Leopard Skies , livre ebook

Andrews UK - T. Grant A.

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131 pages

English

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Description

As David and Marcus travel from Morogoro in Tanzania into the remote Uluguru Mountains, they are immersed in a community facing threats from both the natural and the spirit world.Apollo, a local game reservist, is tasked to protect Marcus' group. No longer the ranger he once was, he is haunted by strange leopard encounters on Kilimanjaro and in the Selous.As some of their fellow travellers get lost in the jungle, an unexpected arrival from the past brings a surprising twist.

Sujets

Thriller

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	23 août 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781785382352
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Leopard Skies
Book Two from the Tailwind Adventures Series
A.T. Grant

First published in 2016 by
AG Books
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2016 A.T. Grant
The right of A.T. Grant to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

for Annabella

Kilimanjaro is a snow-covered mountain 19,710 feet high, and is said to be the highest mountain in Africa. Its western summit is called the Maasai “Ngaje Ngai,” the House of God. Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.
Ernest Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro

Chapter One
Apollo Mtera wandered off the trail, as he had been doing all his life. He needed a break from the inane bickering of those he was guiding. Soon he was surrounded by tall, frozen pillows of lava, each covered in a rich patina of deep, dark moss. He stopped, wary of getting lost in the mist sweeping up the mountainside from the forest below. He was just about to turn. In a cleft a few feet away grew a crimson daffodil: a scarlet gladiolus. Vibrant, glowing with dew, it was the most extraordinary flower he had ever seen. Instantly he felt calm. Squatting beside it, he traced each line of leaf and petal, and absorbed the sublime contrast in colour and texture to the tortured basalt. This was how it was meant to be, he told himself. What had gone wrong? What could he have done differently, and what on God’s Earth was he supposed to do now?

