Guarding the Princess

chapter 14



A little black face peered at them from between the scraggly branches of dry scrub. Brandt’s heart slammed against his chest, fury lacing through him as he released his finger from the trigger—he should have been aware, heard this kid approaching.

Now they’d been spotted. This small child, and possibly his whole village, had just been put in jeopardy.

Brandt raised his finger slowly to his lips, telling the kid to stay quiet. But the boy exploded from behind the bush and bolted on skinny little dusty legs and bare feet toward the village, calling out in a high-pitched voice.

Brandt swore, lurching to his feet as he took chase. He dived for the boy, tackling him to the ground. The child squealed in terror, squirming like a snake in his arms. Brandt held the kid steady until he stilled. Eyes huge and white with fear looked up into his face. Again Brandt cursed—the boy was only about eight years old.

“Take it easy,” he said in Setswana. “It’s okay. We mean no harm. We just want to buy that old jeep parked inside the fence. What’s your name, boy?”

“Wusani.”

“Who does the jeep belong to, Wusani? Can you bring him out here to me?”

The boy remained motionless, transfixed by Brandt’s eyes. Brandt was used to this—the color of his eyes was likely unusual to this child, and possibly frightening.

Slowly releasing his grip on the boy, Brandt repeated his question. “Wusani, who owns the jeep?” But the kid dashed off.

Brandt dived, caught him again, got him in a hold.

“Listen,” he said, urgency biting into him, “I need your help, son. There are some bad men searching for us. They want to hurt that lady over there.” He pointed to the rise, Dalilah’s head just visible.

The child looked where he was pointing.

“I need to take her somewhere safe. Fast. And I need the jeep because my airplane doesn’t work.”

Brandt could see the wheels turning behind Wusani’s dark brown eyes, bright with a mix of fear, intelligence and curiosity. He looked Brandt up and down.

“I’m a pilot,” Brandt said. “I fly planes.” He pointed to the sky. “You ever been in a plane, Wusani?”

He shook his head.

Out of the corner of his eye Brandt saw a man coming out the village gate, calling for the boy.

Crap. This was going downhill fast—he’d hoped to limit potential damage by keeping this between as few people as possible.

“Who’s that man, Wusani?” Brandt said with a jerk of his chin toward the man.

“He’s my grandfather.”

An old man, wiry, approached with a stick in his hand. It had a shiny knob on the end. He stalled when he caught sight of Brandt and Wusani. Brandt released the child, and the boy raced to his grandfather.

“It’s okay,” Brandt called out in Setswana, putting down his rifle and showing his hands. Another man, younger, was now exiting the village gate. A group of women near the fence stopped to stare.

Brandt inhaled, approaching them, preparing for a lengthy Botswana greeting—anything less would be an insult.

He introduced himself to the wiry old man with salt-and-pepper curls. The young man joined the group, and Brandt introduced himself to him, too. The young man said he was Wusani’s father.

Brandt asked who the village headman was, and whether they had cattle. He congratulated them when they said they did—livestock was money and status. They in turn asked about his own cows, and congratulated him when he said he had a few head. He felt the clock ticking, time dribbling away like sand between his fingers.

The old man told Brandt the chief’s name was Baikego Khama.

“Everyone calls him B.K.” His wizened face cracked into a gap-toothed grin, gums pink. More villagers were gathering near the fence, curious. Brandt’s heart sunk—there was no way out of this now.

From his pocket he took the wad of greenbacks he’d liberated from the Germans. All eyes went to the money.

“U.S. dollars,” he said. “I’m interested in buying that jeep under the tree over there. Who owns it?”

“It belongs to the village,” explained the old man. “But B.K. controls who can use it.”

“Can I speak to B.K.?”

They nodded and made a gesture for Brandt to follow them. Brandt motioned for Dalilah to come over. She scrambled down the bank, and picked up his rifle, bringing it to him.

Wusani skipped on his skinny little legs beside them as they entered the village and made their way to the headman’s hut. They passed the jeep. It was old, and on the side of the door were faded letters that read: Masholo Safari Lodge. The vehicle had likely been sold to this village when the camp offloaded it, thought Brandt.

Wusani’s dad went up to the chief’s door and knocked.

“Your grandson doesn’t go to class with the other kids?” Brandt asked the old man as they waited a respectful distance away.

