She turned her pretty, dark head to listen attentively to a squat, lantern-jawed man at her side. In her left hand she held a drink and a diamond as big as a plum caught the firelight. If that was an engagement ring, where was her fiancé in shining armor now? Brandt wondered.
The firelight caught her face as she turned in his direction—dusky skin, smooth, her eyes like black shining pools made even darker and bigger with eyeliner. She gave the poor schmuck beside her a full-wattage princess smile.
The man held his drink up in a mock toast and Dalilah tossed back her mane of curls and laughed, showing the long column of her throat, the low cut of her gold cocktail gown, the outline of breasts that were small and firm looking. And as she crossed her legs, the slit in her gown fell open, exposing taut thighs, slender ankles, ridiculously high stiletto sandals in gold to match her dress.
She was a glimmering flame among these dull male moths bumping fruitlessly, and dangerously, against her fire. A tease, engaged to another man.
Brandt disliked—and distrusted—her immediately.
He studied the security detail behind her—two men, likely her own. His attention shifted to the Zimbabwe soldiers lining the fence.
He’d seen those same men sharing dark beer and a joint when he’d cased the lodge and outbuildings earlier. Their eyes now gleamed yellow in the firelight, skin shining, postures showing boredom. They wouldn’t be sharp. Even so, he had no intention of engaging these goons. They were most likely trained to shoot and kill on sight, no questions asked.
Shifting on his haunches to ease the stiffness of old injuries, Brandt moved his attention back to his target. She was still laughing, seductive. A temptress. The way Carla had been. He wondered why the men couldn’t see the calculated precision, the tightly scripted choreography of her movements. Bitterness filled his mouth. He’d been one of those blind men once. It wouldn’t happen again.
The food plates came and went. Drink flowed. Chatter grew loud. Stiffness cramped his limbs. Brandt cursed softly to himself—this could go on all night. Very slowly he reached into the side pocket in his cargo shorts and slipped out a silver hip flask. Cautiously, he unscrewed the cap, took a deep swig, relishing the hot burn of scotch blossoming through his chest as he settled in for the long haul, his back pressed against the smooth bark of the tree. And he told himself—seventy-two hours more, and his hands would be washed clean. His debt to Omair finally paid.
The music, the drumming, grew louder, faces more flushed, voices raucous. Vervet monkeys began to mimic the humans from the branches above, swooping in closer, hanging by their tails and using their long arms to steal food. And somewhere out in the veldt Brandt heard the first soft rumblings of thunder. Surprise rippled through him—this hadn’t been in the forecast. With his surprise came tension. A spring thunderstorm could bring early rain, flash floods, lightning and more fire.
He wanted to be up in the air and over Botswana airspace before any weather hit.
After-dinner liqueurs were now being poured. His patience grew thinner. He took another swig from his flask, pooling whiskey in his mouth, but before he could swallow, Brandt sensed something.
He held dead still, listening.
A crunch of flinty stone. The crack of dry twig. A softer warning chitter passing through the monkeys above.
All instincts sharp as razors, muscles primed, he concentrated on the ambient sounds under the bacchanalian clatter in the lapa.
Another slight shuffle. Then a birdlike call, soft.
Human.
Slowly he swallowed his mouthful of booze, his mind sharp and clear as morning. He rose. And he could sense them approaching, surrounding. Hunters. Experienced.
Clicking the safety off his rifle, he felt for the hilt of the panga sheathed at his hip—a blade that widened and curved upward toward the tip, the weapon of choice during the Rwandan genocide—a common tool of African violence.
Then on the far side of the lapa, a crack of gunshot.
It echoed through hot, black air. Then followed an almost imperceptible moment of dead stillness as everything quieted and the lapa became a freeze-frame—shadows against flame as liqueur-addled minds tried to compute what was happening.
Another shot, and a yell. Then it erupted—men in black balaclavas wielding AK-47s, knives and machetes stormed the lapa. Bodyguards returned fire as guests screamed, diving for the ground, crawling under tables and through upturned chairs and over broken glass.
Brandt held back, quickly computing. The attackers numbered upward of a dozen, and they were mowing down everyone in their wake, blood flowing freely. But one man among them stood slightly apart from the others. He seemed to be searching for something, controlling the team. As the man turned, Brandt saw he had only one arm.