Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,16
got out and pushed. It took three hefty attempts, but once the wheels released from their indentations in the mud, it trundled easily toward the slope. Brandt steered with one hand on the wheel as he ran alongside. When the vehicle gathered speed and started down the incline, he jumped into the driver’s seat.
The jeep lumbered wildly down the slope, gathering more speed. Brandt didn’t fire the ignition until he neared the bottom. The jeep growled to life as thunder clapped overhead, then echoed down the valley. A gust of wind drove rain through the open sides, soaking him. He’d bet the people back at the camp hadn’t heard a damn thing and would only discover their transport missing after daybreak.
“Good girl.” He patted the dash. “You’re a real beauty.” The diesel tank registered full, too.
Brandt drove fast over the rough terrain. As soon as he felt he was far enough from the camp, he reached for his hip flask and took a deep swig, almost emptying the thing. At least he had a refill now, several times over. Brandt grinned. Things were most definitely looking up.
Within minutes he could make out the dark silhouette of the cliff in the distance, then the baobab grove at the foot of the rocks. But as the jeep mounted a last small incline and Brandt swung his headlights over toward the trees, he saw a strange pile in the mud at the base.
It took a split second to realize what he was seeing.
Dalilah—leopard!
His heart exploded into his throat as he slammed on the brakes. Leaving the headlights shining on the terrible sight, Brandt lurched out of the jeep and raced through the mud toward the pile of animal and human tangled in the water at the base of the trunks.
Chapter 4
Mbogo shoved a wiry old man dressed in khaki bush gear toward Amal.
“He’s the best tracker the lodge has. The other staff said so.”
Amal regarded the man. His hair was frosted with white and his face was wizened and craggy. But being old wasn’t necessarily a bad thing out here. This was a land still ancient enough to value the wisdom of elders, and out here in the bush a good tracker was one who’d hunted for food as a child, learned from his forefathers.
Slowly, Amal walked around the man, who lowered his head and stared at the floor. Amal was using the safari lodge’s curio shop-cum-office as a temporary command center. The room was filled with racks of postcards, shirts, hats, wood carvings and batik fabrics. Against one whitewashed wall stood a locked cabinet containing silver and copper jewelry and semiprecious stones. On another wall hung photos of lions, elephants, rhinos, buffalo drinking from a water hole. Another shot showed a leopard draped over a branch in front of a sinking sun. The Big Five, the most dangerous animals in Africa to hunt on foot.
But it was the hunt of human that excited Amal. He had Dalilah Al Arif’s scent now, and blood on his hands. Adrenaline coursed through his veins.
He was not a sophisticate like his father, the billionaire industrialist who’d wanted to rule an empire. No, Amal was a hands-on fighter who liked the trenches. Amal liked the gore on his hands, the intimacy of a kill, seeing fear in his quarry’s eyes. He was fueled by simpler things than his father. Revenge. Hatred. A need for cold hard cash.
“Is that you?” Amal pointed to one of the photos showing a guide standing behind a fat white hunter proudly holding up the dead head of a Cape buffalo.
“Yes, sir.” The old man would not meet Amal’s eyes.
Deference. Amal liked that.
“It’s a very dangerous animal, the buffalo.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My man here, his name is Mbogo. It means big bull buffalo. He’s dangerous like the buffalo.”
The man said nothing.
“What’s your name?”
“Jacob.”
“How long you been tracking, Jacob?”
“I hunted with my grandfather from when I could walk.”
“You from around here?”
“My village is near the Zambezi. You can hear the drums at night.”
“You work with the lodge a long time?”
“More than twenty years, sir.”
Amal nodded. He’d brought his own tracker, but local knowledge was invaluable. He stopped in front of the man.
“Look at me.”
The man’s eyes lifted slowly, wide and white with fear. Sweat gleamed on his ebony skin.
“I want the woman who was with the guests. Do you know which woman I mean?”
“There was only one woman in the delegate party, sir.”
“Dalilah Al Arif—the princess. We came all the way from Zambia for her. But