A shadow crossed the man’s face. “Wusani runs away from school.” He shook his head. “He’s a smart boy, like his uncle who works for the mine. But Wusani muddles his letters—he can’t learn to read and so he runs away.”

Dalilah glanced at Brandt, curiosity raising her brow.

He took her hand, squeezed. “Just small talk,” he explained in English.

The chief came out of his hut.

Brandt greeted the headman with deference and began the whole greeting routine all over again. The chief had a Zionist badge on his shirt—a common southern African practice, claiming allegiance to the African Zionist church. He was likely a good man, a principled man. And Brandt’s head hurt as he thought of Amal coming closer and closer, what he might do if he thought these good people had helped him and Dalilah in any way.

“My name is Brandt Stryker, from over that way,” he told B.K. as he pointed west. “They call me Tautona where I come from.”

B.K.’s eyes went to the lion tattoo on Brandt’s arm.

“I have a plane, and I fly tourists to lodges all over Botswana. I’ve flown guests to Masholo Lodge, too. Do you have villagers who work at Masholo?”

B.K. said there were.

“They will know of my plane,” he said, drawing Dalilah closer. “And this is my friend.”

There was no point in hiding his identity—his tag was emblazoned across the tail of his Cessna, and Amal wouldn’t have to dig too hard to find out who the plane was registered to.

“We want to buy, or borrow, your jeep—my plane is not working, and we have far to go.” Brandt took out the wad of greenbacks again, fanning them out so the chief could see the amount. “We’re also in a hurry.”

Suspicion crossed B.K.’s face. He looked up from the money into Brandt’s eyes.

“It’s not enough money to buy the jeep,” B.K. said.

Brandt inhaled slowly, tempering his mounting sense of urgency. “I will bring more money when my plane is fixed.”

B.K. shook his head.

“What is he saying?” Dalilah whispered.

“He’s saying it’s not enough.”

A group of five women, one with a baby wrapped onto her back, another with a toddler at her feet, had gathered nearby. Brandt felt the fire of panic burning through his gut. This was just going from bad to worse—they had to get out of here.

The toddler waddled over to Dalilah and she smiled, dropping into a crouch. The baby touched her face and she laughed, a husky, warm sound. Anger braided through Brandt.

“Leave that kid alone,” he whispered harshly in English.

Surprise widened her eyes. “Why?”

“Don’t touch them—just leave these people. We shouldn’t even be here, talking to them. We’re putting them in danger by being here!”

She swallowed and stood up, a strange expression crossing her face.

He turned back to B.K. “Look, I know it’s not enough,” he said in Setswana. “But I have cattle. I have a farm. I will return with a new jeep for you. A much better one, and more money.”

B.K. turned to Wusani’s grandfather, and they moved off to the side where they were joined by three other men including Wusani’s father. They argued in low tones.

“What is it?” Dalilah asked.

“It’s not enough cash for the jeep, and they don’t trust that I will return with more.” Sweat beaded on Brandt’s brow—he felt as if he was going to implode. He spun round, paced. “We should have just walked.”

“We’ve waited this long already.”

“We’re not getting that jeep now. And they’ve seen us and know we’re desperate for a vehicle. Do you think they’re going to let us creep back in here to steal it as soon as it gets dark? They’ll try to stop us, and I’m not hurting these people. Not taking it by force.”

Dalilah stared at him, that odd look still on her face.

“Do they speak English?” she said suddenly.

“Hell knows. Some of them, probably. The teacher for one.”

She spun around, pointedly taking it all in, her gaze touching on the school building, the water tower, the creaking windmill, the goats, the straggling vegetable garden, the colorful houses with their tin roofs, then alighting on the toddler.

“This is what I wanted,” she whispered.

“What?”

“This. My goal. My work. The mission in Zimbabwe.” Her eyes shimmered with sudden, fierce emotion. Her mouth went tight, her hand fisting. She turned suddenly and marched toward the group of men arguing quietly under the thorn tree near the chief’s house.

“Dalilah!”

She didn’t heed him.

“Dalilah!” He ran after her, took her arm, whirled her around to face him. “What are you doing?”

She shook him off and went up to the men. “I can pay for the jeep,” she said to them.

They all looked at her.

“Do you speak English? Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” said Wusani’s father.

