Blood on the Veld: (A Christian Bekker Wildlife Crime Thriller) by S.A. McLain follows conservation director Christian Bekker as he returns to South Africa to investigate the truth behind a decades-old tragedy, only to uncover a deadly web of wildlife crime, corruption, and buried secrets. Below is an excerpt from the novel.

Prologue

Varindi Private Game Reserve, Eastern Cape

IN THE LATE-NIGHT sky, the clouds passed below the poacher’s moon, allowing its light to go unabated.

A series of high-pitched cracks pierced Willem Coetzee’s thoughts. On the opposite bank of the Bushman’s River, a cluster of ghostlike figures glowed under the moon’s brilliance.

Amid panicked screams, Sizani fell to her knees. The rest of the elephant herd crashed through the densely packed acacia―all except Thanda, the matriarch, who stood tall with massive ears spread between her daughter’s prone body and the unseen attackers. Her four-month-old son let out a distressed roar while desperately trying to maneuver himself between her shifting legs.

More sharp cracks eclipsed the sound of Thanda’s enraged trumpeting, followed by a single shot coming from a brush-covered hill on Willem’s left.

Across the river came a surprised grunt and a shout. Then another shot from the hill, followed by a spray of gunfire.

The force of the bullet knocked Willem back against the Land Cruiser. He looked down: a dark patch was spreading across his linen shirt. As the reality of the situation hit him, wetness trickled down his ribs. The pressure in his chest was starting to burn. A voice inside his head shouted at him to take cover, but his body refused to move.

His legs gave way, and then a hand grasped his bicep, stopping his rapid descent. A darkly clad figure lowered him to a sitting position against the rear tire. A sharp tug, followed by several faint pops, and his shirt was open. Practiced fingers examined the area around the entry wound. He tried to see his rescuer’s face, but the moon’s position reduced the features to shadow. Willem caught a whiff of something sweet as he was pitched forward and his back inspected. Ointment was dabbed on the wounds and a bandage pressed firmly on each side, making him wince. Then the edges were tightly sealed with tape.

During his long and eventful life, Willem had somehow avoided getting shot, but countless discussions with vets over the years had taught him that an exit wound was generally good news, or at least better than an embedded bullet that would need digging out. “Who are you?” he rasped.

The figure briefly blocked the light as he stood, then the night camouflage and dark scarf covering his head and face came into view. The man turned and darted across the grass. A moment later, he was crouched behind a boulder on the river’s edge.

Willem’s vision became blurred. He blinked several times as he followed his rescuer’s gaze. The opposite bank, a cacophony of shots and screams only minutes before, was silent. The bodies of Thanda and Sizani lay side by side, awash in a platinum glow. Thanda’s infant son was prodding his mother’s belly with his foot, trying to wake her from her sleep. Willem closed his eyes, too tired to wipe away the tears. 

A click, then the soft creak of the passenger door. “Up we get,” a voice whispered in his ear. Willem tried to pull himself up with the help of the tire. In one swift movement, his rescuer wedged a shoulder under his arm and hoisted him up to a standing position. Their height difference registered, though size didn’t always equal strength, and certainly not ability. The man guided Willem to the opening and slid him onto the seat, lifting his legs into position and shutting the door.

A throbbing sensation broke through his consciousness, intensifying with each breath. Blood had soaked through the bandage and made its way south, forming a dark stain along the waistband of his khakis.

The man climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The Land Cruiser flew along the paved road for several minutes, then curved around the bend toward a row of dark rondavels that were staff headquarters. He stopped in front of the first rondavel belonging to vets Carl and Melanie Wright. Reaching across, he opened the glove compartment. An impatient hand shuffled through the manuals, servicing books and tissue packs Willem kept there, eventually pulling out a pen and an old receipt. He scribbled something on the paper and jumped out of the vehicle. Seconds later, he opened the passenger door.

“Stay with me, Willem,” came another hoarse whisper.

He felt himself being half-dragged, half-carried to the front door and lowered to the ground. After an urgent pounding, the lights came on inside the house, casting a soft glow around him. His rescuer knelt down and opened Willem’s hand, placing the receipt inside.

Willem lifted his gaze, and the world shifted. Then everything went dark.

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