Slowly Dalilah turned her attention to the armed and silent bodyguards lining the six-foot-high branch fence, watching. The security detail had been provided by the president to watch over the delegates. Her own men stood behind her at a comfortable distance. Yet the chill of foreboding deepened and she shivered.
*
Brandt Stryker checked the name attached to a small plate on the bungalow door—Dalilah Al Arif, delegate, ClearWater. He knew about the nonprofit that helped bring fresh water and farming aid to impoverished communities in Africa. They did good work. He hadn’t known the Saharan princess was involved with that work. He knew very little about her other than she was a high-maintenance, high-society player with looks to kill.
The lock was easy enough to pick. Brandt edged open the bungalow door. Inside, the air conditioner hummed, cooling the air. White cotton sheets on the canopy bed had been turned down; a foil-wrapped chocolate nestled on the pillow alongside a miniature bottle of cream liqueur made from the fruit of the African marula tree.
The princess’s cell phone lay atop the covers. It was buzzing.
Brandt went over to the bed, the soles of his boots squeaking slightly on highly polished stone. The buzzing stopped. He picked the phone up. Eight unanswered calls, probably from her brother, Omair, trying to alert Dalilah, let her know that he was coming for her.
Irritated, Brandt tossed her phone back onto the covers. Now the job of convincing her to come peaceably would fall to him.
Using the barrel of his rifle, he edged the muslin drapes aside slightly and peered out the window. Down the pathway, under the branches of huge nyala trees, firelight winked through gaps in the branch fencing surrounding a lapa. He could hear drumming, singing, ululating. The dinner would go on for a while yet, he suspected.
His plan was go down to the lapa and identify his target from the shadows. Once he had confirmation Dalilah was among the guests, he’d head back to this bungalow as festivities began to wrap up, and wait for her here.
He opened her closet. Cocktail dresses in exotic and gauzy fabrics hung in a rainbow of colors. He trailed the muzzle of his gun through sequins, sparkles, shimmering scarves. At the bottom of the closet was a high-end luggage set and five pairs of sandals with ridiculous heels. The princess’s saving grace was a lone pair of sturdy hiking boots, a pair of khaki pants, two T-shirts, a long-sleeved button-down shirt and a sun hat. He tossed those onto the bed. His intention was to gear her up properly before he took her out into the night.
Brandt opened one of her drawers, looking for thick socks—once she returned to the bungalow he didn’t want to waste a second getting her changed and out of here. He stalled suddenly at the sight of a black bra and small pile of G-strings—mere scraps of silk. And he couldn’t help touching them, the fabric snagging on the rough pads of his fingers. He hadn’t seen, or felt, really expensive feminine underwear in years, and the silky sensation of it stirred something in him, a deep rustling of memories. An unspecified longing.
Then he cursed sharply, slamming the drawer shut.
He’d had his fill of women, of deceit. He liked things the way he had them now. He lived solo in the bush for weeks on end, and when his piloting jobs did take him to Gaborone, he found sex. No fuss, no foreplay, no commitment, just pleasure straight up. Until recently he hadn’t felt bad about it either—but lately, even the mindless sex had left him feeling hollow, unsatisfied, uneasy.
He found the princess’s purse, checked the passport picture in her wallet. His heart beat a little faster at the sight of her thick hair, her dark, almond eyes, her exotic features. Her looks alone pushed his buttons. He needed to get this job done fast—this was not a woman he wanted to linger around. She reminded him too much of someone else, of a past he’d worked for ten years to forget, but still couldn’t quite shake.
Brandt’s mind went to the phone call and the man who had coerced him into this mission—Sheik Omair Al Arif.
“I won’t do it,” Brandt had informed Dalilah’s brother. “I’m done kidnapping damsels in distress—you know what happened last time.”
“Which is why you’re going to do this for me now, Stryker, please—you owe me. My sister’s life is in danger and you’re the only guy in a position to get her out quickly. You’ll be in and out in seventy-two hours. Fly her over the border into Botswana, take her to your place out in the bush, let me know she’s safe, and I’ll send someone out there to bring her home.”
