The Poacher
He’d tried to track down some of the other guys he’d known from prison. Unfortunately, not many of them had landlines in their names and few of them spent much time on social media. He’d finally touched base with one of the guys from his job-training class in prison. He’d sent the guy a message through Facebook and asked for his phone number. When the Poacher had called on his burner phone and asked if the guy might be up for helping him on a job that might not exactly be legit, the guy had been a total dick.
“I don’t know what you’ve got in mind,” he said, “but don’t you be trying to drag me down with you. I’m getting my shit together. Got a good job, making some money. I don’t need to go looking for trouble. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t go looking for it, either.” With that, the guy had hung up on him.
But the Poacher had other options. Since his release, he’d been taking classes with fellow ex-cons in the evenings, trying to broaden his skills. Some of them went out for beers afterward. He knew where one of the guys worked, at a fast-food chicken place, working the fryer. He’d swung by and spoken to the guy when he’d got off his shift. That conversation had gone much better. Hell, he’d even lowballed the guy, offering him only a couple hundred dollars for his help, expecting to haggle before settling on a price. But the guy had agreed right off the bat.
Now, the two of them were busy doing the job. Ironically, the additional security lights that had been installed at the zoo only served to better hide the Poacher’s activity, and the pops and bangs of the fireworks should mask any noise they might make.
He was nearly into the enclosure when his phone silently vibrated, sending his heart into his throat. The text on his dimmed screen read only G, the agreed-upon shorthand to indicate a guard was coming. He turned off his tool and slipped behind an evergreen bush. He held his breath as the security officer approached. His pulse pounded in his ears as the beam of the man’s flashlight played around the edges of the walkway and over the surrounding fences, walls, and foliage. Should I run for it?
Before he could make up his mind, the guard was on him, no more than four or five feet away. The man stopped and ran his light over the bush, bisecting the Poacher’s belly. If it had been a light saber, it would have cut him in two. Does he see me hiding back here?
His question was answered when the guard moved on. No, the guard hadn’t spotted him.
The ghillie suits had been a good idea. He’d thought it up when he’d been playing hide-and-seek with his boys. The youngest had quickly found his brother lying curled up under the Christmas tree. But when the Poacher had pulled the garland off the mantel and wrapped himself in it, the boys hadn’t been able to find him behind the tree only a few minutes later. Military snipers wore the ghillie suits to disguise themselves when hunting a target. The fake foliage on the suit made them blend right in with their surroundings. The Poacher had blended right in, too.
The guard walked a few more feet before abruptly stopping and sniffing the air. He turned his head toward the fence where the Poacher had been working.
NO! The Poacher nearly wet himself. He should run like hell, try to get out of there as fast as he could. But while his mind knew what he should do, his body refused to cooperate. He was frozen to the spot. Turned out to be a good thing his flight instinct hadn’t been activated. After another second or two, the guard continued on.
The Poacher inhaled so deep he became light-headed for a moment. A minute later, he received a text of C for “Clear.” He eased himself out of the bush and returned to his work.
In mere minutes, they were in and out. Once the animal had been loaded into the trailer, he turned to the other guy and held out two hundred dollars in twenties. “There you go.”
The guy took the money, counted it, and folded it in half, sliding it into his back pocket. He held out his closed hand for a fist bump. “Nice doing business with you.”