Guarding the Princess (16 page)

“People do make mistakes in life,” he said quietly. “You learn from them and move on. But my mistakes—they resulted in death. I tried to run from the images in my head, the sights, sounds, smells...her screams. But they would wake me in the night. That’s when I hit the whiskey—looking for relief. I was blind drunk for months, living in a slum. That’s when your brother came to Nicaragua, to find me, haul me out. He took me back to the FDS base on São Diogo, sobered me up, slapped me around and forced me back into some sort of functional shape. And that, Dalilah, is why I’m going to hand you back to Omair in one piece, or die trying.”

No man left behind.

The final puzzle pieces locked into place. Emotions rushed through her chest.

“So that’s when you quit military life—you vowed to get out, to stop killing.”

“I used to think of violence as a harsh but justifiable means to an end—most soldiers do, or they couldn’t keep doing the job. But violence has consequences—it always, always comes with collateral damage. You think soldiers, cops, become inured—that’s a myth. Most perpetrators of violence just keep pushing their reactions down deep, until there’s too much buried, and you wonder why they snapped.”

A profound and powerful affection for this man swelled so fast and hard in Dalilah’s chest it was painful. This powerful body of Brandt Stryker’s housed a man with depth and compassion. He’d been hurt inside and out, and was badly scarred because of it.

Dalilah understood that kind of scarring—her family had been through it with her brother Tariq. And she was filled now with the need to nurture, hold him, love him, heal him and it made her eyes burn because it scared her.

His gaze flicked to her engagement ring.

“That’s also why I know marriage is not what it’s cracked up to be,” he said quietly.

Without thinking, Dalilah leaned forward, took his roughly stubbled cheek in her hand, drew his face toward her and kissed him. Softly, tenderly.

Brandt melted into the sensation of her lips over his, the touch of her hand against his skin. His eyes burned with a sweet kind of pain as he kissed her back gently, so gently it hurt every aching, burning nerve in his body. And he wanted her—all of her—for himself.

He wanted to take her home. Make her his.

Brandt had never taken a woman back to his farm.

His world narrowed as he threaded his fingers into her hair, soft and thick in his hand, and he drew her closer to him.

Then a slow prickle started up Brandt’s neck—a hunter’s instinct. A sense of being watched, preyed on. He froze. Her body stilled under his.

“Don’t move,” he murmured against her lips, his hand going for his gun, finger curling into the trigger. He breathed in slowly, very slowly, then whipped onto his back, spinning the rifle round.

Chapter 14

A
little black face peered at them from between the scraggly branches of dry scrub. Brandt’s heart slammed against his chest, fury lacing through him as he released his finger from the trigger—he should have been aware, heard this kid approaching.

Now they’d been spotted. This small child, and possibly his whole village, had just been put in jeopardy.

Brandt raised his finger slowly to his lips, telling the kid to stay quiet. But the boy exploded from behind the bush and bolted on skinny little dusty legs and bare feet toward the village, calling out in a high-pitched voice.

Brandt swore, lurching to his feet as he took chase. He dived for the boy, tackling him to the ground. The child squealed in terror, squirming like a snake in his arms. Brandt held the kid steady until he stilled. Eyes huge and white with fear looked up into his face. Again Brandt cursed—the boy was only about eight years old.

“Take it easy,” he said in Setswana. “It’s okay. We mean no harm. We just want to buy that old jeep parked inside the fence. What’s your name, boy?”

“Wusani.”

“Who does the jeep belong to, Wusani? Can you bring him out here to me?”

The boy remained motionless, transfixed by Brandt’s eyes. Brandt was used to this—the color of his eyes was likely unusual to this child, and possibly frightening.

Slowly releasing his grip on the boy, Brandt repeated his question. “Wusani, who owns the jeep?” But the kid dashed off.

Brandt dived, caught him again, got him in a hold.

“Listen,” he said, urgency biting into him, “I need your help, son. There are some bad men searching for us. They want to hurt that lady over there.” He pointed to the rise, Dalilah’s head just visible.

The child looked where he was pointing.

“I need to take her somewhere safe. Fast. And I need the jeep because my airplane doesn’t work.”

Brandt could see the wheels turning behind Wusani’s dark brown eyes, bright with a mix of fear, intelligence and curiosity. He looked Brandt up and down.

“I’m a pilot,” Brandt said. “I fly planes.” He pointed to the sky. “You ever been in a plane, Wusani?”

He shook his head.

Out of the corner of his eye Brandt saw a man coming out the village gate, calling for the boy.

Crap. This was going downhill fast—he’d hoped to limit potential damage by keeping this between as few people as possible.

“Who’s that man, Wusani?” Brandt said with a jerk of his chin toward the man.

“He’s my grandfather.”

An old man, wiry, approached with a stick in his hand. It had a shiny knob on the end. He stalled when he caught sight of Brandt and Wusani. Brandt released the child, and the boy raced to his grandfather.

“It’s okay,” Brandt called out in Setswana, putting down his rifle and showing his hands. Another man, younger, was now exiting the village gate. A group of women near the fence stopped to stare.

