Guarding the Princess (4 page)

Brandt lifted Dalilah up by the hips and set her into the crook where two baobabs joined. He chambered a round into the rifle and held the gun out to her. “You know how to use one of these?”

“Probably better than you do.”

“How so?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Brandt.”

He laughed, then quieted at the seriousness in her features, the air of mystery deepening around her, his prejudices tumbling one by one, hour by hour. “Any other surprises up your sleeve?”

She gave a weak smile, her almond eyes huge black pools. She looked frightened, vulnerable, brave and even more beautiful. It twisted some unused muscle in Brandt’s chest. He gave her his flashlight and spare rounds. “Use the torch only if necessary—we might need to conserve the battery.”

She nodded.

“Sit tight, okay? I won’t be long.” As he withdrew his hand, the backs of his fingers brushed against her ring. He glanced down at the rock.

“Engagement?” he said—couldn’t help himself.

Her mouth flattened, and she nodded. He caught something strange in her eyes as she met his gaze, and it made him hesitate. “You’ll be fine,” he said, more for his own benefit than hers. Then Brandt turned suddenly, and disappeared into the storm.

Dalilah watched the darkness swallow him, wondering if part of Brandt Stryker’s bluntness was his way of keeping focus, or if his jabs were actually designed to make her angry so she’d keep hers. Because it had worked.

Thunder exploded right above her head and she winced, crouching farther back into the crook of the trunks. Rain splattered into a sheet of water collecting on the packed earth below the trees. It began to run like a river.

After what seemed like an hour, she grew stiff, and fear began to sink deep and cold into her chest. The night seemed to grow even darker, the pain in her arm more intense. She thought of Amal wanting her head, and her pulse quickened.

What would she do if Brandt didn’t come back? Try to make it to that bush camp on her own? She had no idea where, or how, to find it. And he was right about the bounty—anyone in the country could turn on her, law enforcement and military included. It was a starving and denuded nation under a long, corrupt and brutal regime. Her mouth turned dry and she began to shiver. Images slammed through her mind—men in balaclavas, shooting, screaming, the sound of breaking glass, cutlery.

Dalilah squeezed her eyes tight, but she couldn’t shut out the memory of the dead man under the table, blood welling from the small black hole in his neck. His blank, dead gaze. She opened her eyes and fingered the rifle trigger, drawing some resolve from the feel of the weapon in her hands. Then she heard a noise, somewhere above in the tree.

Her nerves twitched and she peered up into the darkness. Dalilah couldn’t see anything, but she could feel it—a presence, something close, watching. She flicked on the flashlight, panned the branches above. A pair of green eyes glowed back—the forward-facing eyes of a predator. Heart jackhammering, she panned the flashlight farther to the left.

Ice slid through her veins as she registered what was sharing her tree.

* * *

Brandt crouched in the shadows, assessing the camp, oblivious to rain washing over his face and soaking through his clothes. A covered game-viewing jeep had been backed in beside five Meru-style tents. That meant there were guests here, a fully equipped camp. And if there was one good thing about this weather it was keeping both guests and guides battened down inside those tents.

This deluge would also wash away most of the tracks he and Dalilah had made from the safari lodge. But if Amal did have a skilled combat tracker on his team, Brandt had no doubt that come daylight they’d still find enough trace to pursue them.

His gaze went to the food-storage shed—it was constructed of metal, a padlock on the door. The padlock hung open.

Brandt had already checked out the jeep. The keys were inside, and it was equipped with GPS, radio, four-wheel drive, first-aid kit, blankets for night game drives. There were emergency flares in the glove compartment, along with a lighter and waterproof matches and map. A jack and spare tire were secured in a compartment at the rear. There was also a spare can of diesel fuel and a large water container that had been freshly filled. Brandt ran in a low crouch toward the shed, ducking around the side wall. He waited, his hand hovering near the hilt of his panga.

No one stirred.