“You really trust me?”
“You sober?”
“For the moment.”
“Stay that way and I trust you. You’ll be well compensated.”
“Look, I don’t want your money, Sheik.” But truth was, Brandt did. He needed cash. He’d sunk everything into his farm, and to make ends meet he was forced to fly tourists out to game lodges across Botswana. A solid injection of capital would enable him to turn down the piloting work and stick to his land.
And he knew Omair would pay handsomely.
“Do this for me, Stryker, and next time I’ll owe you. Anything you want.”
Brandt laughed and hung up.
But he wasn’t laughing now. It was a restiveness he felt, a sixth sense of something bad closing in. Brandt had learned to trust that sense.
Quietly he left the bungalow and moved down through the shadows toward the lapa.
The fencing along one side of the dining area was open to a low rock wall that dropped down into a grove of trees. Brandt crouched among the smooth roots of those trees, gun in hand as he scanned the group. He saw her instantly. Princess Dalilah Al Arif. An exotic bird in cocktail gold among a group of mostly middle-aged men gone soft around the center and flushed with booze.
She turned her pretty, dark head to listen attentively to a squat, lantern-jawed man at her side. In her left hand she held a drink and a diamond as big as a plum caught the firelight. If that was an engagement ring, where was her fiancé in shining armor now? Brandt wondered.
The firelight caught her face as she turned in his direction—dusky skin, smooth, her eyes like black shining pools made even darker and bigger with eyeliner. She gave the poor schmuck beside her a full-wattage princess smile.
The man held his drink up in a mock toast and Dalilah tossed back her mane of curls and laughed, showing the long column of her throat, the low cut of her gold cocktail gown, the outline of breasts that were small and firm looking. And as she crossed her legs, the slit in her gown fell open, exposing taut thighs, slender ankles, ridiculously high stiletto sandals in gold to match her dress.
She was a glimmering flame among these dull male moths bumping fruitlessly, and dangerously, against her fire. A tease, engaged to another man.
Brandt disliked—and distrusted—her immediately.
He studied the security detail behind her—two men, likely her own. His attention shifted to the Zimbabwe soldiers lining the fence.
He’d seen those same men sharing dark beer and a joint when he’d cased the lodge and outbuildings earlier. Their eyes now gleamed yellow in the firelight, skin shining, postures showing boredom. They wouldn’t be sharp. Even so, he had no intention of engaging these goons. They were most likely trained to shoot and kill on sight, no questions asked.
Shifting on his haunches to ease the stiffness of old injuries, Brandt moved his attention back to his target. She was still laughing, seductive. A temptress. The way Carla had been. He wondered why the men couldn’t see the calculated precision, the tightly scripted choreography of her movements. Bitterness filled his mouth. He’d been one of those blind men once. It wouldn’t happen again.
The food plates came and went. Drink flowed. Chatter grew loud. Stiffness cramped his limbs. Brandt cursed softly to himself—this could go on all night. Very slowly he reached into the side pocket in his cargo shorts and slipped out a silver hip flask. Cautiously, he unscrewed the cap, took a deep swig, relishing the hot burn of scotch blossoming through his chest as he settled in for the long haul, his back pressed agains
t the smooth bark of the tree. And he told himself—seventy-two hours more, and his hands would be washed clean. His debt to Omair finally paid.
The music, the drumming, grew louder, faces more flushed, voices raucous. Vervet monkeys began to mimic the humans from the branches above, swooping in closer, hanging by their tails and using their long arms to steal food. And somewhere out in the veldt Brandt heard the first soft rumblings of thunder. Surprise rippled through him—this hadn’t been in the forecast. With his surprise came tension. A spring thunderstorm could bring early rain, flash floods, lightning and more fire.
He wanted to be up in the air and over Botswana airspace before any weather hit.
After-dinner liqueurs were now being poured. His patience grew thinner. He took another swig from his flask, pooling whiskey in his mouth, but before he could swallow, Brandt sensed something.
He held dead still, listening.
A crunch of flinty stone. The crack of dry twig. A softer warning chitter passing through the monkeys above.