Brandt inhaled, approaching them, preparing for a lengthy Botswana greeting—anything less would be an insult.

He introduced himself to the wiry old man with salt-and-pepper curls. The young man joined the group, and Brandt introduced himself to him, too. The young man said he was Wusani’s father.

Brandt asked who the village headman was, and whether they had cattle. He congratulated them when they said they did—livestock was money and status. They in turn asked about his own cows, and congratulated him when he said he had a few head. He felt the clock ticking, time dribbling away like sand between his fingers.

The old man told Brandt the chief’s name was Baikego Khama.

“Everyone calls him B.K.” His wizened face cracked into a gap-toothed grin, gums pink. More villagers were gathering near the fence, curious. Brandt’s heart sunk—there was no way out of this now.

From his pocket he took the wad of greenbacks he’d liberated from the Germans. All eyes went to the money.

“U.S. dollars,” he said. “I’m interested in buying that jeep under the tree over there. Who owns it?”

“It belongs to the village,” explained the old man. “But B.K. controls who can use it.”

“Can I speak to B.K.?”

They nodded and made a gesture for Brandt to follow them. Brandt motioned for Dalilah to come over. She scrambled down the bank, and picked up his rifle, bringing it to him.

Wusani skipped on his skinny little legs beside them as they entered the village and made their way to the headman’s hut. They passed the jeep. It was old, and on the side of the door were faded letters that read:
Masholo Safari Lodge.
The vehicle had likely been sold to this village when the camp offloaded it, thought Brandt.

Wusani’s dad went up to the chief’s door and knocked.

“Your grandson doesn’t go to class with the other kids?” Brandt asked the old man as they waited a respectful distance away.

A shadow crossed the man’s face. “Wusani runs away from school.” He shook his head. “He’s a smart boy, like his uncle who works for the mine. But Wusani muddles his letters—he can’t learn to read and so he runs away.”

Dalilah glanced at Brandt, curiosity raising her brow.

He took her hand, squeezed. “Just small talk,” he explained in English.

The chief came out of his hut.

Brandt greeted the headman with deference and began the whole greeting routine all over again. The chief had a Zionist badge on his shirt—a common southern African practice, claiming allegiance to the African Zionist church. He was likely a good man, a principled man. And Brandt’s head hurt as he thought of Amal coming closer and closer, what he might do if he thought these good people had helped him and Dalilah in any way.

“My name is Brandt Stryker, from over that way,” he told B.K. as he pointed west. “They call me Tautona where I come from.”

B.K.’s eyes went to the lion tattoo on Brandt’s arm.

“I have a plane, and I fly tourists to lodges all over Botswana. I’ve flown guests to Masholo Lodge, too. Do you have villagers who work at Masholo?”

B.K. said there were.

“They will know of my plane,” he said, drawing Dalilah closer. “And this is my friend.”

There was no point in hiding his identity—his tag was emblazoned across the tail of his Cessna, and Amal wouldn’t have to dig too hard to find out who the plane was registered to.

“We want to buy, or borrow, your jeep—my plane is not working, and we have far to go.” Brandt took out the wad of greenbacks again, fanning them out so the chief could see the amount. “We’re also in a hurry.”

Suspicion crossed B.K.’s face. He looked up from the money into Brandt’s eyes.

“It’s not enough money to buy the jeep,” B.K. said.

Brandt inhaled slowly, tempering his mounting sense of urgency. “I will bring more money when my plane is fixed.”

B.K. shook his head.

“What is he saying?” Dalilah whispered.

“He’s saying it’s not enough.”

A group of five women, one with a baby wrapped onto her back, another with a toddler at her feet, had gathered nearby. Brandt felt the fire of panic burning through his gut. This was just going from bad to worse—they had to get out of here.

The toddler waddled over to Dalilah and she smiled, dropping into a crouch. The baby touched her face and she laughed, a husky, warm sound. Anger braided through Brandt.

“Leave that kid alone,” he whispered harshly in English.

Surprise widened her eyes. “Why?”

“Don’t touch them—just leave these people. We shouldn’t even be here, talking to them. We’re putting them in danger by being here!”

She swallowed and stood up, a strange expression crossing her face.

He turned back to B.K. “Look, I know it’s not enough,” he said in Setswana. “But I have cattle. I have a farm. I
will
return with a new jeep for you. A much better one, and more money.”

B.K. turned to Wusani’s grandfather, and they moved off to the side where they were joined by three other men including Wusani’s father. They argued in low tones.

“What is it?” Dalilah asked.

“It’s not enough cash for the jeep, and they don’t trust that I will return with more.” Sweat beaded on Brandt’s brow—he felt as if he was going to implode. He spun round, paced. “We should have just walked.”

“We’ve waited this long already.”

“We’re not getting that jeep now. And they’ve seen us and know we’re desperate for a vehicle. Do you think they’re going to let us creep back in here to steal it as soon as it gets dark? They’ll try to stop us, and I’m not hurting these people. Not taking it by force.”

