Guarding the Princess Page 3

  Her abductor held his hand out to her.

  Dalilah stared at it, anger curling into her chest.

  “You’re saying my brothers knew all this time that Amal was out here, alive?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Princess. Look, we need to move. They’re going to be up our asses as soon as day breaks and they find our tracks.”

  Dalilah got awkwardly to her feet. He caught her arm as dizziness spun her world and she stumbled. She held on to him, steadying herself as pain sparked through her head. She realized her cocktail gown was ripped up to her hip, her legs scraped. One of her stiletto heels had broken in half. But all paled in face of the words he’d just uttered.

  “Why would they keep this from me?”

  “Why don’t you ask them yourselves once we get out of here.” He tried to usher her forward, but she yanked free.

  “Those other men—”

  “They’re all Amal’s, a band of rogue mercs, and they want your blood, Dalilah. Omair got wind via the underground that a bounty has been put on your head. Amal wants it, literally, on a plate if he can’t kill you himself.”

  Blood drained from her face. “How…how do I know you’re telling the truth, that you’re not—”

  “You don’t,” he said brusquely. “But make up your mind fast, Princess. Because it’s me or those men, and I’m not waiting.” With that he spun around and started marching down the ridge alone, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder to see if she was coming.

  Fear propelled her after him, her lopsided stiletto heels spiking deep into soft, drought-dry sand and making her stagger wildly. Thunder clapped suddenly overhead and Dalilah ducked, wincing as the sound reverberated right through her bones. Black clouds were beginning to blot out the stars—the storm was closing in.

  “Wait!” she yelled, trying to run faster, floundering even more on her uneven heels. But he kept moving ahead of her at a clip.

  “Storm’s coming,” he called over his shoulder. “Need to get the Cessna up and over the Tsholo River before it hits!”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Botswana.”

  “I—” She lurched forward suddenly and slammed to the ground. She cursed, eyes watering as she scrambled back to her feet and ran after him again. “I need to go to Harare! You’ve got to take me to Harare!”

  He stopped suddenly, spun round. “Got to?”

  “I have to sign a major deal tomorrow.” She was panting now, breath raw in her throat. “For ClearWater. I need to—”

  “You don’t get it, do you, Princess?” He pointed back up the ridge. “At first light—if not before—Amal and his men are going to find our tracks, and they’re going to follow them right here! If we don’t get into the air and over the border before that storm hits, or before they arrive, we’re outnumbered and outgunned, and you’re dead. I’m here to see that isn’t going to happen, which means the only place you’re going right now is to Botswana where I can protect you until Omair or his men come and take you off my hands.”

  Anxiety, fear, desperation, failure—it all swamped through Dalilah at once, overwhelming her. “This deal,” she said softly, all the fight going out of her. “I’ve been working on it for four years now. If we don’t sign tomorrow…I…the villagers won’t get water….” Her voice cracked and tears spilled down her face. She sunk to the ground and buried her face in her hands.

  Something seemed to shift in him, because he crouched in front of her and touched her arms, his palms rough against her skin.

  “Dalilah,” he said quietly, “Those delegates aren’t signing anything tomorrow. They’re all dead.”

  She couldn’t breathe. She started to shake as it truly sunk in what had just happened at the lodge.

  “They died because they were there with you—those men mean business. Come, we need to move. Now.”

  “Clean water,” she whispered. “Those people need water. This mining-rights deal was our way in to get it to them. It was the one thing—the last thing I could give them. My last mission.”

  “Hey, look at me.” He tilted her face up, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were ghostly in the darkness.

  “Get up onto those pretty, long legs of yours, and you’ll live to fight another day, because there will be another day, another deal.”

  She wanted to say there wouldn’t. She’d be getting married. This had been her very last fight. Her swan song. And she’d lost. She’d lost it all.

  “My Cessna is down there, see?”