All instincts sharp as razors, muscles primed, he concentrated on the ambient sounds under the bacchanalian clatter in the lapa.
Another slight shuffle. Then a birdlike call, soft.
Human.
Slowly he swallowed his mouthful of booze, his mind sharp and clear as morning. He rose. And he could sense them approaching, surrounding. Hunters. Experienced.
Clicking the safety off his rifle, he felt for the hilt of the panga sheathed at his hip—a blade that widened and curved upward toward the tip, the weapon of choice during the Rwandan genocide—a common tool of African violence.
Then on the far side of the lapa, a crack of gunshot.
It echoed through hot, black air. Then followed an almost imperceptible moment of dead stillness as everything quieted and the lapa became a freeze-frame—shadows against flame as liqueur-addled minds tried to compute what was happening.
Another shot, and a yell. Then it erupted—men in black balaclavas wielding AK-47s, knives and machetes stormed the lapa. Bodyguards returned fire as guests screamed, diving for the ground, crawling under tables and through upturned chairs and over broken glass.
Brandt held back, quickly computing. The attackers numbered upward of a dozen, and they were mowing down everyone in their wake, blood flowing freely. But one man among them stood slightly apart from the others. He seemed to be searching for something, controlling the team. As the man turned, Brandt saw he had only one arm.
Amal Ghaffar.
The man laid eyes on Dalilah, pointed and yelled.
All attention seemed to turn to the princess, who was crawling under a table.
Brandt swung himself up over the low rock wall and, using tables for cover, ran toward her in a crouch. He ducked under the tablecloth. She was kneeling beside a prone man, pressing her hand tightly against his neck, her eyes wild with terror as the man’s blood pulsed thick through her fingers. Even in danger, she was trying to help.
She glanced up, saw Brandt, and a raw kind of rage twisted through her features as she reached for a fallen carving knife. Brandt raised his finger to his lips, shook his head. But her fist curled around the knife even as she pressed her other hand to the man’s neck.
Brandt crawled closer. “Leave him,” he whispered harshly. “He’s gone.”
Her gaze shot to the fallen man’s face and a shudder ran through her body. There was another volley of shots, screams, orders being barked in Arabic. Someone started to pull the table away. Bodyguards returned fire. A fresh burst of adrenaline kicked through Brandt’s blood.
No time to waste. He grabbed her arm, but she lashed at him with the carving knife, almost slicing across his biceps.
“Dalilah! Listen—”
Shock flashed through her face at the sound of her name, but she lunged at him anyway, this time the blade coming right for his heart. Jesus. Brandt rolled sideways, twisting her arm sharply back until the knife dropped from her fist and her cheek was forced flat against the ground. He hooked his arm around her neck. Squeezing tight, he held her head in position with his other hand until he felt her go suddenly limp. Then quickly he dragged her across the rough paving and rolled her over the low wall. Her body thudded softly onto grass on the other side.
But as Brandt began to scramble after her, a man in a balaclava dived at him. Brandt swung round, unsheathing his panga, and sliced the man clean across the throat. He saw the gaping maw of red and black where the neck had been, the white of spinal column. Hot blood gushed onto him as the man’s body slumped forward into his arms. Bile rose in Brandt’s throat and for a moment he was unable to move.
A fresh volley of gunfire shocked him back. Brandt pushed the man off, clambered over the wall and bent to pick up Dalilah. Slinging her limp body over his shoulders, he ducked into the shadows, disappearing into a night black and thick with the smell of fresh death and smoke.
As he ran, thunder rumbled again along the distant horizon, a little louder now.
Mosi oa Tunya, he thought—the smoke that thunders. He repeated the mantra in his head as he ran through the bush, his burden heavy across his shoulders. He’d killed a man. He’d broken his vow of ten years.
She’d made him do it.
The princess reminded him of a woman from his darkest past, and now she was hurtling him right back into the terrible black nightmare of it all. Nausea roiled. With it came rage.
Mosi oa Tunya. Mosi oa Tunya. Mosi oa Tunya.
