She caught what looked like the glint of a smile crossing his face.
Her anger spiked. “They had no right to keep this from me!”
“Yeah, but they’re also paying my bills—and my job is to get you home alive.”
“I swear it, if you call me Princess one more time, you’ll be sorry.”
Brandt grabbed her hand. “Believe me, you’ll be more sorry if you stand here worrying about my manners.”
He began to drag her at a clip through the long grass toward his plane. But as they neared, Brandt felt a sudden prickling down the back of his neck. He stilled, stopping her. Something was off. Then as he squinted into the darkness, the sliver of moon broke momentarily through the clouds and he saw what his subconscious had already noticed—the propeller was gone. A cold dread sank through his chest.
Thunder growled softly over the plain, and a fork of lightning stabbed with a loud crack down to the earth, briefly and starkly illuminating the plane. Static raised the hair along his forearms.
“Get down to the ground,” he said quietly to Dalilah, eyes fixed on his plane as he doused his flashlight.
“Why?”
“Because you’re a lightning rod right now.”
Apparently sensing the shift in him, she acquiesced, crouching quietly to the soil in her torn gown. Brandt unhooked his rifle, clicked off the safety and just watched the Cessna for a few moments. Another flash of lightning forked over the grassland, and in that moment of brightness Brandt saw the Cessna’s doors and tail flaps were gone, too. But he could detect no movement around the plane.
“Wait here,” he said. “Don’t move.”
He slowly approached his little craft, wind beginning to buffet him, hot and full with the promise of rain. As he neared, his worst fears were confirmed. His craft had been stripped.
Another bolt of lightning cracked to the earth, and thunder boomed, echoing over and over again as it rolled into the distance. Sheet lightning glimmered behind clouds.
Climbing into his craft, Brandt used his flashlight to pan the interior. Seats had been ripped out, stuffing taken, the instrument panel denuded, the first-aid kit gone... Every piece had been ripped from the Cessna like meat from a carcass.
Now he had no navigation equipment, no form of communication. No water, food or first aid. No gear for his principal. Something in Brandt froze as he realized he was thinking in the terminology of his old profession. His stomach turned oily and he closed his eyes, starting to shake internally as he recalled the gaping maw that had been the throat of the man he’d just killed.
Murdered.
Another human.
It used to be so easy. Simple. He used to fight with such clear purpose.
With a trembling hand Brandt reached for his hip flask, took a deep swig, then another. He stayed crouched in his stripped plane like that for a moment, eyes closed, letting the whiskey flush through and calm him. Then his eyes flashed open.
He would not let it happen again. He could not lose another principal. Another woman in his care. Especially one who reminded him so sharply of Carla, of his mistake, of his spiraling descent into pure madness. It would kill him this time.
That left him with only one option—forge ahead and get this mission over with. But it sure as hell wasn’t going to take a mere seventy-two hours now. They would have to trek on foot to the Tsholo River, which lay at least twenty klicks to the west. And they’d never reach the dry riverbed before the rain hit. If the storm was bad, or if it was already raining heavily farther upriver, it could mean dangerous flash floods as the seasonal waters came down.
Then if they did manage to cross the Tsholo, on the Botswana side they’d face miles and miles of hazardous terrain populated with all manner of wild animals. Bushfire could also become a hazard, given the shifting winds. Plus, they’d have to stay ahead of Amal’s pack, and Amal likely had a combat tracker on his team.
This part of Africa was rife with expert military trackers trained guerrilla-style under the infamous Selous Scouts of old Rhodesia. Probably some of the best in the world, men who didn’t need modern GPS or infrared, or topo maps with contour lines. Hunters who knew the bush like the backs of their hands.
He should never have taken that damn phone call from Omair.
Brandt sucked it up, the whiskey helping a little, and jumped lightly down from the plane. Clouds had thickened and the sky was black as pitch now. The air had a heavy, crackling weight to it. Brandt used his flashlight to make his way back to the woman crouching in the long grass.
He panned his beam over her, taking a good study now that they were going to be forced to walk. Her stilettos were a ridiculous height, and the heel of one was broken in half. She couldn’t go any real distance in that footwear, and he could only piggyback her for so many klicks at a time. There was no way his boots would even begin to fit her. He might have to carry her the whole goddamn way. Conflict twisted through Brandt as he considered his options. Then it hit him—there was a satellite bush camp run by one of the safari lodges about fifteen kilometres to the north. He knew it was still there because he’d seen it while flying over this afternoon. It would mean a big detour on foot, one that would cost serious time and might lose them any window to cross the Tsholo before the river came down. But it could mean supplies and survival in the long run.