  She looked where he was pointing. Over the grassland in faint moonlight the fuselage of a small single-prop plane glinted. Then a cloud passed over the moon and darkness was complete—the plane seemed to vanish as she felt the hot breeze stiffen. Carefully she got to her knees, and then to her feet. He steadied her by the elbow as wooziness and nausea swept through her again.

  “You ready?” he said.

  Dalilah nodded. He regarded her for a moment, then said, “Stay right behind me, okay—that’s an order.” He clicked on a flashlight and started to walk.

  She stumbled after him in the darkness, her brain reeling as she tried to process it all. For two full years she’d naively believed that peace had finally come to the Al Arif family and their desert kingdom of Al Na’Jar.

  Now this.

  The thought that her brothers had purposely misled her infuriated Dalilah beyond words. It had been like this all her life—the older alpha males in her family always trying to coddle and protect her, supposedly for her own good. Did they give her absolutely no credit? Did they not understand she could take measures to protect herself? That she held the same fierce allegiance to country as they did—and that she was marrying Haroun because of it?

  Now Amal was after her blood and they’d dispatched this brusque brute of a male to “save” her.

  “Hurry up!” he yelled over his shoulder as she began to lag behind.

  She muttered a curse in Arabic, slowing even further in softer sand.

  He stopped, spun round. “Jesus, Princess, do you want me to carry you, or what?” Frustration cut through his voice.

  Refusing to dignify him with an answer, she stopped, bracing her hands on her hips as she tried to catch her breath.

  “Okay, this is it.” He reached forward to grab her arm, but she jerked free of his grip, standing her ground. “You’re a patronizing misogynist, you know that?” she snapped. “Call me Princess one more time and I’ll take my chances with Amal and his men! Screw you and my brothers!”

  She caught what looked like the glint of a smile crossing his face.

  Her anger spiked. “They had no right to keep this from me!”

  “Yeah, but they’re also paying my bills—and my job is to get you home alive.”

  “I swear it, if you call me Princess one more time, you’ll be sorry.”

  Brandt grabbed her hand. “Believe me, you’ll be more sorry if you stand here worrying about my manners.”

  He began to drag her at a clip through the long grass toward his plane. But as they neared, Brandt felt a sudden prickling down the back of his neck. He stilled, stopping her. Something was off. Then as he squinted into the darkness, the sliver of moon broke momentarily through the clouds and he saw what his subconscious had already noticed—the propeller was gone. A cold dread sank through his chest.

  Thunder growled softly over the plain, and a fork of lightning stabbed with a loud crack down to the earth, briefly and starkly illuminating the plane. Static raised the hair along his forearms.

  “Get down to the ground,” he said quietly to Dalilah, eyes fixed on his plane as he doused his flashlight.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a lightning rod right now.”

  Apparently sensing the shift in him, she acquiesced, crouching quietly to the soil in her torn gown. Brandt unhooked his rifle, clicked off the safety and just watched the Cessna for a few moments. Another flash of lightning forked over the grassland, and in that mo
ment of brightness Brandt saw the Cessna’s doors and tail flaps were gone, too. But he could detect no movement around the plane.

  “Wait here,” he said. “Don’t move.”

  He slowly approached his little craft, wind beginning to buffet him, hot and full with the promise of rain. As he neared, his worst fears were confirmed. His craft had been stripped.

  Another bolt of lightning cracked to the earth, and thunder boomed, echoing over and over again as it rolled into the distance. Sheet lightning glimmered behind clouds.

  Climbing into his craft, Brandt used his flashlight to pan the interior. Seats had been ripped out, stuffing taken, the instrument panel denuded, the first-aid kit gone… Every piece had been ripped from the Cessna like meat from a carcass.

  Now he had no navigation equipment, no form of communication. No water, food or first aid. No gear for his principal. Something in Brandt froze as he realized he was thinking in the terminology of his old profession. His stomach turned oily and he closed his eyes, starting to shake internally as he recalled the gaping maw that had been the throat of the man he’d just killed.

  Murdered.

  Another human.