From this vantage point he could see a pair of hiking boots behind the mosquito netting in the enclosed entrance area of one tent. They looked as if they might fit Dalilah. Even if they were too big they were better than the getup she was in now.

Quickly he edged round the front of the shed, unhooked the padlock, pushed the door open. Metal creaked loudly. He stilled, muscles taut. But the rain drumming on the tin roof was loud, and branches creaked and moaned in the wind.

He moved fast, filling a plastic cooler with food—tinned goods, dried meat, stuff that would last. He found a box of ammunition, then he reached up, snagged a large bottle of whiskey off the top shelf, tossed it into the cooler. Might take some edge off this mission.

Brandt hefted the chest into the backseat of the jeep. The vehicle had three rows of pew-style seats, the last one slightly higher than the others. The roll bars were topped with canvas but the sides of the jeep were open. The vehicle was far bigger than they needed, and it was going to be a little cumbersome, but a godsend given the loss of his Cessna. He was still bitter about that.

He jogged quietly back and hunkered down next to the tent that contained the boots. He listened for sounds inside, heard someone snoring. Rain pattered loudly on canvas.

Slowly, he unzipped and opened the mosquito flap, reached in for the boots. That’s when he saw a backpack with a sleeping bag tied to the bottom leaning against the back of a camping chair.

Brandt snagged the pack, slowly edging it toward himself. He opened the flap and saw shirts, pants, socks, bush hat, bug repellent, headlamps. He almost smiled. Some poor bugger was all set for a safari hike tomorrow. Feeling in the side pocket, he pulled out a wallet. Inside was a German driver’s license and wad of greenbacks. The cash might come in handy.

Gathering up the gear, Brandt jogged back through the rain to the jeep. The vehicle had been parked facing a sloped dirt track that quickly turned into a steep decline.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, geared into neutral, released the brake, got out and pushed. It took three hefty attempts, but once the wheels released from their indentations in the mud, it trundled easily toward the slope. Brandt steered with one hand on the wheel as he ran alongside. When the vehicle gathered speed and started down the incline, he jumped into the driver’s seat.

The jeep lumbered wildly down the slope, gathering more speed. Brandt didn’t fire the ignition until he neared the bottom. The jeep growled to life as thunder clapped overhead, then echoed down the valley. A gust of wind drove rain through the open sides, soaking him. He’d bet the people back at the camp hadn’t heard a damn thing and would only discover their transport missing after daybreak.

“Good girl.” He patted the dash. “You’re a real beauty.” The diesel tank registered full, too.

Brandt drove fast over the rough terrain. As soon as he felt he was far enough from the camp, he reached for his hip flask and took a deep swig, almost emptying the thing. At least he had a refill now, several times over. Brandt grinned. Things were most definitely looking up.

Within minutes he could make out the dark silhouette of the cliff in the distance, then the baobab grove at the foot of the rocks. But as the jeep mounted a last small incline and Brandt swung his headlights over toward the trees, he saw a strange pile in the mud at the base.

It took a split second to realize what he was seeing.

Dalilah—leopard!

His heart exploded into his throat as he slammed on the brakes. Leaving the headlights shining on the terrible sight, Brandt lurched out of the jeep and raced through the mud toward the pile of animal and human tangled in the water at the base of the trunks.

Chapter 4

M
bogo shoved a wiry old man dressed in khaki bush gear toward Amal.

“He’s the best tracker the lodge has. The other staff said so.”

Amal regarded the man. His hair was frosted with white and his face was wizened and craggy. But being old wasn’t necessarily a bad thing out here. This was a land still ancient enough to value the wisdom of elders, and out here in the bush a good tracker was one who’d hunted for food as a child, learned from his forefathers.

Slowly, Amal walked around the man, who lowered his head and stared at the floor. Amal was using the safari lodge’s curio shop-cum-office as a temporary command center. The room was filled with racks of postcards, shirts, hats, wood carvings and batik fabrics. Against one whitewashed wall stood a locked cabinet containing silver and copper jewelry and semiprecious stones. On another wall hung photos of lions, elephants, rhinos, buffalo drinking from a water hole. Another shot showed a leopard draped over a branch in front of a sinking sun. The Big Five, the most dangerous animals in Africa to hunt on foot.

