In the Lion’s Shadow

We lay flat against the ground, hearts steady but alert, a kind of calm that comes before a storm. Night had set in deep over the Congo, and the air felt like it was holding its breath.

Somewhere out there, beyond the low brush, the poachers were coming. Fifteen men, maybe more, armed and ready to butcher what they could for the ivory. The kind of job that didn’t take skill, just greed.

It was 1988, and none of us had seen a drone before, though something small and plastic hovered out there, watching. The others around me shifted in the dark, barely making a sound. We’d spent the day crawling into this position, high above the footpath, waiting for the moment they’d come.

“Quiet now,” whispered Martin beside me. His voice was rough, barely audible. “They’ll be here soon.”

I nodded, though I could hardly see him. To the left, Sam was adjusting his rifle, slow and careful. “Let’s hope it’s cleaner than last time,” Sam whispered. “One shot, in and out.”

“That was luck,” muttered Lewis. “Luck and a good wind.”

“Still counts,” Martin said, his breath tight. “We only need one shot tonight, too.”

The poachers were after elephants, maybe rhinos. They didn’t care for the land or the life on it. Just for money. That’s all this place was to them—a bank where the currency was blood.

We’d only been out here a week and already had a run-in with another gang. One shot and a bull saved. Tonight felt different. The air was thick, and the stars looked strange above us. Foreign. Everything about this continent felt raw, untamed.

Then we heard them—voices low, speaking in quick bursts. The poachers were close now, slipping through the brush like shadows. We were still, waiting. Just as the first man stepped into the open, the air changed.

A sound rumbled deep behind us like the earth had woken up. A lion huffed. The kind that rolls through your bones before you even know what’s happening.

“Christ,” I whispered, my hands tight around my rifle. “That’s close.”

“Hold,” Martin hissed. “Don’t move.”

The poachers froze–every one of them. They looked up toward us, squinting in the dark. The lion huffed again, and the ground beneath us trembled.

“They hear it too,” Lewis muttered. His voice was tight now, strained.

“Let them hear it,” I whispered back. “It’s buying us time.”

But time was not the problem. The lion was.

The poachers started backing away, disappearing into the thick brush, slipping out of the reserve as if the lion had spooked them more than any gunfire could. I could feel the tension in the air, the breath we all held as they moved farther off, back to where they came from.

“Stay still,” Martin whispered. “Let them go.”

We stayed silent, waiting. Minutes felt like hours. The night grew thicker around us, and still, the lion didn’t move. It was somewhere close, too close. I could feel its presence, the heat of its breath carried on the night air.

Then the voice came over the radio, low and controlled. “Move forward. Same trail. Left.”

“Roger that,” Martin replied, as none of us were eager to meet that lion head-on.

We crawled slowly, inch by inch, weapons drawn, moving down the hill toward the trail. I could feel the earth shift beneath me, each step deliberate. Every sound felt too loud in the dark. The lion’s presence hung behind us, but we didn’t see it and didn’t want to.

Three clicks away and at the base of the hill, the Land Cruiser waited. Safety was a drive away, but none of us would forget the feeling of that lion just behind us, somewhere, out there in the night.