And leaving horses tethered was not really an option if Amal didn’t want them eaten by night predators.
The rock walls of the Valley of Ghosts loomed suddenly into view once again, black shadows etched with scrub on top. He veered off the track that would have led them out of the wide part of the gorge, and entered the narrowing part instead. From this point the cliff walls began to funnel inward.
Brandt spun Skorokoro’s wheels for good measure, making sure their change in direction was easily visible in the silver moonlight. Then he drove down the gorge, along the dry riverbed of sand. Cliffs started to close tightly in on either side of them, blocking the moon. In his rearview mirror he could clearly see Skorokoro’s tire marks in the sand.
They arrived at the end of the gorge—barely the width of three jeeps. Here, the ground fell away into what was a thundering waterfall in the height of the rainy season. Brandt maneuvered the jeep behind an outcrop of rock. Unless Amal was checking topographical maps as he pursued them, which Brandt doubted, he would not be aware the ground fell away here in a dead end. Amal’s presumption would more likely be that Brandt had continued through the gap.
He cut the ignition and turned to Dalilah.
“This is it.” His eyes met hers. “Ready?”
She nodded, reached for his hand, squeezed.
“Let’s do this, then,” he said.
Brandt carried one of the boxes of handmade grenades, picking a fairly easy route up through the rocky gorge wall, Dalilah right behind him. Near the top of the ridge, beside a flat rock, he set the box down. Brandt balanced a bottle of petrol on the rock, checking it was level enough—it was.
“Remember, as you light the Molotovs, throw them immediately, and gravity will do the rest. You going to manage with that arm?”
She nodded. “I’ll position the Molotov on the rock, light, then throw.”
He handed her the lighter. “Be careful, concentrate.”
She took it from him and he realized she was shaking.
“You’ll be safe up here, Dalilah,” he said, holding her gaze with his own. “Just stay down behind the rocks. I’ll be on the opposite side of the gorge over there with the gun—I’ll keep them busy. When you hear my whistle, toss the first grenade.”
“I got it.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I will be.”
He turned to head back down.
“Brandt—”
He stilled.
“Promise me that you’ll take me home after. To your farm.”
Brandt held her gaze in the moonlight and his chest hurt. “I promise,” he whispered. And it solidified his intent—his plan was suddenly crystal sharp in his mind and he knew from the bottom of his soul that he was going to get her out of this alive. And once it was done, they’d both be free, in so many more ways than one.
“Good.” She smiled. “Because I know you don’t break a promise.”
Brandt hurried down through the rocks, and this time he took two boxes from the jeep—the other container of cola bombs and a box that contained the small camp stove, a tin of kerosene and the pot filled with rifle shells.
He found a good spot that was protected by rocks and there he set down the cola bottles filled with petrol. He then trotted along the ridge about a hundred meters in the direction from which they’d come and set up the stove with the pot of bullets on top. He poured kerosene over them and steadied his breathing as he watched the darkness. It wasn’t too long before he saw the flash of headlights in the distance, coming along the gorge bottom. Then came the second set—both vehicles going slowly enough so as not to lose Skorokoro’s tire marks in the sand. No horses, just as he’d figured.
Brandt waited until they got a little closer. Then he turned the knob on the camp stove and lit the gas. The bullets would explode and the men would think they were being fired on from behind. He ran back to where he’d left his handmade grenades.
Taking one of the bottles out of the box, he readied his match. The headlights came closer and he could hear the purring of the engines. His heart jackhammered. Across the ridge, he caught the gleam of Dalilah’s hair in the moonlight. Tension whispered through him, but he settled it—putting his mind in the zone, a place he was familiar with. And waited for his prey to arrive.
* * *
Jacob felt something was wrong as soon as the jeeps entered the dark gorge—the sixth sense of a hunter. A sense of foreboding. This was a trap—he was sure of it. But he said nothing from his seat in the back of one of the jeeps. Jock’s head rested on his lap. Amal sat in front of him.
Jacob scanned the black cliff faces that were closing in on either side of them. Then suddenly a glint of reflected moonlight up on the ridge caught his eye. His heart began to pound and sweat beaded on his brow. Still, Jacob said nothing to the man in the front seat, but he quietly removed the leash from Jock’s collar so the dog would be able to flee.