But it was the hunt of human that excited Amal. He had Dalilah Al Arif’s scent now, and blood on his hands. Adrenaline coursed through his veins.

He was not a sophisticate like his father, the billionaire industrialist who’d wanted to rule an empire. No, Amal was a hands-on fighter who liked the trenches. Amal
liked
the gore on his hands, the intimacy of a kill, seeing fear in his quarry’s eyes. He was fueled by simpler things than his father. Revenge. Hatred. A need for cold hard cash.

“Is that you?” Amal pointed to one of the photos showing a guide standing behind a fat white hunter proudly holding up the dead head of a Cape buffalo.

“Yes, sir.” The old man would not meet Amal’s eyes.

Deference. Amal liked that.

“It’s a very dangerous animal, the buffalo.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My man here, his name is Mbogo. It means big bull buffalo. He’s dangerous like the buffalo.”

The man said nothing.

“What’s your name?”

“Jacob.”

“How long you been tracking, Jacob?”

“I hunted with my grandfather from when I could walk.”

“You from around here?”

“My village is near the Zambezi. You can hear the drums at night.”

“You work with the lodge a long time?”

“More than twenty years, sir.”

Amal nodded. He’d brought his own tracker, but local knowledge was invaluable. He stopped in front of the man.

“Look at me.”

The man’s eyes lifted slowly, wide and white with fear. Sweat gleamed on his ebony skin.

“I want the woman who was with the guests. Do you know which woman I mean?”

“There was only one woman in the delegate party, sir.”

“Dalilah Al Arif—the princess. We came all the way from Zambia for her. But now—” he clicked his fingers under the old man’s nose “—she’s gone, like that! We’ve searched the lodge, the grounds, everywhere. How can a woman like her disappear, Jacob? Do you think she ran into the bush by herself, in those shoes? In that dress?”

Jacob said nothing.

“She had help, that’s what! My tracker found sign in the dry sand under the trees next to the
lapa.
A man was waiting there. A big man. Do you know who he was, Jacob?”

Sweat glistened down the old man’s face. “No.”

“Are you certain? Because you do know what happened to the lodge owners and the rest of the staff when they didn’t cooperate with us—they’re all dead.”

The old man swallowed. “I don’t know who this man is, sir.”

“But you’re the best tracker—you can help me find him.”

“Sir, I have a wife—”

Amal glanced at Mbogo. “We know.”

Sweat trickled down the old man’s brow and he began to shake.

“Now, listen to me carefully, Jacob,” Amal said, leaning forward. “You find this man and princess for us, and your wife will be safe. You’ll be my lead tracker. My own guy will work as your flanker. You’ll both go ahead of the horses and jeeps, understand?”

Thunder boomed overhead. The lights inside the thatched bungalow flickered and the masks on the wall seemed to come alive in the shadows. Outside, monkeys screamed.

But before the old tracker could answer, there was another sound right outside the door. A snarling and clacking of teeth—a human scream. Yelling. A thud. A whimper.

Jacob’s gaze shot to the door.

Through the door came one of Amal’s men, his arm dripping with blood. With him he dragged a reddish-brown dog by a rope tied tightly around its muzzle and neck. The dog frothed at the jowls and its tail was tucked in tight. Jacob went wire tense, his eyes narrowing.

“You know this dog, Jacob?”

“Jock. He’s the master’s dog. I’ve been using him to track game.”

A slow smile curved over Amal’s face.

“Kill it.”

“No!” barked Jacob.

All stilled. Pearls of sweat trickled down from Jacob’s sideburns, his face a sheen of perspiration.

“That...is a good dog. He can track. He’s fought a lion.”

“Are you lying to me, Jacob?”

“Jacob doesn’t lie, sir.”