“I can buy the jeep.” She was wiggling the ring on her hand, desperately tugging it off her swollen finger as she spoke, and it struck Brandt suddenly what she was doing.

“Dalilah—no!”

“And gas. I want spare gas—petrol, for the jeep?”

She yanked the ring off and held it up to them. Sunlight caught sparks of grapefruit pink. The platinum setting gleamed white.

“I will pay with this.”

The men stared.

Brandt took her arm. “Dalilah,” he said into her ear, “they have no idea what that’s wor—”

She angrily shrugged him off again.

“Does anyone here know anything about diamonds? Do you know what you can buy if you sell this stone?”

A murmur went through the group as energy shifted.

“Go get Teep,” the headman barked at one of the younger men, suddenly all clipped business. He shot a glance at Brandt, then at Dalilah, then the huge rock—an apple of temptation.

“Teep,” he said quietly, while staring fixedly at the rock, “is my son. He works at the Botswana diamond mine. He has come back to the village to see his family.”

A tall and devastatingly handsome man who looked as though he’d been carved from ebony came striding toward them, Wusani scampering excitedly at his heels. He wore perfectly pressed khaki pants and a crisp white shirt. His black leather shoes had been polished to a high gloss.

His greeting, thankfully, was less traditional and brief. He took the ring from Dalilah, held it up to the light. His body went dead still, but Brandt could see the subtle shift in his muscles, the quickening of his pulse at his carotid. He swallowed and looked slowly at Dalilah, as if in disbelief.

“They don’t even have pink ones like this in South Africa.” His English was impeccable, British accented.

“Ten carats.” Dalilah said. “Cut and polished from a rough 21.35-carat gem mined from the Argyle mine in the East Kimberley region of Western Australia. It’s set in platinum. If you give us the jeep, spare gas, camping supplies and water, you can keep the diamond.”

“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Brandt whispered, pulling her aside.

“I’m doing what I want to. I want the jeep and I want to get out of here.”

Teep drew his father aside, and they conversed in low tones.

“Jesus Christ, Dalilah,” Brandt whispered. “You can’t give away a sultan’s ring like that—”

“Haroun can afford it, Brandt. Look at it this way, it’s buying my life. He’ll have to understand that. If he doesn’t, he has a problem. Besides, I’ll reimburse him.”

“What’s that thing worth anyway?”

“Two point five.”

“Million?”

She said nothing.

He stared at her, his brain reeling. “Dalilah, what decision, exactly, are you making here?

“Just leave me, okay!” she snapped, reading the deeper questions in his eyes. “It’s my decision, not yours.”

“That’s more money than these people will know what to do with.”

She raised her arm and swept it in a wide arc, taking in their surrounding village. “They need a new school. Those kids could do with shoes. That water tower needs to be replaced. They could install solar power, get hot water and electricity into their homes, increase their crops with better irrigation. More cows, another windmill, a new jeep, maybe even a secondary-education fund.”

He just stared at her. The group of men, including B.K., were now looking at her, too. More women were gathering nearby and the school kids were coming out. The whole damn village was coming to witness this event now.

Urgency exploded in him.

“It’s what I’ve always wanted, Brandt,” she said quietly, urgently. “I have wealth and I want to help.” Her eyes glittered with passion. “This continent is my home, and this is my dream.”

“This is more than just about the jeep and helping African villages, isn’t it?”

“This is about my life, Brandt,” she said quietly, “and what I want to do with it.”

A quiet rustling wildfire of hope ignited suddenly in Brandt—hope for something he didn’t even dare want to think about. Chief B.K. was approaching them, but Brandt’s brain had suddenly stalled and all he could do was stare at the princess.

“Teep says this is a good diamond,” B.K. announced.

“It’s a damn fine diamond,” Dalilah said.

“Why do you want to give us this stone? Is it stolen?”

She moistened her lips. “No, it’s not stolen. I want to give it to you because we need that jeep very badly, and because I can see your village needs new water tanks, and a new school, and a proper vegetable garden.”

He regarded her intently for several long beats.

“Well—is it a deal?” she said.

B.K. bowed, softly clapping his hands together in a sign of thanks. He followed this by making a sign of the cross for good measure.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank the Lord for this gift. You may take jeep, and all our petrol, and any supplies we can give. Teep will help you. Tell him what you need, and he will get the villagers to bring everything.”

