Poaching, like most lines of work, was simply the filling of a need for those who wanted something. To him, there was little difference between cats and dogs and the more exotic pets that some people wanted. Pets were pets. And in this case, a capuchin was simply harder to find and capture.
But more than that, it was a matter of survival. For him. The truth was that it was getting damn hard to make a living in Brazil, honest or not. He hadn’t always been a poacher, but when the economy collapsed he had to find a way to feed his family. When it came to them versus an empty table, who gave a crap about a bunch of monkeys? As long as people continued to pay, he would continue to satisfy the demand.
Hugo finished his cigarette and dropped it into the moist soil, rubbing it out with his boot. He remained still, listening as the first moments of darkness enveloped the area. The evening mist rolling over and down the mountain felt cool against his sweaty neck and arms.
Not far away he could see the flicker of light from another cigarette. His partner, Vito. There were four of them in all, each fanning out in the darkness, waiting.
The monkeys were easier to hear at night.
They waited almost forty-five minutes before hearing the first whistle. It was quickly followed by another, and then another. Hugo’s ears zeroed in on a direction. Roughly eleven o’clock from his position. He could see Vito’s cigarette suddenly disappear.
Hugo withdrew his JM Special dart gun and checked it. The dart was chambered and ready. The tranquilizer was stronger than necessary, but given the capuchin’s habit of running or climbing after being shot, a weaker dose too often made for difficult retrievals. Hugo and his partners had learned that risking the effects of a more powerful drug was an easy trade over trying to track the damn things down.
He stalked briskly into the dense forest, rolling his feet carefully from heel to toe in an effort to remain silent. The soft, damp ground helped reduce the noise as he moved delicately over the leaves.
All four were now moving in on the increasing chatter, and what was beginning to sound like a big score.
With his face painted black, Tiewater edged forward through a group of ground ferns, letting the tip of his rifle float out first before sweeping past the objects in front of him –– large tents, an oversized fire pit, and stand-up tables with a propane stove and cooking utensils.
Further away were two trucks, both old and covered in mud, sitting silently. The first truck was a Ford Explorer and the other a long flatbed with dozens of wooden cages stacked on the back. Inside the cages sat several monkeys who had stopped screaming and were now curiously watching Tiewater emerge from the bushes. The abrupt silence of the capuchins made the area feel eerie, leaving only the sound of his footsteps as Tiewater eased himself out fully into the open. He was covered by Anderson, perched above him and following steadily through the sights of his HK416.
Tiewater approached one of the tents and stopped outside, listening. Hearing nothing, he pushed the tip of his barrel through the nylon flap and moved it aside, peering in.
Nothing.
One by one, he checked the others before looking up to Anderson and shaking his head.
“No one here,” he whispered into his microphone. “But it’s definitely not abandoned.” Tiewater moved to the larger of the trucks, where the monkeys were still watching him. He looked into the front cab.
“Judging from their supplies, I’d say four or five, tops.” He moved back to the smoldering fire pit and studied it. “They’ve been here a few days.”
“They sure are tidy.”
Tiewater nodded. “Makes for a quick departure, and with minimal evidence.”
“Smart.”
“Or paranoid.” Tiewater stopped, noticing something on the ground. Kneeling down, he retrieved his flashlight and held it close to the soil, covering it with his hand. The beam was small and focused and revealed several footprints.
He turned it off and put the light away.
“Tracks?” Anderson asked.
“Yep.”
62
Hugo eased to his left, shifting more weight onto his elbow as he scanned for a source of the chattering. Dressed in full jungle camouflage and hat, he kept the brim low, covering most of his face.
Through the night scope, he checked slowly from one tree to the next, until spotting his target on a wide branch. The dark outline of the capuchin was unmistakable, moving only slightly as it chattered back and forth.
Hugo remained trained on the silhouette for a long time, giving his colleagues time to lock in on any others. Once the first shot was fired, they would all have to follow suit before the rest fled.
To make matters worse, some monkeys were surprisingly sharp, realizing something was wrong before the poachers had a chance to shoot. They still hadn’t figured out what tipped off the brighter ones, which forced them to be even more cautious.