herd and disappears, the blood trail dissolved beneath the fleeing hooves.
       “Even lone animals, such as this bull, vanished without a trace after experienced hunters shot them. No, wildebeest hunting should be done with an adequate calibre, early in the day with plenty of time to search.
       “I secured the rifle and got up, speaking up and telling the bull he is very lucky. The game stopped grazing and looked at me but did not scatter. I clapped my hands. This made the animals flee in alarm. The bull turned and ran but ten paces before stopping and looking back still presenting a perfect target.
       “Shaking my head I waved him off and proceeded to pack my kit. I radioed the base-camp to request a pick-up but received no response which I thought was strange as there were always at least three guys around carrying radios. I tried a couple of times but to no avail.
       “A repeater isn't necessary for such a short range, range wasn't the problem. I took out my cellular phone and saw that I had good reception and called the base-camp telephone but received a busy-tone. I tried again with the same result before I reluctantly called my hunting companion from earlier that day on his cellular phone (I hoped I wasn't spoiling a good shot for him), but it went to voicemail immediately.
       “Something was amiss. That uneasiness, the premonition of a while ago returned to me and I proceeded on foot back to base camp. It wasn't far, about three kilometres. A nice brisk pace would get me there in about half an hour.
       “It was already dark when I reached the edge of the thicket. In the distance I could see the bonfire in front of the lapa. I took my binoculars and looked at the men standing around the campfire. They were talking merrily, each with a beer in the hand. The older men were sitting on camping chairs to the side. The guides were busy skinning a carcass -I could see them working on the suspended carcass hanging from a hook in the butcher's facility.
       “Everything seemed normal, yet something seemed...wrong.
       “Then I noticed that the wildebeest herd didn't go down to the clearing in front of the lapa to drink from the crib. They were standing at the edge of the thicket at the riverside, waiting anxiously. So did the small herd of eland. The newly acquired white impala ram stood far away from the house next the wire. The jackals didn't cry, the plovers were silent...why was the game being so wary?
       “Something directly south of me spooked the zebras. I looked but didn't see anything.
       “Again I scanned the homestead through my binoculars. I found nothing until I looked at the outbuilding next to the main gate. Four men wearing denim and camouflaged jackets were hiding behind the building. They were wearing balaclavas and more indicative, three of them were armed with AK-47 assault rifles. The fourth was working on the wire-fence next to the outbuilding with a pair of pliers.
       “This was a farm attack being carried out!
       “I grabbed my radio and desperately tried to make contact with my companions, about to be slaughtered. I tried calling them on their cellular phones but they were to busy enjoying themselves and did not hear their phones ringing.
       “So I ran forward about a hindered, hundred and twenty metres -I had to close the distance, dropped down and took aim."

      "And then you shot the would-be farm attackers in the back! They could have been poachers. They might have been after the vehicles-arms" interrupted the impatient stocky detective jumping up and slamming his hand on the table.
      "Why didn't they simply walk around to the back and try to take the vehicles directly from the shed instead of going directly towards the people? Why bother getting a few bolt-action hunting rifles when you are better armed for your evil enterprise with assault rifles? And why in heaven's name would poachers go towards the people instead of trying to avoid them?" I asked the detective. He had no reply.
       “Shut-up, Louis and sit down" commanded his senior. At least she seems to follow my logic.
      I continued:

      "I brought my sights to bear on the bottom of the bonfire, then adjusting slightly for bullet drop. The distance was about three-hundred and fifty metres, no wind. The .270 Winchester round had a very flat trajectory which resulted in a small bullet drop.
       “I made sure that nobody was in the firing line and pulled the trigger. It took the hundred-and-fifty grain bullet less than half a second travelling at two thousand eight hundred and fifty feet per second to slam into the logs and send sparks, ash and burning logs flying back against the lapa wall.
       “The older men tumbled from their chairs and the younger hunters dove for cover. My stunned companions regained their wits and crawled inside the lapa for cover. It was just in-time. At that moment the farm attackers emerged from behind the outbuilding and starting spraying the lapa with bullets. Automatic gunfire riddled the stone and thatched structure.
       “One of my companions managed to get to his rifle and was returning fire shooting blindly from around the corner. Unfortunately a lucky shot hit him in the arm.
       “The attackers were converging on the trapped hunters. I had no choice but to take further direct action.
       “I settled my cross-hairs on the attacker close to the fence. If he was allowed to continue his approach he would soon round the corner and be able to see and shoot the hunters hiding next to the refrigerator.
       “The man slowly walked as he was firing and I had to compensate for his movement. I pulled the trigger. Pink spray erupted from the man's torso and he went down.
       “Then I aimed for the attacker trying to flank around the back. He paused for a moment to change a magazine and died.
       “The other two men realized their associates were down and turned around to spray bullets into the night. A few rounds came quite close to me and I shot them in quick succession.
       “After eliminating the threat I got up and proceeded towards the homestead, rifle ready at high-port, calling to my companions in the lapa, I didn't want them to take me for a farm attacker and shoot me by mistake.
       “When I reached the main gate I called again and this time was greeted by relieved men coming out of the lapa. Only the big guy was wounded, the one who returned fire.
       “Meanwhile they've called the reaction unit and moments later the taskforce showed up by helicopter and now I'm sitting here with you fine people not having a cold beer or tea and biscuits, my hands in cuffs" I concluded.

      The two detectives looked at each other and then at me.
      "Five people, five people were shot" said the lead investigator, her eyes fixed on me as if she was trying to gauge my response.
      "Yes" I agreed cautiously "the four farm attackers, dead, by myself and the big hunter by the attackers, only wounded."
      "The owner of the farm, when did you kill him?" asked the detective.
      "What?!" I was shocked.
       “When you shot the fire? Did you shoot the fire? Didn't you shoot the owner and didn't one of the so-called attacker's rounds hit the fire?" asked the stocky detective. This time his colleague didn't silence him, she just looked at me.