Guarding the Princess

by Loreth Anne White

  “Powdered milk? Sugar?” he asked without looking at her.

  “Black. Three sugars.”

  That made him look up. “Sweet tooth?”

  She gave a shrug. “Why else would anyone call me ‘sweetness’?”

  That made the corner of his lip quiver as he repressed a smile.

  “Careful. Enamel is hot, stays hot,” he said as he handed her the mug.

  The tea was dark and sweet and tasted like nectar.

  He opened a plastic baggie and offered it out to her. “Biltong?

  She regarded the dark twists of dried meat in the bag.

  “Kudu,” he said. “It’s like jerky, except better. Spiced and salty—salt will help with the sweat loss.”

  “I know what it is. Thanks, but no.”

  “Dalilah—”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Suit yourself.” He repackaged the biltong, not taking anything for himself.

  “It’s not because it’s meat,” she said. “I’m just not hungry.”

  He shrugged. He was busy fiddling with the camera, inspecting the zoom.

  “Looks expensive,” she said as she sipped her tea.

  “Poor tourists from Germany had their bags all packed for a morning game drive.” He stuffed the camera into the pack. “They wouldn’t have gone anywhere in that rain, though.”

  “Is that an attempt to assuage your guilt for stealing their stuff?”

  “I was just doing my job.”

  “Even if it means robbing others in order to collect your paycheck at the end of the day?” She took another sip of tea. “I guess that’s the definition of mercenary.”

  He resecured the sleeping bag to the bottom of the pack, which was looking rather big and heavy now. “You can’t push my buttons, Dalilah.”

  “I’m sure I can.”

  He shot her a challenging glance. “You sure you want to risk it?”

  She laughed.

  “Glad the tea is making you feel perkier. Save that energy—you’re going to need it.”

  Dalilah finished her tea and watched him move. She loved the powerful shape of his legs, the way his back muscles rolled under his damp shirt, his efficiency of movement despite his bulk. Dalilah thought of his words again.

  When I do choose to make a promise, that’s everything in my book.

  Again the urge rose in her to explain herself to him, but she tamped it down this time.

  Just survive this, survive him, and all will go back to feeling normal. You have to do this for your father, your country, your family…

  Brandt poured the rest of the whiskey from the large bottle into a silver hip flask that he’d taken from the side pocket of his safari shorts. She thought of his drinking, his issues with his past. Her brother.

  “Why’d you quit the Force du Sable?” she said suddenly.

  He paused, then continued pouring.

  “I didn’t say I worked for the FDS.”

  “You said you were an ex-merc and that you worked with my brother. He was with the FDS until he took over the military in Al Na’Jar, and he’s still allied with the private army.”

  He grunted.

  “So, why did you quit?”

  “The thing about being a merc,” he said, screwing the cap onto the flask, “for me, anyway, is you’ve got to believe in the jobs you take. You have to know why you’re prepared to kill someone for cash. When you’re a soldier fighting for your country, you still get paid, but you get orders that technically you can’t refuse. It kind of absolves a soldier from the personal responsibility of murder. I didn’t have that absolution, and there came a day when the monetary reward no longer justified the act of killing. What used to be easy no longer was.”

  She stared at him.

  “So you stopped believing, and you quit.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Was it a particular incident that provoked this?” A woman.

  He cut free the rest of the rope that laced the jeep canopy to the bull bars and began coiling it.

  “There’s always one job that does you in,” he said, tying the coil of rope to the bottom of the pack with the kettle. “You think cops, soldiers, become inured to violence? They don’t. That’s for fiction and TV. What really happens is they keep pushing it all down until something snaps.” He held out his hand out for the mug. “You ready to roll?”

  She flicked the dregs of her tea into the bush, got to her feet, came up to him.

  “What was it, Brandt—what happened? Was it that woman you mentioned, the one you said died because of you? The one who burned you with a broken promise?”

  “Like I said, Dalilah, my past is not your business. And your future is not mine.”

  Her lips tightened. He took the cup from her and stuffed it into the pack, closing the flap and buckling it tight.

  “Yet you believe in this mission?”

  He held her eyes a long, simmering moment. And she could feel his conflict, feel a lot of things.

  “Like I said, I owe your brother. And I never renege on a promise.” He turned and hefted the pack onto his shoulders. “Even if it’s a bitter pill to swallow. Next time, the sheik owes me.”

  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 sh
elter 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.”

  She squinted up, trying to catch her breath. “I need to sit for a minute.”

  His jaw tightened.

  “Please.”

  Brandt relented. “Just for a second, okay? It’s not a good place.”

  She lowered herself onto a rock, taking her hat off and dragging her hand over her hair. Despite the dust, it still gleamed rich blue-black in the sunlight. Her skin was glowing from exertion. Brandt felt he was going mad—she was more beautiful to him by the second. It was driving him to distraction—bewitched by the exotic princess.

  She looked up with those big liquid black eyes fringed by long lashes.

  “What are you thinking?”

  He shook himself. “Nothing,” he said, unhooking the GPS from his belt, and rechecking their route, waypoints.

  “If you’ve got satellite coverage for that—” she jerked her chin at his GPS “—a satellite phone could have worked out here.”

  “Too bad I lost mine while saving your ass at the lodge, huh?”

  Her mouth flattened. She glanced away, watched a row of red ants carrying pieces of some dead animal.

  He hooked the GPS back. “Ready?”

  She said nothing, but got to her feet, clearly spent.