“Give him the animal,” Amal said quietly to Mbogo while watching Jacob’s face. “You start now—use the dog.”

* * *

“Dalilah!”
Brandt yelled as he ran through the rain. Lightning cracked overhead, sharply silhouetting baobab branches that clawed up to the sky. His mind twisted in on itself as he registered that she was sprawled over the leopard, not under it, her long wet hair trailing in the river of mud. Neither she nor the animal moved.

He dropped to his haunches at her side, fear choking him as he felt for a pulse. But as he touched her skin, she raised her head. Haunted eyes met his, mascara trailing a harlequin’s black tears down her cheeks.

“Brandt?”

“It’s okay, I’m here.”

“I killed her.” Her voice came out in a cracked whisper. “I shot her.”

He touched the animal. Its fur was warm.

“She was above me, in the branches, coming down, hissing...I shot her before she could kill me. I... There was a... I didn’t... I...” She began to shake, unable to form words.

“Hey,” he whispered, gathering Dalilah into his arms. “It’s okay.” She folded into him, resting her wet head against his chest. Brandt just held her for a moment as she sobbed with great big wrenching heaves. A reciprocal emotion swelled hot through his chest and he put his face up to the rain, the enormity of his responsibility suddenly overwhelming. He knew that failing this woman would be the end of him.

Inhaling deeply, he smoothed her wet hair back off her cheek. “Dalilah,” he whispered, looking deep into her eyes. “We can talk about it later, but now we need to move.”

He picked up the rifle lying in the mud and lifted her to her feet. Leading her to the jeep, he helped her into the passenger seat, the canopy protecting her from rain. Brandt quickly rustled through the pile of gear he’d loaded in the backseat, found a heavy gray blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her eyes caught his, held, then she looked away, drawing the blanket tighter around her shoulders, shivering, her face bloodless.

Brandt was fully aware that the physical and mental effects of shock were often underestimated. It was a medical condition that could become dangerous, and fast. He needed to watch her closely, make sure she stayed warm. But their immediate priority was crossing the border or they’d be trapped on this side and facing Amal by morning.

“We’ll get you into some dry clothes as soon as we get over the river, okay?”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Then I’ll splint your arm, get some food into you.” He placed a water bottle beside her. “Stay hydrated, okay? There’s probably aspirin in that kit there at your feet. Take what you need.”

But she just sat, staring wide-eyed into space, jaw tight.

Brandt ran back to the leopard sprawled in the mud. She was right, it was a female. She’d shot it in the throat. Then he saw the enlarged teats on the animal’s belly. Glancing up into the tree, he panned through the branches with his flashlight. And his heart just about cracked—a cub, mewling, the sound drowned out by the storm.

That must have been what truly shattered Dalilah.

He crouched and shunted the dead leopard onto his shoulders. It was heavy and blood washed with rain down his arm as he made his way back to the jeep.

Horror widened Dalilah’s eyes as she saw Brandt approaching in the headlights with the animal draped over his shoulders.

“No! Oh, God, no, what are you doing?” She spun round as he heaved the dead animal into the far backseat.

“Can’t leave it lying out there,” he said brusquely, coming round to the driver’s-side door. “This storm will cover a good deal of our trace. But leaving that leopard with a bullet hole lying under the tree like that—might as well leave a flag with a note telling Amal’s men we came this way.”

He climbed, secured his rifle into a bracket on the dash beside a hunting spotlight.

“Brandt—”

He shot her a glance as he put the vehicle in gear.

“There was a baby, a cub.”

“I know.” He pressed down on the gas, tires whining in mud as the vehicle kicked forward.

“We can’t leave the cub.”

“We have to. I’m not killing it.”

“Something else will.” Her voice was filled with desperation.

“Dalilah,” he said softly, jaw clenched, eyes focused on the terrain illuminated by the twin yellow beams of his headlights. “We can’t take it. We have to let nature take its course here.”

