Guarding the Princess(7)
He’d taken her!
Dalilah squeezed her eyes shut, trying to gather herself. Fight? Flee? But where to? She opened her eyes again and tried to carefully lift her head in order to assess more of her surroundings, but he felt her body stiffen because he said, “Don’t even try it. Don’t move. Fighting me will make it worse.”
His voice was rough, deep, and he spoke English with the flat, guttural accent of an Afrikaner. She knew the sound well—had spent several months in the country and had worked with an Afrikaans-speaking South African in New York.
“What do you want with me?” Her voice came out hoarse, her throat hurting where he’d strangled her.
“Hold still. My Cessna is just down there, on the plain.”
Fear spurted afresh through her, and she struggled wildly against his grip. “Who are you? Where are you taking me? If it’s ransom you want, I can—”
“Jesus, woman. I don’t want to hurt you—”
But she kicked at him hard, grabbing a handful of his short hair, twisting. He cursed viciously, swinging her forward and tossing her to the ground with a thud. Stones stabbed sharply into her back as breath whooshed out of her lungs with the impact. Dalilah’s eyes watered, pain sparking through her ribs.
“You bastard!” she hissed as soon as she managed a breath. “What do you want with me?”
“My name is Stryker—Brandt Stryker. Your brother sent me to get you.” He bent forward, hands on knees, struggling to catch his own breath. He was big. Well over six feet. Even in the milky starlight she could see he was fair. Square-jawed, broad-shouldered. Built. A rifle was strapped across his chest. His pale khaki shirt was dark with sweat, his sleeves ripped off at the shoulders, and she saw blood smeared down his arm.
Something in Dalilah stilled.
“My brother?” she asked quietly.
“Omair.”
“You know Omair?”
“Yes. I owe the damn sheik. Come on, get up. They’re going to be here any second.”
“Who!”
“Amal Ghaffar. Bloody one-armed jackal and his wild pack of dogs.”
Ice slid through her veins. “Amal?” Her voice came out a whisper. “The Moor’s son—he’s alive?”
Her assailant threw her an odd look and was silent for a beat.
“You didn’t know?”
Dalilah stared at him, thinking of the Arabic words she’d heard back at the lapa.
He gave a snort. “Figures your brothers might keep that from you. Amal Ghaffar has been hiding in Africa for the past two years, ever since your other brother Tariq shot off his arm in France and he got himself onto the world’s most-wanted list. Omair has been hunting him via an underground mercenary network, but every time Omair’s men get close, Amal and his pack move first.”
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.