Chapter Two
The plastic table rocked slightly on the uneven tiles of the café floor. Marcus settled to write the questions he must remember to ask the local tour agent. A tatty table-cloth beneath his iPad advertised a long forgotten community event, hosted by the Young Women’s Christian Association in Dar es Salaam. Flies chased each other across the pattern. Sparrows squabbled over fallen scraps around the clutter of battered white chair legs.
It felt good to be in Tanzania, even though there would be no Kilimanjaro climb. “Too touristy,” his boss had said when Marcus protested. “Let’s take people somewhere really remote this time. Kilimanjaro is like Machu Picchu or Everest base camp, a honeypot for travel clichés. You were the one saying swimming with dolphins in Mexico meant sick animals trapped in old swimming pools. That’s not the Tailwind Adventure way.”
Marcus remembered his disappointment, having set his heart on climbing the peak. His boss appeared determined to send him to ever further flung destinations, when the heart of their business lay in the Mediterranean. Must be trying to tell me something, he concluded.
Only a few months previously Marcus had led a group through the jungles of Southern Mexico. It was a first for the company. He had rarely felt in control, but somehow everything worked out and client feedback was ultimately supportive, despite a close encounter with a crocodile. His female assistant on that particular venture had subsequently led her own team back, to even more enthusiastic reviews. The success of the enterprise had cemented the position of Tailwind Adventure within its new parent company, the Carlton Travel Group.
“Let’s take our clients somewhere where the locals haven’t met white people before,” his boss had declared. “That’s the hook we need to get people interested. I was talking to the owner of African Dreams, our new local agents in Tanzania. They said that wouldn’t be a problem, although they also told me we’d never find a place where they hadn’t watched the Prem. There’s a T.V. set with a satellite link in almost every village, apparently. It’s the African version of cinema.”
Marcus had made token efforts to protest and even revealed his tendency to sulk, as he was perturbed at going somewhere potentially so far from help. His boss had placed his trump card, revealing that Carlton had raved about the possibility of extending their extensive Kenyan enterprises into Tanzania. Marcus had been forced to raise the stakes in the only way he had left.
“My girlfriend’s baby is due.”
His boss had put a paternal paw on Marcus’ shoulder. Marcus remembered the familiar, almost comforting hint of alcohol on his breath. “I’ve already spoken to your young lady. You know her. She’s determined to work almost until she gives birth. I’m not flying you out to the Caribbean just to get under her feet - her words, not mine. For some strange reason she loves you, but you’re both independent people. Unless it’s really early, you’ll be back in time for your baby anyway.”
Marcus had shrugged. In one sense, he had been relieved. Supporting his girlfriend through pregnancy was a new and somewhat scary experience, particularly when their most regular contact was over the phone.
“Look, if something happens, I’ll get you flown to wherever she is at the time, but you’re going.”
The weariness of travel and broken sleep tried to curb Marcus’ concentration. To clear his head he sipped at the mug of thin instant coffee he had coaxed from the indolent girl at the apparently food-free canteen. The irony of such a bitter brew in a coffee producing country reinforced the point that Europe had been left far behind. “T.I.A.” his mind chanted inanely: This Is Africa.
Reviewing the events of the previous twenty-four hours chipped a little further at his tiredness. The flight experience had been mixed: a luxurious first leg to Qatar in the Middle East offset by six gruelling hours on a much smaller craft from there to Africa. Little leg-room, ventilation or food had taken a toll, but Marcus was experienced enough to know his lethargy to be superficial. He smiled at the memory of smoke billowing from air-conditioning vents, as the second plane sat in fifty degree heat, on the tarmac at Doha. Harmless condensation perhaps, but it had brought home to some of the clients the other-worldly nature of their trip. One or two had shown early signs of panic.
Marcus’ fingers hovered over the keypad as he recalled the names of those he must be quick to reassure. He typed a short list, finishing with a line of question marks as he realised he’d forgotten who one particularly unforthcoming girl was already.
Staggering from the airport terminal, the arrival committee of tall, leaping Maasai tribesmen had provided another break from the norm. It had felt unreal dancing in a car park, ignored by those pulling suitcases to and fro. Marcus had done his best, stretching his aching back to attain his full 6ft 2 in height, and straining stiff legs to break into the air. The chanting had been mimicked appallingly by several of the guests, but at least they had made an effort.
“It’s just one night here, isn’t it?” David Seymour was standing over him, his thin, white-socked legs supporting voluminous khaki shorts, topped with a matching shirt.
Marcus looked up, absent-mindedly chewing at his pen. “One night, but remember this is what people wanted: to experience the real Africa. How’s Phoebe doing, David?”
“Still throwing up. I think it’s mainly just the long journey. She had a pretty hectic couple of weeks at work too, before we flew. She hates this place, by the way.” David took a disparaging look at the pile of breeze blocks sitting in the middle of what should have been a small, shady internal courtyard. “I must say our room has all the appeal of a janitor’s closet.”
“Remember, only drink bottled water. And keep washing your hands. Phoebe too,” Marcus instructed.
David held up the plastic bottle dangling from a couple of fingers and grinned. “Jenny, Steph and I discovered a supermarket around the corner; you go past that row of noisy street vendors then turn left. We also found a tented bar - had my first bottle of Serengeti lager.”
“Glad your harem’s filling up nicely, David,” Marcus joked, making a mental note of the girl’s name he had forgotten.
“I asked if we could eat there this evening, as it doesn’t look like we’ll get anything much around here.”
“So you’re running this expedition, are you?” Marcus couldn’t help but be drawn to David’s enthusiasm, but still found him annoying, particularly as he seemed blissfully unaware that he was only a client.
“Now, there’s a cue. Isn’t that the local agent?” David gestured towards the diminutive young African girl greeting the lady behind the grill-fronted Reception kiosk.
“How do you know?” Marcus furtively pulled the reading glasses from his nose and folded them into a trouser pocket.
“The African Dreams clipboard is a bit of a giveaway. I hope you’ll be more observant when we want to start spotting lions.”
The world beyond Marcus’ table slowly resolved itself. Irené sat down, close and uninvited, sending her immediately back into soft focus. She had tightly-braided black hair, wore a mid-blue company T-shirt and would have looked about seventeen were it not for a serious, don’t-mess-with-me, but somewhat careworn expression.
“Karibu. Are you ready?”
Both Marcus and David were thrown by her direct man