“We’re in a hurry,” she said.

“Yes—we will be quick.”

Dalilah smiled triumphantly at Brandt, an expectant look in her face.

“I’m not saying thank-you,” he growled. “If Amal comes here, finds that ring...” He pointed after B.K., then swore and stalked off toward the jeep. She ran after him.

“I’m not asking for your thanks, you...brute.”

He huffed, walked around the jeep, evaluating her purchase. Afternoon shadows were already lengthening. Doves sounded in the trees.

On the rear of the jeep someone had scratched the word Skorokoro.

“You see that?” He jerked his chin to the scrawled inscription. “It means too old to work. You paid two-point-five million for a lemon that might not even get us to the road.”

“If you have issues, I’ll drive. It’s my jeep now.”

He grunted.

“You just don’t like a woman taking over, do you, Brandt? Or is it the fact I have money?”

He stopped dead, turned to face her square. “No, Dalilah, it’s Haroun. I don’t like that family, and you’ve just given away his ring—I don’t know what constitutes a violation in his goddamn tradition.”

Her face sobered. “You’re afraid for me.”

“Hell, yeah. Nothing about this is right.” He waved his hand at the jeep, the village. “We’ve probably brought harm right to their door. And now—” He stopped speaking as he saw Teep approaching with two women dragging a cart of boxes loaded with supplies.

Teep handed him the jeep key as the women began to load the supplies into the back.

“Food, water, spare petrol, camping stove, pot, kerosene lamp, spare tin of kerosene and a blanket.” Teep hesitated, then said, “And two tins of motor oil.”

“Thank you,” Brandt said, irritably taking the keys. “Does it leak oil, then?”

“A bit.”

He grunted irritably. “You have any spare ammunition lying around?”

Teep’s eyes shot to his.

“For my rifle. Might need to hunt.”

Wariness crossed the man’s features, but he called out over his shoulder for someone to bring rifle bullets.

A man came running with two boxes of shells.

“Get in, Princess,” Brandt said as he took the boxes. “Your chariot awaits.”

She muttered something in Arabic and climbed into the passenger seat.

Brandt got in, turned the ignition.

The engine coughed, then sputtered to life with an unearthly growl.

“Skorokoro, you better have some juice in you,” he said as he pressed down on the accelerator.

He gave a wave of thanks and they trundled toward the gate, someone running ahead to open it. The children ran behind in their dust, squealing and waving. One of the women began to sing, and others joined in, waving them goodbye.

But as they reached the gate, Brandt stopped the vehicle just before the cattle grid and disinfectant trough.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, throwing open the door.

Dalilah shot him a look—he was edgy, she thought, like bottled fuel ready to blow. “Where are you going?”

But he was gone already, engine still running, door open. Dalilah spun around in the passenger seat. He’d taken the chief aside, his head bent down, urgency in the set of his body as he discussed something. A whisper of trepidation ran through Dalilah. The shadows were growing longer, the colors of the bush turning gold.

Brandt got back into the driver’s seat and shifted gears. They bumped over the cattle bars, and he laid on the gas. Dust boiled out behind them, catching the sun’s yellow rays. The jeep had some power in it, even if it sounded cranky. Dalilah took off her hat before the wind could snatch it from her head, holding her hair in her fist to keep it from whipping her face.

She glanced at his profile. His hands were tight on the wheel, his features pulled into a frown.

“What did you say to the chief when we left?”

“Told him if men come to his village asking about us, to say that we stole the jeep—then to show Amal our tracks to the road.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want Amal to think they helped us or that they’re hiding anything. I don’t want to give him any reason to hurt them.”

She swallowed, thinking of the villagers’ faces, the children, the bright, white smiles, the happy school. The babies.

They came to the road. It was narrow and the paving was pocked with potholes and being eaten away by thick grass along the edges. A rickety wooden arrow declared the Limpopo River border with South Africa was to the left, and another arrow pointed right to Bulawayo.

Brandt wheeled onto the rugged road and headed south toward the Limpopo.

“We’ll travel about twenty klicks down this paved section, then cut off into a tract of controlled conservation area. We’ll do some countertracking at the junction, and hopefully Amal will lose our vehicle tracks for good along here.”

“Countertracking?”

“Hide our tracks so it’s not obvious that someone recently veered off this road into sand.”

