clothing splattered with blood and mud. Behind him were four other men with stony, empty black eyes, all armed. They were a mix of white and black men, and the heavy weapons they carried meant they were most likely rebels. Or worse—poachers.
“We were supposed to be safe,” one woman whispered to herself. “This is a national park. We have permits . . .”
Permits didn’t matter to men like these—these were the true monsters of the jungle.
“Keep your mouths shut,” the leader snapped. She didn’t dare take her eyes away from him. His gun swung a few inches to Eden’s left at the older woman who’d spoken.
Eden’s heart was beating so fast she was amazed she hadn’t had a heart attack. These men wouldn’t let them go. They were going to kill them and leave their bodies in the Ugandan jungle, never to be found. The gorillas she had come to photograph had fled before these men had arrived, as if they had sensed the danger. If they were poach