She pushed herself back into the seat, fighting something inside. Then a flash of anger burst through. “I didn’t sign up for this!”

You and me both.

But he said nothing, concentrating instead on negotiating a rocky escarpment as he worked the jeep toward the banks of the Tsholo. With the dash-mounted GPS came increased confidence. He told himself they’d be over the river, hopefully, within an hour or two. Once across the border he’d treat her injury, get some food into her, then they could start the trip across Botswana veldt. They’d travel along a giant rift valley until they could find a route up to the plateau, after which they’d head for a paved road that bisected the eastern region of Botswana. They’d drive south for several more kilometers, the paved road hopefully hiding their vehicle tracks, then the plan was to veer offroad again into a controlled game area from which there’d be another day or two of driving across Botswana bush to his farm where he’d get on the phone to Omair. And then the princess would be history.

“I’m a vegetarian,” she said. “I don’t kill things.”

He continued to drive in silence. The ground was dangerously rutted, flowing with water. The storm crashed around them, and branches were going down. Water was building into small rivers. Brandt needed full attention on his four-wheeling skills, and she needed space to lash these things out in her head herself, so he let her at it.

But his silence just seemed to egg her on.

“On principle,” she reiterated a few minutes later, as if he hadn’t heard. “I don’t kill animals!”

“You’re looking to get a rise out of me,” he said.

“
You
brought me here!”

“Look, Dalilah, I get that you don’t kill animals. Me, I don’t kill humans. On principle—I made that vow years ago. And now look at me—”

She shot him a hard look.

“I was forced to kill a man back at the lodge to honor a promise I made to your brother, a promise to get you out of here alive. Because of
you
I was forced to break that goddamn vow never to kill another man—” his voice came out more strident than he’d intended, and he gripped the wheel harder than he meant it to “—or woman.”

This time she stared at him in silence. Good. He’d hooked her out of her thought loop.

“So we’re square, okay? I didn’t want this any more than you did. That leopard was a case of kill or be killed. Survival.”

She continued to stare at him, and he knew what she had to be thinking—
what woman had died at his hand?
Brandt gritted his teeth, swinging the wheel too hard to the right to avoid a boulder that appeared abruptly in his lights. The vehicle slid sideways in mud, tilting almost onto its side as they traversed the escarpment.

Dalilah gasped, clutching on to the roll bar.

Brandt cursed and stopped the jeep.
Focus, dammit.
But this woman was messing with his head and his memories. And his anger had pushed him to take chances with the terrain. He wiped sweat off his brow, then slammed the vehicle back into gear.

Slowly he coaxed the wheels forward, crawling out of the tight spot. He sped up when they hit flat ground. There was little scrub now, mostly grassland. Rain was whipping sideways under the canopy, and the wet grass made a clacking noise under the carriage as he gunned forward.

Brandt could smell smoke again, getting stronger as they got closer to the river. Not good.

Fisting her blanket tight around her neck, Dalilah turned away from him and glared ahead.

They’d been driving in silence for maybe half an hour when she said, “Would you like me to hold the hunting spot so you can see better?”

He cast her a glance. “I didn’t think you’d even noticed there was one.”

“I’m not totally useless.” She reached for the game spotlight on the dash. With her good hand, she fiddled with it, clicked it on, held it forward. Stark white light illuminated terrain to the periphery of their headlights.

“Thanks. Makes a big difference.”

After a few more kilometres, he said, “I don’t know many people who could bring down a leopard at close range with a broken arm. You were right, you are good with a gun.”

She snorted, but said nothing. Brandt knew it must be killing her to have that dead leopard, evidence of her skill, on the backseat right now. He stole another sideways glance at her.

Even with the muddy, wet hair, the leaked mascara, the ripped outfit, her profile was aristocratic. Chiseled cheekbones that flared sharply under her almond eyes. The full mouth, determined set of her chin. Yeah, she was regal, even now, shivering under a blanket. And she was holding that spotlight steady like a trouper in spite of the pain and fear she must be feeling.