Pat Walker sat back in her seat by the window. She’d had a wonderful time in Valladolid, especially in the Plaza Major later the previous evening. Her new clothes fitted in with those around her and she’d removed her coat, hat, and sunglasses and hoped she blended in.
She helped a small, grey-haired lady put her large bag on the rack and she heard someone talking gently on their phone in Arabic, a dialect associated most commonly with North Africa. Walker listened in and became rather suspicious of what was being said about Santiago de Compostela. She might have company she didn’t want.
She pondered about what her mission would do. Hopefully, it would mean trophy hunters would kill fewer animals. Her mission would generate some interest on social media and perhaps now trophy hunters wouldn’t assume they were beyond punishment, and they would know someone would seek them out and kill them without a second thought.
Walker’s only regret was that she couldn’t display pictures on social media, wearing a beaming smile while sitting beside a dead human being with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Actually, that was a sexist remark. She most despised the female hunters who sat smirking with their rifles beside a beautiful leopard or rare giraffe they had killed in the name of culling. Well, somewhere down the line, those females would get culled too. She was after them.