  Brandt set a slightly slower pace so she could keep up, but losing time ate at him. The sun was moving in its arc over the sky, and shadows were growing longer already—they needed to get up that cliff before darkness fell.

  “What do you farm, Brandt?” Dalilah called from behind after a while. “How much land do you have?”

  The question startled him. He’d hoped she’d given up poking into his personal life.

  “Big enough.”

  “For what? Game? Cattle? Maize?”

  Brandt wanted to remain silent, keep to himself, but on another level he knew talking would keep her mind off things. “My land forms part of a privately held game conservation area,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s a block of about ten kilometers by twenty.”

  “So…” She jogged a little to keep up, her voice breathless. “You offer game viewing?”

  “Not in my segment.”

  “But your neighbors do?”

  “I never see them.”

  “I mean, do your neighbors run safaris?”

  Irritation sliced through him. “Yeah.”

  “Do you ever plan to?”

  He stopped, spun round. “No, because I don’t like people, Dalilah. Running camps for idiot tourists who ask too many stupid questions would drive me mad.”

  She had the audacity to smile. “You’re already mad.”

  Brandt glared at her. “I’m thinking postal.”

  She met his glare. “I bet you weren’t always like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Bitter and twisted.”

  He wiped sweat from his brow. “And what makes you so sure?”

  “I also bet that you’re trying to grow things on your land.”

  “So now you’re psychic?”

  “You called it a farm.”

  He moistened his lips.

  “So, what are you trying to farm?”

  “Have you forgotten we’ve got killers on our ass? Come on, we need to move.” He resumed marching, faster now, hotter under the collar, part of him trying to escape her, even as he needed to keep her close. He thought of the whiskey in his pocket. What are you seeking alcoholic relief from, Brandt, me?

  Yeah, he thought. You got that right.

  But relief would not come, not even from the bottom of his whiskey flask until this was over. What unsettled him more was that he actually wanted to answer her last question, tell her what he was trying to do with his land. He never had a need to share, not this stuff. Yeah, maybe he might shoot the breeze and bounce ideas off the blokes in the pub in Gaborone, or around the safari bar while the guests slept before he flew home.

  But this woman?

  Maybe it was because she knew water-delivery systems, understood the complexities of farming in drought-ridden soil, understood how to deliver solar power. She came from the Sahara herself. She wasn’t just an ordinary woman.

  “I put a new tank up last week.”

  “What?”

  “A water tank,” he said over his shoulder. “And I installed an enhanced solar system for heating the water, with extra panels for the house, and an enlarged security fence to keep wildlife out of my growing area. The solar system will be connected to provide power for lights, radio communications, battery charging, computers, VSAT, cell-phone charging. The works. Got a borehole and windmill system, too. For the fields, I tried pumping water from the river.”

  She caught up again. “And what are you trying to grow in the fields?” she said, right behind him now, a fresh energy and curiosity in her voice. Brandt realized the conversation really was helpful to her. And she was truly interested, from an academic point of view.

  “Maize,” he said. “I started with maize. Mangoes. Macadamia nuts. Avocados. But then I lost the irrigation from the river.”

  “Why?”

  “Some elephant destroyed the concrete delivery troughs. She must have enjoyed the feel of sinking her feet through the concrete because she walked along the troughs for kilometers, just punching through the trough. Wrecked the whole system.”

  “Like some people enjoy popping Bubble Wrap—will pop until an entire sheet is done.”

  “Bubble Wrap?” He stopped, turned around.

  She tried to smile, but he could see she was beyond tired now. “You know, like that puffy plastic sheeting used to package delicate things for transport. Some people like the sensation and sound of popping the bubbles.”

  Something softened in Brandt, and this time he smiled. “Perhaps it’s futile,” he said quietly, “but my goal with the farm is really just self-sufficiency. I want to hunt only for meat, and pretty much grow everything else that I need. And then trade my produce and meat for labor a
nd other things.”

  “Ah, you mean your goal is to interact with as few people as possible.” In spite of her exhaustion, a wicked, teasing light twinkled in her black eyes, and suddenly Brandt saw a glimmer of her older brother in Dalilah. He was reminded of how Omair used to joke with him, how the sheik had used his wry wit to soldier through some of the toughest situations, and Brandt felt a sudden kinship—in some strange way he felt he knew this woman better than she realized. He smiled.

  “Yeah,” he said. “But until I am self-sufficient I still need to fly those irritating tourists across Botswana to safari lodges all the way from the Okavango to Tuli and the Makgadikgadi in between.”

  “Or take missions like this one.”

  “This is different.” He handed her the water pouch as he spoke, and when she was done, he recapped the pouch. “You sure you don’t want that biltong?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Several more klicks into their trek, Dalilah spoke again.

  “That plane that was stripped in Zimbabwe—it was your livelihood, then?”

  Brandt grunted in affirmation as he crouched to examine prints he saw in the dust. He touched the soil gently with the pads of his fingers, then glanced up, squinting into the distance. A pack of wild dogs had just come through here. Uneasiness crept over him.

  “Omair will pay,” she said, “for your plane.”

  “Damn right he’ll pay—I’m billing him for expenses.” He turned in a slow circle, looking for movement in the grass.

  “Right,” she said quietly. “I keep forgetting—I’m just a package.”

  Brandt told himself not to answer. He led the way, even more watchful now. Wild dogs were not nice killers. At least a lion kill was quick, clean, quiet. But the dogs went for the stomach, ripping out intestines while the quarry was still alive. Noisy. Which tended to draw other predators to the scene fast.