Chapter One
Jack Weatherby circled, disoriented. There should have been four tents, two porters, a cook, and his guide, Mangi Here. But only his small orange tent remained, a lonely splash of color against Mawenzi Tarn's stark landscape.
"Where the hell are they?" The words vanished into the wind. At 14,000 feet, the air felt thin, his lungs struggling with every breath. Cold seeped into his clothes as he glanced at his watch. Past nine—they should have broken camp hours ago.
The camp nestled under the shadow of Mawenzi, the jagged, second-tallest volcanic peak on Kilimanjaro. Its spires of rotten volcanic rock reflected on the ice-ringed emerald pond below. A gust ripped the air from his mouth, forcing him to turn away.
A fluttering piece of paper caught his eye, pinned beneath a rock. He snatched it from the wind and ducked into his tent.
"Sir, knowing pay from you little, we have gone down mountain. You also go down for safety." The scrawled letters suggested haste.
Jack remembered fragments from the night before—Mangi quarreling with the crew, refusing to meet his eyes when questioned. Obviously, more than the "nothing" his guide had claimed. Now, he found himself stranded at 14,210 feet, regretting his choice of unsanctioned guides to save money.
His sister Kate's lecture echoed in his mind. “The cheapest option isn't always the safest, Jack.” He'd laughed then, watching her freckled face furrow with disapproval. She would rather spend her days in a hammock overlooking the Indian Ocean than haggle in Zanzibar's markets, though she'd appreciated his talent for bargaining when buying rice.
As he started dismantling his bright orange tent, a violent gust swept up the valley like a freight train, striking the fabric with explosive force. The tent ripped free from its two remaining stakes. Too late, he lurched forward to grab it, his hands clasping only empty air. The tent disappeared up into the crags of Mawenzi, taking with it the delicate gold chain and cross his sister Kate had given him for his confirmation twenty years ago. He remembered her face beaming with pride as she clasped it around his neck after the ceremony, telling him she'd saved up for months to afford it. The necklace had been his good luck charm ever since, a reminder of home and family when he felt lost. Now it was gone, another casualty of his attempt to save money by hiring cut-rate guides. Kate would never let him hear the end of this - she'd warned him about being too frugal, and now he'd lost her precious gift. The sting of that loss felt sharper than the biting wind.
Fourteen miles separated him from Rongai, the border town where shelter awaited him. His cell phone was dead, and his supplies comprised two granola bars. He'd have to get water from other climbers until he reached a stream.
Bitter, he slung on his backpack and began his descent. The warmth of movement and sense of purpose steadied him. Cairns marked the path through the gravel terrain, dotted with small clumps of high savanna grass. The wind carried musty, wild scents with an underlying metallic tang. Below, the flat plains of Kenya's Tsavo National Park stretched like a distant patchwork of shadows—a reminder that he stood in true wilderness, where nature still ruled with tooth and claw.
He glanced back. Kibo, the tallest peak, stood outlined against a vibrant dark blue unique to high-altitude skies, its glacier cap gleaming. That blue would always be his favorite shade. He should be on the path to Kibo now, not retreating down the mountain.
The last cairn had disappeared some time ago. As he looked back, mist-shrouded Mawenzi and menacing clouds streaked toward him. Racing up-slope to retrace his steps revealed no path markers. When the cloud bank swallowed him seconds later, he could only continue toward his memorized position, face covered against the sudden snow.
He promised himself a Tembo beer in Rongai, imagining the hotel bar with its red-ochre floors, wooden benches, spicy stew, and hikers singing of upcoming ascents. The thought of failure crept in for the first time. Don't be silly, Jack, of course you'll make it. There are lots of hikers coming up. Just keep going, and you'll be fine. At least there are no lions on this mountain.
The windswept landscape gave way to scrub brush as noon passed, snow turning to wet drizzle. He ate his last granola bar, licking the wrapper clean.
His tongue caught falling raindrops, the cool drizzle barely wetting his cracked lips. Each precious droplet was a cruel taunt, too little to ease the cotton-dry ache in his mouth. He glanced at his waterproof jacket, knowing he could spread it out to catch the drizzle, maybe collect enough water to fill his cupped hands. The thought of sweet rainwater sliding down his parched throat was almost overwhelming. But the chill had already crept into his bones, and his sweat-dampened clothes clung to his skin. Taking off his jacket now would expose him to the wind and wet - a deadly combination at this altitude. No, he had to keep moving. The risk of hypothermia was too great, and he'd seen enough mountain rescues to know how quickly the cold could kill. Better to suffer thirst than freeze to death on this godforsaken slope.
The terrain steepened, becoming treacherous, plunging into deeper shadow with each faltering step. He strained his eyes through the murk, searching for any glimmer of Rongai's lights through the thick blanket of clouds below. Nothing but darkness. Doubt gnawed at him - had he somehow missed the first camp? Should he backtrack, try cutting right across the slope? His mind spun with possibilities, each less certain than the last.
Bastard Mangi. The signs had been there from the beginning - the shifty eyes, the whispered arguments with the porters, the way he'd avoided Ian's questions. Now here he was, abandoned on the mountain like discarded gear.