  It used to be so easy. Simple. He used to fight with such clear purpose.

  With a trembling hand Brandt reached for his hip flask, took a deep swig, then another. He stayed crouched in his stripped plane like that for a moment, eyes closed, letting the whiskey flush through and calm him. Then his eyes flashed open.

  He would not let it happen again. He could not lose another principal. Another woman in his care. Especially one who reminded him so sharply of Carla, of his mistake, of his spiraling descent into pure madness. It would kill him this time.

  That left him with only one option—forge ahead and get this mission over with. But it sure as hell wasn’t going to take a mere seventy-two hours now. They would have to trek on foot to the Tsholo River, which lay at least twenty klicks to the west. And they’d never reach the dry riverbed before the rain hit. If the storm was bad, or if it was already raining heavily farther upriver, it could mean dangerous flash floods as the seasonal waters came down.

  Then if they did manage to cross the Tsholo, on the Botswana side they’d face miles and miles of hazardous terrain populated with all manner of wild animals. Bushfire could also become a hazard, given the shifting winds. Plus, they’d have to stay ahead of Amal’s pack, and Amal likely had a combat tracker on his team.

  This part of Africa was rife with expert military trackers trained guerrilla-style under the infamous Selous Scouts of old Rhodesia. Probably some of the best in the world, men who didn’t need modern GPS or infrared, or topo maps with contour lines. Hunters who knew the bush like the backs of their hands.

  He should never have taken that damn phone call from Omair.

  Brandt sucked it up, the whiskey helping a little, and jumped lightly down from the plane. Clouds had thickened and the sky was black as pitch now. The air had a heavy, crackling weight to it. Brandt used his flashlight to make his way back to the woman crouching in the long grass.

  He panned his beam over her, taking a good study now that they were going to be forced to walk. Her stilettos were a ridiculous height, and the heel of one was broken in half. She couldn’t go any real distance in that footwear, and he could only piggyback her for so many klicks at a time. There was no way his boots would even begin to fit her. He might have to carry her the whole goddamn way. Conflict twisted through Brandt as he considered his options. Then it hit him—there was a satellite bush camp run by one of the safari lodges about fifteen kilometres to the north. He knew it was still there because he’d seen it while flying over this afternoon. It would mean a big detour on foot, one that would cost serious time and might lose them any window to cross the Tsholo before the river came down. But it could mean supplies and survival in the long run.

  It was a risk he had to take.

  Brandt crouched beside her. “Here’s the deal, Dalilah. My Cessna has been stripped. We need to make a detour to—”

  “Stripped?”

  “Just the bones left.”

  “By who?”

  “Could be anyone. Leave anything in the wrong place for too long, and Africa’s recyclers will find it and get to work. There’s not one part of that plane that won’t be used to make everything from shoes to furniture or toys and cooking utensils. I reckon whoever did it will be back at first light with equipment to drag off the rest.”

  “But you do have a cell phone, right?”

  He snorted. “Cell reception out here? You must be joking. And even if there was, who you going to call—Mercs-R-Us?”

  “You’re telling me you left your phone on the plane?” Anger sparked through her voice. “Because that’s damn stupid—at least we could’ve tried to call my brother for help when we got closer to a cell tower or something!”

  “I lost my sat phone and GPS in the battle to save your life.”

  She went silent, her black eyes glistening in the dark.

  “You coming?”

  She didn’t move. He began to walk without her, exasperation sparking through him.

  “I don’t believe this!” she yelled behind him.

  “Welcome to Africa, sweetheart,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Speak for yourself,” she snapped, coming after him. “I was born on this continent. It’s mine as much as it’s anyone else’s. I don’t need your welcome, and you call me sweetheart, I’ll—”

  He spun around. “You’ll what?”

  She glowered at him. Thunder crashed again, and he saw her flinch. Under her bravado, the princess was scared. She was feisty, though. If he could keep her angry, it might help keep her focused. The main trouble was her gear. He hoped he’d find some clothes for her at the camp.

