The sun was still hanging low over the Kenyan savannah, casting long amber shadows across the brittle grass. Dust rose in faint spirals behind Bette’s Land Cruiser as it rumbled over the uneven dirt track, the faint crackle of the radio punctuating the stillness of the early morning. They’d received the distress call at dawn, another rhino down near the Mara River. Her chest tightened with the familiar dread that came with these calls. She already knew what they would find.

They, was a new team with whom Bette had joined efforts, to carry on her never-ending fight against the relentless onslaught of poachers and their greedy enablers. They had a proven record in South Africa and Bette had been keen to learn as much as she could from them.

She glanced briefly out of the driver’s side window where a rugged team of anti-poachers was riding alongside her, their silhouettes cutting sharply against the rising sun. Dressed in camouflage gear with sturdy boots and wide-brimmed hats, each team member was equipped with binoculars, radios, and firearms for protection. Their dirt bikes and all-terrain vehicles kicked up small clouds of dust as they traversed the open plains, weaving through tall grasses and acacia trees.

The leader of the pack sat in the car with the vet; Captain Nyah Campbell, a woman whose presence commanded attention without a word. Her sun-weathered skin and sharp, amber eyes told the story of countless dawn patrols and midnight ambushes. She moved with the grace of a lioness—calm, deliberate, and always alert.  Bette had been slightly starstruck ever since their first encounter. A scar ran along her left forearm, a reminder of a close encounter with a desperate poacher years ago, though she never spoke of it unless it was to teach her team hard-earned lessons.

Nyah wore a faded green jacket adorned with a single embroidered patch: a black rhino silhouette encircled by the words Guardians of the Wild. Beneath the brim of her hat, her blonde braided hair was pulled back tight, keeping nothing in her way. Her utility belt carried a well-worn field knife, a GPS tracker, and a walkie-talkie crackling with the voices of the rangers in the other cars.

Nyah checked her GPS. “The coordinates came from the drone. We should be close.” Her South African twang gave the words a melodic edge. “Here’s hoping that animal is still alive.”