Dalilah stared at him, that odd look still on her face.

“Do they speak English?” she said suddenly.

“Hell knows. Some of them, probably. The teacher for one.”

She spun around, pointedly taking it all in, her gaze touching on the school building, the water tower, the creaking windmill, the goats, the straggling vegetable garden, the colorful houses with their tin roofs, then alighting on the toddler.

“This is what I wanted,” she whispered.

“What?”

“This. My goal. My work. The mission in Zimbabwe.” Her eyes shimmered with sudden, fierce emotion. Her mouth went tight, her hand fisting. She turned suddenly and marched toward the group of men arguing quietly under the thorn tree near the chief’s house.

“Dalilah!”

She didn’t heed him
.

“Dalilah!”
He ran after her, took her arm, whirled her around to face him. “What are you doing?”

She shook him off and went up to the men. “I can pay for the jeep,” she said to them.

They all looked at her.

“Do you speak English? Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” said Wusani’s father.

“I can buy the jeep.” She was wiggling the ring on her hand, desperately tugging it off her swollen finger as she spoke, and it struck Brandt suddenly what she was doing.

“Dalilah—no!”

“And gas. I want spare gas—petrol, for the jeep?”

She yanked the ring off and held it up to them. Sunlight caught sparks of grapefruit pink. The platinum setting gleamed white.

“I will pay with this.”

The men stared.

Brandt took her arm. “Dalilah,” he said into her ear, “they have no idea what that’s wor—”

She angrily shrugged him off again.

“Does anyone here know anything about diamonds? Do you know what you can buy if you sell this stone?”

A murmur went through the group as energy shifted.

“Go get Teep,” the headman barked at one of the younger men, suddenly all clipped business. He shot a glance at Brandt, then at Dalilah, then the huge rock—an apple of temptation.

“Teep,” he said quietly, while staring fixedly at the rock, “is my son. He works at the Botswana diamond mine. He has come back to the village to see his family.”

A tall and devastatingly handsome man who looked as though he’d been carved from ebony came striding toward them, Wusani scampering excitedly at his heels. He wore perfectly pressed khaki pants and a crisp white shirt. His black leather shoes had been polished to a high gloss.

His greeting, thankfully, was less traditional and brief. He took the ring from Dalilah, held it up to the light. His body went dead still, but Brandt could see the subtle shift in his muscles, the quickening of his pulse at his carotid. He swallowed and looked slowly at Dalilah, as if in disbelief.

“They don’t even have pink ones like this in South Africa.” His English was impeccable, British accented.

“Ten carats.” Dalilah said. “Cut and polished from a rough 21.35-carat gem mined from the Argyle mine in the East Kimberley region of Western Australia. It’s set in platinum. If you give us the jeep, spare gas, camping supplies and water, you can keep the diamond.”

“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Brandt whispered, pulling her aside.

“I’m doing what I want to. I want the jeep and I want to get out of here.”

Teep drew his father aside, and they conversed in low tones.

“Jesus Christ, Dalilah,” Brandt whispered. “You can’t give away a sultan’s ring like that—”

“Haroun can afford it, Brandt. Look at it this way, it’s buying my life. He’ll have to understand that. If he doesn’t, he has a problem. Besides, I’ll reimburse him.”

“What’s that thing worth anyway?”

“Two point five.”

“Million?”

She said nothing.

He stared at her, his brain reeling. “Dalilah, what decision, exactly, are you making here?

“Just leave me, okay!” she snapped, reading the deeper questions in his eyes. “It’s my decision, not yours.”

“That’s more money than these people will know what to do with.”

She raised her arm and swept it in a wide arc, taking in their surrounding village. “They need a new school. Those kids could do with shoes. That water tower needs to be replaced. They could install solar power, get hot water and electricity into their homes, increase their crops with better irrigation. More cows, another windmill, a new jeep, maybe even a secondary-education fund.”

He just stared at her. The group of men, including B.K., were now looking at her, too. More women were gathering nearby and the school kids were coming out. The whole damn village was coming to witness this event now.

Urgency exploded in him.

“It’s what I’ve always wanted, Brandt,” she said quietly, urgently. “I have wealth and I want to help.” Her eyes glittered with passion. “This continent is my home, and this is my dream.”

“This is more than just about the jeep and helping African villages, isn’t it?”

“This is about my life, Brandt,” she said quietly, “and what I want to do with it.”

A quiet rustling wildfire of hope ignited suddenly in Brandt—hope for something he didn’t even dare want to think about. Chief B.K. was approaching them, but Brandt’s brain had suddenly stalled and all he could do was stare at the princess.

“Teep says this is a good diamond,” B.K. announced.

“It’s a damn fine diamond,” Dalilah said.

“Why do you want to give us this stone? Is it stolen?”

She moistened her lips. “No, it’s not stolen. I want to give it to you because we need that jeep very badly, and because I can see your village needs new water tanks, and a new school, and a proper vegetable garden.”