But it was not enough to keep his demons at bay. Not enough to stop her assailants from coming after them.
And it was not enough to stop the storm he could now smell in the air. Thunder growled again over the Zimbabwe plains and a hot wind began to gust in a new direction. The fires would turn, too, now. He realized suddenly his GPS and sat phone were missing from his hip. Must’ve lost them in the tussle. No time to worry about it now. His only goal right now was to reach his Cessna, get up into the air and over the border before the weather—or Ghaffar—hit.
Something told Brandt he was not going to make it.
Chapter 2
First there was only blackness, pain. Then as consciousness filtered back, Dalilah realized her head was hanging down, hair swinging, blood filling her cheeks, her body rhythmically bumping against something…
She was being carried over a man’s shoulders.
A twig sliced across her brow as her abductor began to descend a steep hill, stones clattering ahead of him. She tried to pull her vision into focus. It was night—dark, apart from moon and starlight. She could see the ground below, parts of her abductor’s body. His legs, boots. He was wearing safari shorts, thick socks, a machete at his hip.
Panic struck like a hatchet as memory slammed into her—the attack at the lodge. Men in hoods. Shooting, blood, screams. Barked Arabic commands. The delegate lying under the table, blood spurting from a gunshot wound in his neck. She realized with horror her fingers were still sticky with the man’s blood.
Leave him. He’s gone—the fierce whisper of her attacker, his ice-blue eyes drilling into hers. Eyes so pale and luminous against his darkly tanned face it had frightened her. She’d tried to stab him with a carving knife, but he’d grabbed her around the neck, and her world had gone black.
He’d taken her!
Dalilah squeezed her eyes shut, trying to gather herself. Fight? Flee? But where to? She opened her eyes again and tried to carefully lift her head in order to assess more of her surroundings, but he felt her body stiffen because he said, “Don’t even try it. Don’t move. Fighting me will make it worse.”
His voice was rough, deep, and he spoke English with the flat, guttural accent of an Afrikaner. She knew the sound well—had spent several months in the country and had worked with an Afrikaans-speaking South African in New York.
“What do you want with me?” Her voice came out hoarse, her throat hurting where he’d strangled her.
“Hold still. My Cessna is just down there, on the plain.”
F
ear spurted afresh through her, and she struggled wildly against his grip. “Who are you? Where are you taking me? If it’s ransom you want, I can—”
“Jesus, woman. I don’t want to hurt you—”
But she kicked at him hard, grabbing a handful of his short hair, twisting. He cursed viciously, swinging her forward and tossing her to the ground with a thud. Stones stabbed sharply into her back as breath whooshed out of her lungs with the impact. Dalilah’s eyes watered, pain sparking through her ribs.
“You bastard!” she hissed as soon as she managed a breath. “What do you want with me?”
“My name is Stryker—Brandt Stryker. Your brother sent me to get you.” He bent forward, hands on knees, struggling to catch his own breath. He was big. Well over six feet. Even in the milky starlight she could see he was fair. Square-jawed, broad-shouldered. Built. A rifle was strapped across his chest. His pale khaki shirt was dark with sweat, his sleeves ripped off at the shoulders, and she saw blood smeared down his arm.
Something in Dalilah stilled.
“My brother?” she asked quietly.
“Omair.”
“You know Omair?”
“Yes. I owe the damn sheik. Come on, get up. They’re going to be here any second.”
“Who!”
“Amal Ghaffar. Bloody one-armed jackal and his wild pack of dogs.”
Ice slid through her veins. “Amal?” Her voice came out a whisper. “The Moor’s son—he’s alive?”
Her assailant threw her an odd look and was silent for a beat.
“You didn’t know?”
Dalilah stared at him, thinking of the Arabic words she’d heard back at the lapa.
He gave a snort. “Figures your brothers might keep that from you. Amal Ghaffar has been hiding in Africa for the past two years, ever since your other brother Tariq shot off his arm in France and he got himself onto the world’s most-wanted list. Omair has been hunting him via an underground mercenary network, but every time Omair’s men get close, Amal and his pack move first.”
Guarding the Princess Page 2