Guarding the Princess

by Loreth Anne White

  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 sandbank 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.

  Chapter 5

  Jacob gently fingered the swelling on Jock’s muzzle, looking for the cut where he’d been kicked in the face. Jock whimpered as Jacob found the wound. It wasn’t too bad, and the bones didn’t appear broken.

  “It’s all right, boy,” he whispered in his local Shona dialect, the love in the touch of his gnarled hand conveying all to the animal—he was not alone, even though his owners had been murdered. Jacob was also certain the attackers had slain his wife. He and the dog were in this together now. Both afraid. But not broken.

  “Soek,” he whispered softly, holding his palm down to the soft red earth that was still dry under the fat branches and old canopy of the nyala tree—it was his indication for Jock to start a search.

  Amal shot Mbogo a quick glance and raised an eyebrow.

  “Lodge owners were Afrikaners,” Mbogo said quietly. “Guess they spoke to the dog in Afrikaans.”

  In his peripheral vision Jacob was keeping an eye on the one-armed Arab and his big bull of a comrade, Mbogo. Jacob was a skilled hunter, trained to observe, to listen, without appearing to do so.

  Mbogo cradled an AK-47 in his meaty hands. Bandoliers filled with ammunition crisscrossed his broad chest and a giant panga was sheathed down the side of his tree-trunk-size thigh. In contrast, the Arabic man at his side was slender with a narrow face and wild eyes. Even so, Jacob felt the Arab was the more dangerous one. He spoke English with an American accent and he also carried a panga, the blood of the delegates and lodge employees still black on his blade. A smaller curved and bejewelled dagger was hooked into his belt.

  At Jacob’s boots, Jock sniffed the soft indentations in the earth where the man who took the princess had crouched. The dog was circulating air through his nasal passages with soft snorts, cataloguing the scent. Behind where Amal and Mbogo stood on the raised wall of the lapa, bodies lay among overturned chairs, broken glass. The fire in the circular pit had died, food in the pots burned, the scent of it all pungent. Ants had already found the slain. There would be flies later, and when the sun rose, the cadavers would begin to rot fast. Vultures would circle up high and silent on thermals above the camp as the heat of a new day pressed down.

  Jacob was going to kill that one-armed bastard and his big bull. He’d kill them or die trying. But if he was going to stay alive long enough in order to make the attempt, he had to prove his worth and lead them close to their quarry. Jacob could do this. He was one of the best. The dog would help him—they were both born of a land that knew hardship and betrayal. They knew how to be patient.

  “Good boy,” he whispered to Jock as the dog locked onto the scent of his quarry and began snuffling toward the outer fringe of the nyala grove, heading toward thick kikuyu grass wet with rain.

  “Boss, over here!” Jacob called as he moved quickly after the dog into the grass.

  “Bring the lights!” Amal yelled to his men.

  Two men came running with game spots taken from the lodge. White light flooded the ground where Jock worked, shadows darting around the periphery.

  “Do you have his scent?” Amal said, appearing behind Jacob’s shoulder.

  “Yes, boss.” He moved faster after Jock, who was heading out onto the lawn. But as the dog entered more dense vegetation, he lost the track, began scouting for it again. He got it, and tail wagging like a metronome he snuffled forward.

  “Good boy,” Jacob whispered, running after the dog again. But out near the high riverbank where there were no trees and rain fell heavily, pooling on sand and running in little rivers, Jock lost the scent again.

  “Too much running water in the grass over here, boss,” Jacob said as he crouched, motioning for a handheld spotlight to be brought closer. A man handed him a spot, and Jacob put his cheek almost to the ground, shining the light at an angle. He saw faint depressions under the water—the man’s tracks. By the depth and spacing between his prints, the man who made these was big—over six feet. Strong. Moving fast. There were no woman’s tracks nearby. He was still carrying the woman at this point.

  Jacob doused the spotlight and peered silently into the raining darkness.

  “What is it?” Amal snapped impatiently.

  “They went that way,” Jacob said quietly. “Toward the Tsholo.”

