Guarding the Princess(30)

For whatever reason Princess Dalilah had promised herself to the future king of Sa’ud, it was the choice she’d made. And in wearing that ring she’d made the man a promise.

A promise was something Brandt took very, very seriously.

He’d been burned himself by broken promises—he knew what that could do to a man. Brandt reached for the bottle of whiskey and took a hard swig. As the burn flushed through his chest he glanced down at Dalilah again, and this time he managed to feel nothing. She was just a principal. A package. He’d deliver her to her brother, and he to her prospective husband. No coddling. Talking only when absolutely necessary.

Just a job—for more reasons than he could count now.

* * *

Jacob held up his hand, calling the hunt party to a halt. A hint of light was creeping into the sky and he could just make out the glint of a small plane on the grassland below.

He and Jock had been leading the hunt posse through the night, assisted by Amal’s tracker and followed by four men on horses and six men in jeeps, including Amal. Jacob crouched to quietly watch the plane from the ridge and assess the situation.

But as Mbogo caught sight of the plane he whooped, hitting the accelerator of the jeep he was driving. Swerving around Jacob, Mbogo barreled his vehicle down the ridge and out over the plain toward the aircraft. The other jeep and three of the men on horseback bombed after him. One man on horseback remained to guard Jacob, his gun ready lest the tracker tried to take the gap and flee.

These men were stupid, thought Jacob as he began to proceed after them, slowly on foot, watching Jock carefully as he moved. They would miss signs by going straight for the plane. As he got to the bottom of the ridge, Jacob noticed Jock alerting to scent. He followed Jock until the dog alerted again.

Crouching, Jacob examined the ground with his flashlight, the man on the horse behind watching him. The rest of the party was circling the plane and he could hear snatches of voices carrying over the grassland. But his interest was in a series of holes in the ground. In some of the holes were tiny flecks of gold that reflected in his beam. The marks of gold stiletto heels, he thought. And one of the heels had been broken.

The princess had been here, crouching. There was a faint handprint, too. Jacob cut for more sign around this area and found a boot depression pooling with water. Slowly he glanced up and studied the plane in the distance. In the increasing light he saw it had no propeller, no doors.

The man who took the princess must have been planning to take to the air. But his plane had been robbed. No supplies, no transport, broken shoes on the woman. They would not get far. If the pilot was sharp, he’d go first to look for transport, food, water, before moving on.

Jacob looked up into the sky. If the pilot came over the Tsholo River in his plane, like a bird he would have seen the bush camp that lay to the north.

“Soek, Jock,” Jacob whispered to the dog, showing him the ground to initiate another search. The dog soon led him to what he was looking for—a set of tracks heading northward, toward the camp. He patted Jock, gave him a piece of biscuit from his pocket, then started toward the plane and the men. As he got closer, he saw, painted on the tail, the word Tautona.

Jacob knew immediately whose plane it was. A person could not be in Africa long without being given a nickname, something that described his personality. Tautona was the Setswana name given to a legendary bush pilot from Botswana named Brandt Stryker who sometimes flew guests over the border to the safari lodge where Jacob worked. Tautona was one of the few pilots who would still fly into Zimbabwe. Now look at what had happened to his plane—that’s why people didn’t come here anymore. The country was too hungry.

Jacob did not tell Amal what he’d seen, or knew. He just watched as Amal’s tracker started gesticulating west toward the river. The tracker was saying the plane had Botswana registration. It meant their quarry would probably have continued on foot directly west, making for the Tsholo River.

Amal glanced suddenly at Jacob, and he tensed inside.

“Jacob, come!” Amal pointed west. “They went that way—find their tracks!”

“I think they went another way, boss.”

“What?” Jacob pointed north. The men shook their heads and murmured in dissent.

“Get over here!” Amal ordered. Jacob just lowered his head. This angered Amal, who marched up to him and unsheathed his dagger. He shoved the tip against Jacob’s neck. “You messing with me, old man? You trying to send me on a wild-goose chase?”

“No, sir.”

Something flickered in Amal’s oil-black eyes. “We’ll see. If my tracker is right, if we find their trace at the river, I cut your guts out and leave you for the hyenas, understand?”