Lost in his bitter thoughts, his right foot skidded on loose scree. The world tilted sickeningly as his legs went out from under him. His left knee slammed into something hard - a hidden rock - with a crack that sent lightning bolts of pain shooting up his thigh. He lay there gasping, feeling warm wetness spreading across his pant leg. When he worked up the courage to probe the injury, his fingers came away sticky with blood.
Only after holding pressure for several minutes, the bleeding slowed enough for him to test his weight. The knee held, though every step sent fresh needles of pain through the joint. This was bad - he felt cold. Deep dread twisted his stomach in knots. The injury forced him to pick his way forward with agonizing slowness, testing each step before committing his weight. All around him, the gloom deepened like rising water, threatening to swallow him whole.
Darkness fell. Stars shone with intense, detached brilliance through breaks in the racing clouds. “I miss my sister.” The words escaped before he could stop them. Only five miles remained—he'd hiked that distance plenty of times. If he kept moving, that cold Tembo beer would be in his hands by morning.
The cloud cover thickened, devouring the starlight. Somewhere behind him, Kibo's massive peak vanished into darkness. He had no choice but to continue—no food, no water, and the promise of civilization below.
Strange sounds filled the forest's lower slopes, covering Kilimanjaro's base like an emerald dress. His hands reached forward, feeling for the path. What if I can't find water? The question burned like his parched throat.
Insects chirped; leaves rustled. A sound in the distance—was he imagining it? Could it be a stream? Wisps of mist drifted past as his body shivered. The darkness felt solid enough to grasp.
He sensed the branch too late - a darker shadow against the black void. The gnarled limb caught him across the forehead with the force of a baseball bat, snapping his neck backward. Stars exploded behind his eyes as the ground vanished beneath his feet. His body, out of control, tumbled down the steep slope, arms flailing for purchase in the darkness. The rough ground tore at his clothes as he slid until a jarring impact against a rock drove the air from his lungs in an explosive grunt.
For a moment, he lay stunned, ears ringing, unable to tell up from down in the absolute dark. Warm stickiness began trickling down his face, threading paths through his eyebrows and seeping into his eyes. The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils. He tried to blink away the crimson haze, but more kept coming, blinding him. Reality seemed to swim in and out with each throb of his head wound.
The bubbling creek below drew him onward. Pulling and scratching, he crawled down the slope. His head ached. Uncontrolled shivering spread from his back to his arms. He slapped himself. Get to water.
Foreboding overwhelmed reason. Each slip and fall increased his disorientation.
God help me. I don't want to die.
Exhausted, he collapsed, needing to breathe and think. His split lips cracked further.
A cackling dove took flight, shrieking in the darkness.
He froze, trying to listen to his breathing. The wind whistled, and his clothes rustled with each heaving breath. The hair on his neck stood on end. Far off, the dove's cry grew faint. He stood, holding the slope to steady himself.
Then he heard it.
An impossibly deep, guttural growl emanated out of the darkness above him.
No! No!
Pure animal terror seized his muscles. His body moved on instinct, spinning away from that terrible sound. He ran into the darkness, feet stumbling over unseen rocks, hands thrust out before him. The rough ground tore at his palms as he scrambled forward. His lungs burned with each desperate breath. He splashed through an icy stream. The cold shock didn’t register through his panic.
Madness gave him strength, pushing his exhausted body beyond its limits. But he could hear it behind him - the soft pad of massive paws, the whisper of displaced air. Too close. Too fast.
A searing pain exploded across his shoulders as razor-sharp claws caught his backpack. The world spun as the force of the attack whirled him through the air like a rag doll. He had one last moment of clarity - the icy splash of the streambed, the glint of starlight on the water - before his head struck something hard.
Mercifully, he knew no more.
Chapter Two
Two Days Earlier. Mombasa, Kenyan Coast, 173 Miles from Kilimanjaro.
Death had a certain smell. Rotting wildebeest flesh greeted Ian Shaughnessy as he stepped onto the deck of the Dakari, a 127-foot fishing vessel recently docked at Mombasa port. Butchered carcasses surrounded a cage lashed to the center deck. The wall of stench struck him, halting his muscular frame. It was half past seven in the morning. He forced himself forward, wading through the reek.
Fat, buzzing flies settled on his broad shoulders, drinking his sweat through his drenched khaki Kenyan National Park uniform. His fingers twitched as he looked at the cage, where a colossal black-maned lion crowned the deck. Two years of planning were about to come to fruition. As the lion turned its head, its right scarred eye caught a splinter of sunlight.
The golden mountain of a lion turned in its cage. Ian took in the alpha male’s monstrous black mane and sheer size. Like an opponent entering the boxing ring, the lion scrutinized him, weighing his every strength and weakness. Ian felt as though somehow the lion knew him.
The Dakari had arrived a week late. Everything in Africa was late. Chronically listing starboard, competing rust patches had replaced the ship’s last paint job. The black middle railing was low, framing the two-story aft cabins and high prow. Its Kenyan flag, waving listlessly in the humidity, was at least a more recent acquisition. After confiscating the Dakari, the Kenyan government, in its infinite wisdom, provided a flag as the only upgrade.