  “We have a long way to go, Dalilah. Save your breath, okay?”

  “You mean we’re actually walking to Botswana?”

  “Unless you have a better idea,” he replied, raising the beam of his light, watching her face, her flashing eyes, trying not to think how stunning she was, even in this light, even disheveled like this. A honey badger, he decided, fierce in spite of fear—he liked her this way. Not exactly the pampered, whining princess he’d expected her to be.

  But he didn’t want to dwell on this thought. Mostly he wanted to keep her alive, then get her the hell out of his hair. ASAP.

  “We need to cross the Tsholo into Bots before the rains flood the riverbed. If the waters come down suddenly, we could be trapped on the Zim side for a full day or two. We’ll be safer in Botswana. Even so, it’ll only be a brief respite, because I don’t doubt Amal will try to cross and come after us there.”

  “How far is the Tsholo?”

  “Too far in those shoes. We need to make a detour to the north first where we can liberate some supplies from a bush camp.”

  Silence hung thick and swollen with electrical-storm energy rustling between them as she challenged his gaze. He could feel her mind computing as she tried to accept her situation. Begrudgingly, he could only admire that.

  “You’re from South Africa?” she said quietly.

  “Originally.”

  She shot a glance out over the veldt, then she looked up at the lowering, black sky. He could see her figuring her odds.

  “Which way is north?”

  He jerked his chin into the distance. “That way. The detour will cost us time, but it might buy us mileage for the long haul if we can find you some boots, water, food. And it is going to be a long haul now.”

  “How long?”

  “Several days, if we’re lucky.”

  She pushed a fall of dark hair off her face. “And you have no compass, no GPS, there are no stars visible.”

  “I have my wits, sweetheart.”

  She muttered something darkly in Arabic.

  Brandt held up his palms. “Sorry. Habit.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you have a whole truckload of habits. All good ones, too.” She brushed
past him and hobbled off on her lopsided stilettos in the direction he’d indicated, leaving him behind this time.

  “And don’t whine that I’m going slow,” she yelled over her shoulder. “You have better shoes.”

  Another smile tempted his lips and Brandt trotted up behind her. Grasping her arm, he turned her back to face him. “That’s why you’re going to ride on my back.”

  “You’re not going to carry me.”

  “Why not?”

  “You…can’t.”

  “Piggyback. Just the detour. Come, hitch up that frock and hop on up.” He held his hand out to her.

  She stared at his hand, then lifted her eyes. “You’re some piece of work, you know that?”

  “That’s exactly why your brother sent me.”

  She pulled what was left of her dress to her hips and Brandt swung her around onto his back. Her thighs were firm and smooth, her body lean yet full in the right places. He swallowed as she settled against him, hooking her arms around his neck and gripping his hips between her thighs. Her massive diamond engagement ring butted against his chin, rubbing her nonavailability right into his face, even as he could smell the shampoo in her hair, her expensive perfume, feel her breasts pressing against his back.

  And as he began to jog, Brandt forced himself not to focus on the friction of her pelvis against his hips, but all he could think about suddenly was the scraps of silky G-strings he’d seen, and touched, in her drawer. And what she might be wearing now. A scrap of that same sensuous fabric was probably all that separated him from the most intimate parts of her body.

  Brandt inhaled, readjusting the rifle across his chest, his tiny flashlight panning the ground. He figured Amal and his thugs were probably ransacking the lodge in search of Dalilah right now, not anticipating someone had whisked her away. As far as he could tell, only one man had seen him trying to rescue the princess. And he’d killed that man.

  But come daybreak, they’d see his boot tracks. They’d come at a clip.

  Brandt began to move at a faster trot, wanting to reach the escarpment and descend into thicker riverine foliage as soon as possible. They’d be less visible there. The locals had already spotted—and stripped—his plane, which meant there was a chance he and Dalilah might be seen, too. Although he hoped the looming storm would keep most humans battened down in villages.