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.