The lion’s cage, a makeshift contraption of iron bars forming a metal frame, was in the center of the aged fishing vessel’s middle deck. Welded into an iron cell, it measured 18 feet square and 12 feet vertically. Even imprisoned, the lion held court from the gilded enclosure of its iron domain, a monstrosity of majesty.
Ian loved lions. They were free, free to be themselves, hunt, kill, and feast with no regrets, and in the hunt, they provided balance. Ian touched the bullet hanging from the chain at his neck, his regrets as cold as the metal against his skin. Amboseli and neighboring Tsavo game parks needed this lion. His plan for this day was coming into reality. He’d waited two years for this moment, and here before him was a desperately needed new gene pool from South Africa. The Kenyan lions, his lions, needed this lion.
The beast’s gaze turned away, returning to the boredom imposed by the iron bars. That eye. How was it injured?
Bloody hell, he expected South Africa to send him a prime specimen. Didn’t the South African Kruger National Park have one choice lion they could send, not one missing an eye? Though strong enough to take over a pride, if this lion injured its remaining eye, it would end two years of work and introducing a new gene pool to the Kenyan lions.
Human population pressure and genetic defects compromised the Kenyan lions, making them more susceptible to endemic disease. The solution was in the cage before him: muscled and powerful, and it weighed at least five hundred pounds.
Panting, the lion’s tongue rested behind its fangs.
Wooden deck planks creaked under heavy footsteps as Kabito, the captain, hurried across the weathered boards. "Ian, Ian. Karibu, Welcome." His enormous black hand descended onto Ian's shoulder with enough force to make Ian's knees feel the weight. Salt spray from a passing tanker caught the sunlight as Kabito gestured with his free hand toward the cage. "Good, good, see you. Take this demon off my Dakari."
Ian's lips quirked into a half-smile. "Aren't you friends by now?"
Kabito grimaced as he moved to the ship's railing. He spat twice over the side, the gesture forceful. He lifted his chin toward the cage, muscles tense in his neck. "My crew afraid that one. Better it stay Kruger."
"It's just a big cat," Ian said, though his hand moved to touch the machete at his belt.
Kabito gripped the salt-crusted railing with his fingers and shook his head. "Hapana, this breeds spirits, evil."
"Have faith," Ian said, shifting his weight on the unsteady deck.
"Do you have faith, Mr. Ian?" Kabito's arm swept upward, gesturing at the vast African sky above them, his loose shirt sleeve catching in the breeze.
Ian's jaw tightened as he looked away, studying the weathered deck boards. "Faith isn't much use to me. Life is what you make of it."
Kabito's voice softened, taking on an almost paternal tone. "In Africa, you must have faith, Mr. Ian."
"Did you have any trouble?" Ian's shoulders tensed as he changed the subject, his boots scraping against the deck as he turned toward the lion's cage.
Kabito wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Many trouble. Starboard engine fail. We spend two day Tanga port, repair engine. Two sailor refuse continue. Afraid lion."
"You bloody well made it, though.”
A broad grin split Kabito's face as he slapped Ian's back. "Take off my ship; then we have Tusker beer, your gift." He turned aft, his voice rising above the port sounds as he shouted orders to his crew.
Ian circled the cage, his machete tapping against each bar with a metallic ring. The lion's massive form uncoiled as it sat up, a thick, grating growl vibrating through the air. Despite his years of experience, Ian felt the hair on his neck rise as the lion's white eye fixed on him. He continued his inspection, searching for weaknesses or injuries, but that pale eye seemed to strip away his defenses layer by layer, seeing past skin and bone, measuring his soul.
Ian shook his head, as if to clear it. "It's just a lion," he muttered, "a lion that needs a pride." His forced laugh echoed across the deck. The lion's unblinking stare remained fixed on him.
The rhythmic sound of footsteps on wood drew Ian's attention as a student approached. Her school uniform marked her as a senior and was crisp despite the humid air. "Mr. Ian, Mr. Ian." She dipped into a curtsy, her movements fluid and graceful.
Ian turned, surprise flickering across his features. "Savanye! Where did you come from? Aren't you supposed to be away at school?"
Her eyes sparkled with uncontained excitement. "And miss my father's arrival with the great South African lion?"
Her white cotton shirt caught the morning light, contrasting with her dark skin. Her blue skirt swayed just below her knees. Something in her bearing had changed since Ian had last seen her.
His brow furrowed with concern. "You shouldn't have left school. Don't national exams begin next year?"
"And it's nice to see you as well." Another curtsy, this one with a hint of playful mockery.
"Savanye!" Kabito's voice boomed from the aft stairs, his face lighting up. "My daughter, finally, you arrive. Come."
They collided in an embrace. Kabito's enormous frame enveloped his daughter as she buried her face in his chest.
Kabito held her at arm's length, his hands on her shoulders as he beamed. "My daughter has grown." He gestured proudly, as if presenting her to the world.
Ian crossed his arms, trying to maintain a stern expression. "Grown enough to skip out from school, I see."
Savanye squared her shoulders, smoothing her skirt with careful hands. "I have an announcement."
