Guarding the Princess

chapter 4



Mbogo 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.

A grudging admiration curled through Brandt. Not only was the princess blessed with killer looks, she was a survivor—this woman had what it took. She pressed all his buttons and she was not averse to giving him a run for his money.

That made him like her, against his best effort. It made him care.

And Brandt knew then—he was in more trouble than he’d thought.

* * *

Almost an hour later they crested a ridge and saw a deep, dark line of vegetation snaking across the plain.

“The Tsholo,” Brandt said, halting the jeep. “Douse the spotlight.”

Dalilah looked at him. “Why?”

“Too bright. There could be people down there—illegals trying to cross from Zimbabwe into Botswana before the waters come down. I want to keep as low a profile as possible in case Amal comes this way and starts questioning stragglers.”

Nerves bit into Dalilah. She killed the light with one hand, her other arm too painful to move.

“What about our headlights?” she said, replacing the spot on the dash.

“I’ll cut them when we get closer, drive in the dark. We’ll go slow.”

He began to take the jeep down a precarious, rocky drop.

“So the riverbed is dry?” she asked, peering ahead at the dense vegetation snaking across the plain.

“I sure as hell hope so.”

The jeep jolted suddenly and pain sparked up her arm. Dalilah’s eyes watered and she clenched her teeth. She’d felt a sense of foreboding when she’d sat on that riverbank and that crocodile had come from nowhere, but not in her wildest dreams had she imagined this—being attacked, knocked unconscious, kidnapped and hauled off on the back of this man into the African wilderness.

Dalilah stole a sideways glance at Brandt. Her abductor and rescuer.

Mostly rescuer, she hoped. Because there was something scary about him. Perhaps it was his sheer physical size, his brutal capacity for analysis in a dire situation. She wondered what woman he’d killed. And why. Who was Brandt Stryker when he wasn’t paying back a debt to her brother, and what had Omair done for him?

If it wasn’t for your brother I’d be dead.

Dalilah was hit by another spike of anger—as soon as she got to a phone, she was going to call Omair and demand answers. How on earth could she take efficient measures to protect herself if she didn’t know what dangers even lurked out there?

The anger spread through her chest. Her whole life had been spent trying to break out of the overbearing, protective shadows of her brothers. Ever since she was a kid she’d strived to prove herself as capable, or better, than them. It had become her driver, and that passion had forged habits in Dalilah that had taken her to the top of her profession as a foreign-investment consultant based out of Manhattan. She’d come to believe her brothers had finally accepted her independence, her capabilities.

Yeah, right. Look at her now. On the run in a starving country, being hunted by a bloodthirsty rogue who literally planned to cut off her head, and her only hope of survival laid squarely in the hands of this rough Afrikaner merc, because yes, Dalilah figured Brandt was a mercenary. It was likely how he’d come into contact with Omair in the first place.

Brandt slammed on the brakes abruptly and Dalilah jolted forward.

“What is it?”

“Fire.” He jerked his chin. “In those trees—exactly where we were headed.”

“Why are we headed there?”

“I know the riverbed is hard sand there, and it’s a narrow crossing with low banks on the Botswana side.” He spun the wheel, turning sharply northwest. “We’ll have to cross higher, but the higher upriver we go, the steeper the bank on the Botswana side, and the wind is going to drive those flames upriver, fast.” He hit the gas, wheels skidding beneath them as they blundered through scrub, racing away from the smoldering fire in the trees.

“What about the headlights?” she called out, hanging on to the roll bar.

“Got to risk it now!”

Dalilah gritted her teeth, pain shooting out from her arm as they jerked and bashed over rocks and bushes. As they neared the fringe, the trees seemed bigger, darker. Leaves clapped in the hot wind that would bring the fire to them. They entered the trees and in the glow of the headlights the wet bark glowed yellow-green. Panic licked softly through Dalilah’s stomach, fueled by the tension she could feel rolling off Brandt as he negotiated the gaps between the trunks.

Suddenly ahead of them stretched a wide swath of silvery-white sand. The Tsholo. And as their headlights hit the far bank, Dalilah saw a cliff of sand on the far side. How they were going to get up that cliff once they crossed, she had no idea.

“Hold on!” he yelled, gunning the jeep down an incline toward the dry riverbed. They hit soft sand and the tires began to spin, but he kept going, steady, the rough diesel engine growling.

Go, go, go, keep going...she willed the jeep to keep powering through to the other side. But it was a big vehicle, heavy, and the sand was soft.

Wheels started to spin deeper, then the left front wheel on the driver’s side suddenly dug right in, tilting the front of the jeep forward and pressing the running board against the riverbed.

Brandt cursed in Afrikaans as he grabbed the game spotlight and hopped over the driver’s-side door. He panned the far side of the river, and swore violently again as the beam glinted off water moving below the sand-bank cliff.

“Water’s starting to come down already. A full flash flood could hit in minutes. Get out, now!” he ordered. “Go back to the Zimbabwe side and climb to higher ground under the trees. Get as far away from the river’s edge as you can without losing sight of me. And take the rifle!” He ran around to the back of the jeep and opened the compartment under the rear seat.

Dalilah spun round to look at the bank from which they’d just come. A few hundred yards downriver orange flames were already crackling fast and furious through foliage along the bank, coming directly toward them. Wind was blowing hot into her face, full with the smell of the fire, smoke stinging her eyes.

She turned back to see Brandt had put on a headlamp and was hauling out what looked like a massive jack, which he threw onto the sand in front of the sunken tire. He returned for a shovel, began digging sand out from under the front chassis of the vehicle. Adrenaline mushroomed through Dalilah.

She ran up to the vehicle, removed a second, smaller shovel from the tool compartment. Using one hand she began digging awkwardly next to him.

“What are you doing?” he yelled, water sheening over his face.

“Helping—what do you think I’m doing?”

“I said move, dammit! You want to be a sitting duck in a flood, or what! Get the hell out of this riverbed.”

“No!” she yelled, rain plastering hair to her face, her dress to her body. She could hear the crackle of the fire now. She dug faster.

“Dalilah, you agreed to do as I say. I came here to keep you alive.” His voice vibrated with fierce energy.

“No, Brandt, ultimately I am responsible for myself. My decision. My life. We work as a team or we don’t work at all.”

He cursed. “Just because you’ve ordered people around your whole life—”

She raised her good hand, pointed her finger at his face, blinking into the glare of the lamp on his forehead. “You know nothing about me. If you want to get us out of here, quit picking on my title, stop being such a prejudiced ass and dig before the river comes down or the damn fire swallows us.” Her voice was pitched high with fear, and she was using words she never ordinarily used, but she didn’t care. She was afraid. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to stand on that riverbank while Brandt was swept away without her. She was sticking right at his side come hell or high water. Or fire and crocodiles and leopards. Or Amal.

“Dalilah—”

“Shut up and dig! I’d rather face a flash flood than be raped by Amal’s men and have my head cut off!”

Brandt spun away from her and angrily jabbed his spade into the sand. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Yeah, I am. And so are you!”

Brandt stilled, and glared at her for a moment, then a wry smile curved his lips. He gave a quick nod, then resumed digging. He had to hand it to her—Princess had won his admiration.