The sound wasn’t the wind or a predator. It was a heavy, laboring diesel engine. A reinforced utility truck pushed through the dense brush, its tires crushing saplings and branches with a sickening crunch. Elias dove into the thicket, dragging the small, panicked calf with him.
He watched from the shadows as three men stepped out. They were professionals, dressed in utilitarian tactical gear, carrying winches, ropes, and heavy-duty canvas slings. They moved with practiced, efficient speed, their faces hardened by experience. This wasn’t a hunt; it was a cold, calculated heist.
The leader, a man with a jagged scar running across his jaw, pointed toward the mother rhino and barked an order. Elias was pressed into the dirt, holding his breath as the men began to rig a heavy winch to a nearby acacia tree. He was unarmed, his radio was useless, and he was outnumbered. He realized with a jolt of terror that they weren’t here to kill—they were here to haul the mother away alive.