In the opposite lane, a vehicle came toward them, shimmering in the distance. It blew past—a blue-and-white Botswana police van heading north. She shot Brandt a fast look.

“They can’t do anything, Dalilah—the police here generally don’t even carry guns. It’s why I like this country. It’s a good place.” She heard the bite of self-recrimination in his voice. He felt he was bringing bad things into a haven that he’d chosen to come to and try to heal all those years ago.

He drove faster, the combination of potholes and bad suspension sending jarring shocks right through her teeth. Dalilah gripped the side of the door for purchase as Brandt swerved wide into the oncoming “lane” to avoid a particularly large hole.

Just as he veered back into their own lane, he suddenly swerved again, this time to avoid a warthog that burst out of the tight grass on the side of the road and scampered across, followed by babies, tails held erect.

The sun was sinking toward the horizon and the wind was warm against her face. The plains rolled away in endless browns and golds. Dalilah touched her naked ring finger, a crazy sense of freedom overcoming her as they barreled down this road, through empty land as far as the eye could see. The more she thought about it, the wilder the excitement racing through her heart—she wasn’t going to marry Haroun.

She’d decided that when she took off the ring. But coupled with a delirious sense of liberation, Dalilah was also deeply anxious about how to break the news to Haroun, to her brothers and to the world, especially after their official engagement had been reported by media around the globe. The guest list was already being prepared. And Brandt was right—one invitation was being sent to the White House, too.

She glanced at him. Strong, protective, sensitive, caring. He had no idea what he’d done for her, and at this moment Dalilah just wanted to stay out here, travel this road with him, with the warm wind in her hair. But she couldn’t outrun the inevitable looming consequences of her decision not to uphold the treaty.

There would be an end to this road, and she still had to face it. Brandt slapped the dash suddenly, and made her jump.

“What is it?”

His hands fisted tight on the wheel. “We shouldn’t have interacted with them. You shouldn’t have touched the kid. They’re going to get hurt.”

“My touching that toddler isn’t—”

“We shouldn’t have been there, Dalilah! We should’ve split the instant that Wusani kid saw us.” He gritted his jaw, face going darker, shoulders tighter.

“Brandt, we can’t change what happened now.”

“Our tracks lead right up to that village. Amal is going to go in there and start asking questions—”

“And the headman will tell him we stole the jeep, like you said.”

“One of those kids, or women...someone in that village is going to let something slip if Amal and his men start scaring them. He’s going to find your ring. Amal’s going to find your ring and they’re finished.”

They passed a dead cow on the side of the road. Two women with knives bent over, skinning it to reveal a sinewy white carcass. It must have been hit by a vehicle, and they were not going to let it go to waste. She turned away, feeling suddenly sick, fear whispering through her again. They drove by a few more signs of civilization—another road sign, two women walking with large bundles on their heads. Soon there was a high game fence running alongside them for miles.

Brandt swore again, eaten up by what they’d done.

“We had no choice but to interact, Brandt, after that child saw us.”

“Because I was too damn busy kissing you—that’s why!”

She swallowed. His fury at himself was palpable and increasing in direct proportion to the distance they were putting between themselves and the village. It made her edgy, nervous for the villagers. Images assailed her again—that dead delegate under the table, Amal’s men mowing them all down, slaughtering innocents.

Brandt swerved sharply to avoid a man standing on the side of the road, waiting, presumably, for a ride. Next to him was a garbage bag of clothes and two wooden boxes filled with old-fashioned glass pop bottles. Dalilah guessed he was going to sell them.

“This is where we leave the road,” Brandt veered off the paved section and jounced over a dirt track toward a break in the game fencing. The jeep trundled over a series of cattle grids as they entered the controlled area. He stopped the vehicle, got out, grabbed a branch from the side of the path and went back to the road, sweeping over their tracks.

When he got back into the driver’s seat Dalilah saw he was pale under his tan, his skin tight—he really was broken up about leaving those villagers.

Conflict torqued inside Dalilah as they entered a gorge, high rocky cliffs on either side, casting long shadows.

“Valley of Ghosts,” he said.

“Is that what it’s called?”

He nodded. “A superstitious place.”

They traveled for a while down the gorge, cliffs narrowing in on them.

He sensed her uneasiness. “Don’t worry, the path veers off before it narrows too much.”

