Guarding the Princess(43)

He snagged his rifle.

“And what pound of flesh would you want to exact from Omair?”

His eyes dipped over her body, almost as if involuntarily, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, then changed his mind, ignoring her question instead.

“Remember, single file, behind me. Do everything, and I mean everything, I say. This is lion country. If you run, you’re lunch. Like I said, there’s nothing here you can outrun anyway. Best to stand your ground.”

He started out ahead, rifle propped against his shoulder, muzzle aimed into the air. Dalilah sucked in a deep breath, and she followed.

The sun climbed to its zenith in the empty vault of a sky, turning white-hot. There was barely any shade or shadow with the low scrawny scrub, and not even a wisp of cloud now. The heat was furnacelike. Insects buzzed and the grass rustled as they walked.

Dalilah focused on the rhythmic sound of their footfalls. They were moving along a game track—the internet of the bushveldt, Brandt called it, where animals read the stories of who was going where and doing what. She could make out the heart-shaped prints of cloven-hoof ruminants, large and small. The pattern of a snake in red sand.

Sweat began drying on her skin now, even as it formed. She saw a lion print to the side of the track, big as her splayed hand. She knew it was a lion from a previous safari—rounded pad prints like a giant kitty, no nail marks because of feline retractable claws. Dalilah glanced up and scanned the plain. The grass around them was longer, taller now, and tawny. The sense of being watched, hunted, prickled over her skin once more.

Dalilah sped up a little to be closer to Brandt and the gun. To keep herself focused in spite of the heat and fatigue, she forced herself to concentrate on Brandt’s powerful legs, the slide of his calf muscles under deeply tanned skin, the happy little sway of the black kettle at the bottom of his pack. Brandt Stryker, her only safety net out here. Her source of protection, food, water.

But as they moved toward the hazy red cliffs now visible in the shimmering distance, Dalilah got a sense that the deeper he led her into this hot, wild terrain, the more she was going to be forced up against a wall within herself.

And when she got there, what would she do?

Would her future survive this epic journey? Would it survive him?





Chapter 9

Brandt studied the sky, wishing for another storm that might hide their tracks. Instead, the sun hammered down relentlessly, baking their tracks into the earth. Best he could do for now was keep moving fast toward the rift wall and get up onto the plateau before nightfall.

He’d chosen this route on the map because there was an abandoned airstrip atop the plateau with a tiny old customs building. He’d landed there years ago, and even though the building was in ruins now, it would provide shelter from predators during the night. There was also a tiny village about a day’s trek from the airstrip. He might find a vehicle there.

Several hours later the sun had changed its angle and Dalilah began to lag farther and farther behind. Frustration bit into Brandt as he checked his watch—almost 1:00 p.m.

“Keep up, Dalilah! We need to get up the cliff before dark!”

“I’m trying—these boots are too big.”

He paused, waiting for her to catch up. But she was tiring, her gait shortening, and she was stumbling repeatedly in the oversize men’s boots. It was wasting her energy. The wool socks he’d given her were good, but she was going to get blisters. Still, she’d have to live with some pain if she wanted to get out of this alive.

Again he berated himself for losing the jeep, losing focus. For letting her get under his skin and pry into his life. As he waited for her to catch up, tension torqued tighter—this was not a good place to linger. The grass was long and tight here, and he worried about lions. He touched the hilt of his panga, then his knife, then his pouch with the bullets, mentally keeping track where everything was as he scanned the long grasses, watching for the slight twitch of a flattened ear, the flick of a dark tail, Brandt concentrated on the ambient sounds of the bush, listening for the sound of a gray lorie, the warning cough of an impala or the alarm whistle of a zebra.

Stay aware, Stryker. Don’t lose it again.

When Dalilah reached him she was sweating and breathing hard, and she bent over, bracing her hand on her knee.

Brandt uncapped the water pouch, held it out.

“Drink.”

“There are nicer ways to order people about,” she snapped, snatching the water and drinking thirstily before he stopped her, taking it back.

“Got to ration it,” he said, recapping the pouch.

“You’re not having any?”

“Not until we find a new source. Maybe up there. See?” He pointed to a dark line bisecting the looming cliff face. “That could be a small waterfall, especially after the rains last night.”