the Matabele tribe, a Bantu offshoot of the powerful Zulus. The Matabele people were defeated in battle by the Dutch Afrikaners and were effectively banished to what is now Zimbabwe. Like all great African trackers, Melusi spent his childhood tending the herd, responsible for protecting the family’s cattle, sheep, and goats from neighboring tribes or predatory animals. With no fences to contain their herds, Melusi and his peers would spend their days tracking each wandering animal by its spoor. It was a tremendous responsibility to place upon a child but Melusi had a nearly supernatural gift for reading the ground and quickly took to his job.
Melusi had taught Raife to read sign from a young age, in much the same way he was taught by his own elders. One of Melusi’s favorite tricks was to take Raife to a salt lick, where animals of various species would gather to consume the valuable mineral. Melusi would squat in silence, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette while Raife pointed out each individual animal’s tracks. He would nod as Raife called out each name in English, Shona, and Ndebele. By age six, Raife could tell a waterbuck track from that of a kudu and, before he was eight, he could tell the age of a track to within a few hours. He was able to read animal spoor in the wilderness the way an urbanite used street signs. Raife’s tracking skills had brought more than a few Taliban and Iraqi insurgents to an untimely end, and had earned him the respect of the hunting guides with whom he worked.
* * *
The buck’s sign was everywhere, thanks to the many weeks he’d spent sleeping, eating, urinating, and defecating in the immediate area. Raife made increasingly widening circles, searching for a track that led away from the site. He found it on the uphill side of the bedding spot, near the rockslide that made up the ridgeline. He saw the deep impressions of the buck’s hooves as he hopped in the manner unique to an alarmed mule deer. Something had spooked him. Raife hadn’t seen any wolf or grizzly sign in the area, nor had he heard any wolves howling recently. No one other than family or friends had permission to be on the property, so he shouldn’t have been startled by another hunter. Raife took a seat and glassed the surrounding terrain, looking for any sign of what might have spooked the deer. After nearly thirty minutes of searching, he picked up his bow and began to follow the trail.
Even a good tracker would have lost him in the rocks but Raife’s skills had long since progressed beyond simply “good.” He went to his hands and knees and was able to make out the disturbed lichen on the rocks. Once over the knife edge of the ridgeline, the animal’s path took it through the thick summer grasses, where his trail was more visible to the trained eye. It was difficult to tell how long the tracks had been there, but he estimated that they were at least a few hours old; the stems of grass were beginning to return to their natural position after being folded downward by the buck’s passing.
Raife stood back up. He was on the stalk.
CHAPTER 37
Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia
VIC RODRIGUEZ DIALED REECE’S number for the fifth time and, as usual, it went straight to voice mail. He’d received an emergency call that morning from Craig Flynn, a retired CIA officer who had previously served as the Moscow station chief. Flynn had been contacted by a senior official in the Russian SVR named Aleksandr Zharkov, whom he had known from his Moscow posting but had not heard from in years. Director Zharkov claimed to have come across information on a Russian mafia operation under way in Montana to kill James Reece and Raife Hastings. Due to the time-sensitive nature of the intelligence, he said there was not time to go through official channels. Because of Flynn’s history with Director Zharkov, he assessed the information to be credible.
Flynn had worked with Reece’s father in an operation to extract a doctor from Czechoslovakia during the Cold War, so he instantly recognized the name James Reece. Though now retired, Flynn still had close connections at Langley, including the director of the Special Activities Division.
Changing tactics, Vic hit the intercom button on his phone, “Valerie, connect me to the Flathead County Sheriff’s Department in Montana.”
* * *
Reece showered and made the necessary preparations to keep his