“It’s not the gorge, Brandt. It’s the village. I mean, if they claim we stole their jeep, surely—”

“Omair has told me things about Amal,” he said coolly. “He revels in destruction, pain, hurt. He’s evil, Dalilah. I saw firsthand what he did at the lodge—I can see him slaughtering every one of those villagers for pure pleasure.”

“Okay, so you’re right, maybe we should have just walked.”

“And then? You’d be dead by sunrise. Because if we were on foot, he’d be on our asses before dawn with his horses and jeeps.”

She stared at him.

“So you chose me over that village.”

He drove in silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. And she truly was. For being an Al Arif royal, for attracting Amal, for Omair forcing Brandt into this. For bringing possible devastation to an innocent village, for pushing this man to break his vow of peace.

“Brandt,” she said suddenly, “stop the car.”

“What for?”

“Just stop. Now!”

He did. Dust settled. The sound of birds rose around them.

“We need to go back.”

He rolled his eyes. “We can’t—I’ll be signing your death warrant, Dalilah. My sole purpose out here is to keep you alive.”

“We have to go back.”

“And do what, exactly?”

“Kill Amal.”

He stared at her, stunned by the determination—and fear—on her face.

“We need to protect that village, Brandt, and we need to head Amal off, lead him away.... I don’t know, trap him or something.”

“Don’t be naive,” he snapped. “You know what’ll happen, Dalilah—we’ll all die. Villagers, you, me...I get to see a repeat of what happened to Carla.”

“Oh, so it’s about you.”

He swore violently. “That is not fair.”

She swiveled in her seat, faced him square. “Listen to me, Brandt, I can’t keep running. If we don’t end this now, if Omair doesn’t catch him, he’s always going to be out there somewhere.” She pointed into the distance. “There will always be the fear that he’ll come after one of my family, anywhere, anytime, somewhere in the world. I have to end this now.”

“You?”

“We do. Me and you. A team.”

“Dalilah—”

“Listen, Brandt, I know you made this vow not to use violence, but please, help me do this. I can’t keep running, not now that I have everything to live for. I gave away that ring because I decided I couldn’t give up who I am in order to marry Haroun. You helped me reach that decision. Now I’m almost there—almost free. Help me go the rest of the way.”

He stared. Something unreadable in his face. Something changing in the lines of his features, in the quality of light in his eyes—anticipation, hope. It fueled her.

But he said, “Dalilah, I cannot endanger your life. I just...can’t. My job is to protect you.”

She grabbed his arm. “Brandt, this is not about your job, it’s not about delivering me to Omair—I’m not going anywhere. This is about us. About...maybe trying to make things work.”

The muscle in his jaw ticked. He swallowed. “What are you really saying, Dalilah?”

She glanced away. What was she saying? Then she spun back to face him. “I’m saying that when this is all over, I want to come to your farm, Brandt. I’m saying I want to get to know you better—if you’ll let me.”

All the color drained from his face.

“But I have to tell Haroun I’m not upholding the treaty, and I have to inform my brothers. If I can also tell them Amal is gone, it’s going to win me favor. That’s my offer to them, my compromise. That’s what I can do for my country. And I need your help.”

“Christ,” he breathed.

“Remember, Brandt,” she whispered, “you told me yourself, whatever you do out here, don’t run. Because there’s nothing out here that you can outrun. I’m not running anymore. And neither are you, because if you come back with me, and we take out Amal, you’ll kill those memories in your head, I swear it.”

He continued to stare at her. “You’re not going to marry him?”

She smiled, a little tremulous, excitement glittering in her eyes, exhilaration shining around her.

“No,” she whispered. “If I marry, Brandt, it’s going to be for love.”

He felt as if he was on the edge of a precipice, and she was asking him to jump without a chute. He was so damn afraid that what she was promising wouldn’t work out. The princess and the mercenary.

Was it even possible?

“If you help me kill Amal, Brandt, I can be free.”

“No,” he said. “No way am I letting you do this for your brothers. I can’t allow you to have blood on your hands. It’s not you, Dalilah, to kill a man. You don’t even hurt animals.”

“He’s not a man. He’s a monster. You said it yourself—he’s evil.”

Brandt shook his head.

