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 shelter 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