"Endangered" (Original Short Fiction)

 

Endangered by James C. Clar © 2026

“We’ve received reports from three separate countries,” Fish & Wildlife Special Agent McNair said. “Indonesia, Mexico and right here in the good old US of A. Funny thing. You’re named in each of them.”

I said nothing. A floor fan somewhere off to my right oscillated slowly. It accomplished little more than to circulate the smell of burnt coffee and old cigarette smoke in the hot confines of the tiny interview room.

He opened the file on the battered desk between us. “Let’s start with the Sumatran tiger.”

“That was, maybe, my best.”

“You admit shooting it?”

“Yes, of course. Why deny it? I caught it as it glided silently through the jungle. It flashed orange, yellow and black against all that green.” I paused for a moment, savoring the memory. “I was downwind, of course. It never got so much as a whiff.”

“You’re describing a deliberate kill,” McNair responded with an astonished tone.

“No. I’m simply describing a shot.”

He looked at me for a moment then continued.

“Sonoran Desert … a Mexican wolf.”

“Gorgeous animal,” I said.

“You shot that one too?”

“It was sunset. The sky was violet and deep rust, the color of dried blood. I nailed it just as it began its nightly prowl. It reminded me of a German shepherd … except for the way it loped across the scrub. That and the feral look in its eyes.”

The agent closed the folder halfway on his finger as he leaned back.

“Those critters are protected, endangered even.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

He opened the folder again. “Tell me about the Nene goose.”

“I was hiking on Haleakala. It was wonderful. Below me, and off in the limitless distance, Kaho’olawe was an uncut emerald strewn carelessly on a swatch of cerulean corduroy. The bird was guarding its nest amid the lava rock and silversword.”

“And you shot it?”

“It never had a chance.”

McNair leaned in close. “You seem mighty proud of yourself.”

“I am,” I replied. “I’m quite good at what I do.” I paused for a moment to reconsider. “No, I’m actually the best at what I do.”

He studied me for a moment, ready to comment on what he undoubtedly presumed to be my arrogance, not to mention my callousness. The moment passed. “What do you carry?”

“I use a variety of weapons. It depends on the job. Each one has become an extension of my hands, my eyes. And I never miss.”

“You do understand that what you’ve described, what you’ve admitted to, could land you in a heap of trouble. Prison maybe.”

I shrugged my shoulders. Then smiled.

For the first time, he looked genuinely angry. “Open the bag … slowly, please.”

I reached down and grabbed my gear bag and set it carefully, reverently even, on the table. I opened it as instructed. Across from me, McNair’s right hand moved almost instinctively toward his sidearm.

“There’s no need for that,” I said calmly. “Here’s my weapon.” Agent McNair stared, slack-jawed as I sighted, placed him carefully in the frame and depressed the shutter.

The End