  “The border!” Amal said to Mbogo. “They’re heading for Botswana!” He turned abruptly and barked at his men. “Saddle up the horses! Get the jeeps fueled! Take whatever supplies we need from the lodge. We start moving within the hour!”

  *

  The air was growing thick with smoke. Brandt wiped rain from his eyes and quickly positioned the jack under the front bumper of the jeep where he’d dug out sand. Dalilah stood at his shoulder, rifle in her good hand as she nervously watched the advancing fire. He began jacking fast. Rain hammered down relentlessly, pocking the sand. Across the riverbed on the Botswana side, brown water was beginning to flow faster and deeper.

  “Get some of that driftwood,” he barked at Dalilah, jerking his chin to a pile of bone-white branches in the center of the river. Brandt hated asking her. She had to be in serious pain, but she was right about one thing—they’d get out of here faster if they worked as a team. And she’d shocked him with her ability, her resilience. Instead of being the whining, pampered hindrance he’d expected, Princess was a trouper, and he could use her.

  The flip side was that if the Tsholo did come down in a flash flood, as he’d seen happen before at the beginning of the wet season, they’d both be swept to their deaths.

  I’d rather face a flash flood than be raped by Amal’s men and have my head cut off…

  She was right about that. It would be better for her to die with him than be left alone at the mercy of Amal and his men. Determination fired into Brandt at the thought of what that jackal and his band of rabid dogs might do to Dalilah, and he held on to that, pumping the jack fiercely, shirt plastered to his back. He’d tear those bastards apart limb from limb before he allowed them to lay one hand on her.

  The image of another woman slammed suddenly into his mind—her throat slit. Her body brutalized. And for a nanosecond Brandt was blinded. He froze, hearing Carla’s screams in the wind.

  No. Not now. That was the past. History did not have to repeat itself. And it wouldn’t—not if he stayed focused, i
f he refused to allow himself to get too emotionally vested, or distracted.

  He bit deeper into his determination as he continued to work. Thunder boomed above, the sound rolling into the kloofs and hills. He could hear the crackling of fire in branches now. Smoke burned the back of his throat and his eyes watered.

  Finally the jeep chassis began to lift from the sand.

  Dalilah returned with a bundle of dry wood under her right arm. She dropped the driftwood to the sand at his feet, exhausted, hair sticking to her cheeks as she bent over to cough and catch her breath. Compassion speared through Brandt. He quickly started packing the wood under the front wheel then he lowered the jeep, removed the jack and tossed it into the backseat. He hopped into the driver’s seat and fired the ignition. Slowly, he pressed down on the gas. The front wheel turned, whined, almost edging up onto the wood, but the vehicle fell back into the ruts

  “Dalilah, can you push? We need something extra so the wheel can find purchase on the wood.”

  Shoving wet hair back from her face, she went round to the rear of the vehicle. Again, he carefully pressed down on the accelerator. The wheels whined as Dalilah leaned into the rear, using her good arm.

  “Easy, easy,” Brandt whispered as he felt the jeep beginning to move. “Please, baby, come on, come on, you can do it.” The headlights panned ahead, illuminating the white river sand. Brandt had no idea whether the rain was packing it hard, or turning it into quicksand—soft and dangerous. Even if they did get the jeep unstuck, they still might not make it across all the way now. But it was the rising pools on the far side that really worried him. Then there was the steep wall of a bank. He glanced at the dashboard clock—3:23 a.m. If this didn’t work—if they couldn’t get this jeep over the Tsholo border and into Botswana within the next fifteen minutes, he was going to abort the attempt, take what he could from the jeep and hightail it out on foot. But that would lower their odds of survival on the other side tenfold.

  Suddenly, the front tire bit. Brandt’s heart lurched as the jeep kicked forward. Dalilah fell with a smack to the sand as the vehicle shot out from under her. She let out a cry of pain as she hit the sand, then scrambled to her feet and ran after the jeep. Brandt could not apply the brakes now. They’d sink. So he kept going, slow, steady as he leaned over and flung open the passenger door.