“I’m not taking you back there. I’m not getting you killed.” He hesitated, his brain racing through options. She was right about one thing—they couldn’t run forever. If Amal did find their tracks off the road and into this controlled game area, there was a very real chance he’d end up tracking Brandt all the way back to his farm, and Amal could reach the farm before reinforcements ever arrived from Omair. This could end in a violent confrontation either way. He cursed inwardly. He’d rather bring the confrontation to Amal, on his own terms.

“I’ll go back myself,” he said. “I’ll hide you here, up in those cliffs.”

“What?”

“You hide out here in the gorge—and if I don’t return, you make your way back down to the main road and start walking south. There’ll be a truck at some point. Stop the truck, get the driver to take you to the first village, find a phone and call Omair. He’ll come get you. Tell him my debt is paid. Tell him I went after Amal.” He opened his door, got out and leaned over into the backseat, began repacking a box.

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving you supplies.”

Dalilah flung open her door, went up to him, grabbed him by the arm. “Brandt, stop. Look at me!”

He stilled, and slowly met her eyes.

“Just how are you planning on doing this alone?”

He said nothing.

Blood drained from her face. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “You’re going to lure him away and drive until Skorokoro runs into the ground? And then he’ll kill you.”

“Dalilah—”

Her face hardened. “That’s rich—make me fall in love with you, make me abandon my country and my obligations, then you go on a suicide mission?”

“How,” he said very quietly, “can you ever think you could want to be with me on my land in the remote Botswana wilderness, Dalilah? You’re riding on an adrenaline rush. When you sober up in a few days, you’ll see. I’ll be history in your eyes.”

She barked a harsh laugh. “Oh, and here I thought you said you knew me! You know nothing, Brandt Stryker, about my love for this continent, about who I really want to be. Who I can be. But you had the gumption to show me—you can’t abandon me now.” Her eyes glittered with emotion, and hot spots of color rode high on her cheeks. “And I’m not going to let you do this alone.”

She placed her hand against his face—skin soft, warm. “Either we do this together or we let those villagers die.”

“If we do it together I might be letting you die,” he said.

“Then we go out in a blaze...we go like Thelma and Louise, like Bonnie and Clyde, like...I don’t know—like Brandt and Dalilah.”

He opened his mouth, but she put her fingers to her lips. “I don’t want to face a future without trying to make one with you, Stryker. A team. Like you said back at the cliff, one rock at a time. And then when we’re done, you take me home. Your home.”

Conflict twisted so tight in Brandt he couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She’d just given him everything...the whole world, a future, to fight for. A reason to live. To try again. Another chance.

And everything to lose.

His eyes burned as he met the fierce passion in her gaze. And he knew—he knew with every molecule in his being, that he loved this woman. This woman who never stopped surprising him, who was his match in so many ways and more. A woman who could challenge him and take him to task when he got out of hand.

She wanted him. This princess who’d never been with any other man—she wanted him to take her home.

To his bed.

Dare he do this? Could he ambush Amal, take him out and keep her alive at the same time? All he had was the jeep, one rifle, shells, a panga and a knife.

And his wits, he told himself. He had his smarts. He was a veteran guerrilla fighter.

A rush like thunder exploded through his chest and his brain started firing on all cylinders. It would be dark soon. Amal could have found their camp at the abandoned airstrip by now—or would soon. They were running out of time.

He thought about what he had in the jeep, in the boxes. Petrol. Motor oil. He had matches. A lighter. His brain raced. Then it hit—the man with the wooden crates of empty glass bottles at the side of the road about a klick or two back. Unless a vehicle had come down the road already and picked him up, he might still be there.

He turned to Dalilah, heart thudding a tattoo against his ribs, sweat dampening his shirt, a wild, mad exhilaration racing through his blood.

“I have an idea. Get in.”

“What—”

“Get in!” He jumped back into the driver’s seat and fired the ignition as Dalilah scrambled into her seat. Hitting the gas, he spun his wheels and did a one-eighty turn, heading back toward the main road. They thumped over the cattle grids and as he hit the road, he turned north.

The man with the bottles was still there. Brandt screeched to a stop beside him, leaped out of the vehicle.

Using rapid-fire Setswana, Brandt exchanged a hundred-dollar bill for the two crates of empty cola bottles.

Dumping them in the back of the jeep, he got back in and swung onto the road. Dusk crawled over the land as the sun slid below the distant ridge. Night was almost upon the bushveldt—the violence was about to begin.