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Authors: Loreth Anne White
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she was using words she never ordinarily used, but she didn’t care. She was afraid. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to stand on that riverbank while Brandt was swept away without her. She was sticking right at his side come hell or high water. Or fire and crocodiles and leopards. Or Amal.
“Dalilah—”
“Shut up and dig! I’d rather face a flash flood than be raped by Amal’s men and have my head cut off!”
Brandt spun away from her and angrily jabbed his spade into the sand. “You’re something else, you know that?”
“Yeah, I am. And so are you!”
Brandt stilled, and glared at her for a moment, then a wry smile curved his lips. He gave a quick nod, then resumed digging. He had to hand it to her—Princess had won his admiration.
Chapter 5
J acob gently fingered the swelling on Jock’s muzzle, looking for the cut where he’d been kicked in the face. Jock whimpered as Jacob found the wound. It wasn’t too bad, and the bones didn’t appear broken.
“It’s all right, boy,” he whispered in his local Shona dialect, the love in the touch of his gnarled hand conveying all to the animal—he was not alone, even though his owners had been murdered. Jacob was also certain the attackers had slain his wife. He and the dog were in this together now. Both afraid. But not broken.
“Soek,” he whispered softly, holding his palm down to the soft red earth that was still dry under the fat branches and old canopy of the nyala tree—it was his indication for Jock to start a search.
Amal shot Mbogo a quick glance and raised an eyebrow.
“Lodge owners were Afrikaners,” Mbogo said quietly. “Guess they spoke to the dog in Afrikaans.”
In his peripheral vision Jacob was keeping an eye on the one-armed Arab and his big bull of a comrade, Mbogo. Jacob was a skilled hunter, trained to observe, to listen, without appearing to do so.
Mbogo cradled an AK-47 in his meaty hands. Bandoliers filled with ammunition crisscrossed his broad chest and a giant panga was sheathed down the side of his tree-trunk-size thigh. In contrast, the Arabic man at his side was slender with a narrow face and wild eyes. Even so, Jacob felt the Arab was the more dangerous one. He spoke English with an American accent and he also carried a panga, the blood of the delegates and lodge employees still black on his blade. A smaller curved and bejewelled dagger was hooked into his belt.
At Jacob’s boots, Jock sniffed the soft indentations in the earth where the man who took the princess had crouched. The dog was circulating air through his nasal passages with soft snorts, cataloguing the scent. Behind where Amal and Mbogo stood on the raised wall of the lapa, bodies lay among overturned chairs, broken glass. The fire in the circular pit had died, food in the pots burned, the scent of it all pungent. Ants had already found the slain. There would be flies later, and when the sun rose, the cadavers would begin to rot fast. Vultures would circle up high and silent on thermals above the camp as the heat of a new day pressed down.
Jacob was going to kill that one-armed bastard and his big bull. He’d kill them or die trying. But if he was going to stay alive long enough in order to make the attempt, he had to prove his worth and lead them close to their quarry. Jacob could do this. He was one of the best. The dog would help him—they were both born of a land that knew hardship and betrayal. They knew how to be patient.
“Good boy,” he whispered to Jock as the dog locked onto the scent of his quarry and began snuffling toward the outer fringe of the nyala grove, heading toward thick kikuyu grass wet with rain.
“Boss, over here!” Jacob called as he moved quickly after the dog into the grass.
“Bring the lights!” Amal yelled to his men.
Two men came running with game spots taken from the lodge. White light flooded the ground where Jock worked, shadows darting around the periphery.
“Do you have his scent?” Amal said,
“Dalilah—”
“Shut up and dig! I’d rather face a flash flood than be raped by Amal’s men and have my head cut off!”
Brandt spun away from her and angrily jabbed his spade into the sand. “You’re something else, you know that?”
“Yeah, I am. And so are you!”
Brandt stilled, and glared at her for a moment, then a wry smile curved his lips. He gave a quick nod, then resumed digging. He had to hand it to her—Princess had won his admiration.
Chapter 5
J acob gently fingered the swelling on Jock’s muzzle, looking for the cut where he’d been kicked in the face. Jock whimpered as Jacob found the wound. It wasn’t too bad, and the bones didn’t appear broken.
“It’s all right, boy,” he whispered in his local Shona dialect, the love in the touch of his gnarled hand conveying all to the animal—he was not alone, even though his owners had been murdered. Jacob was also certain the attackers had slain his wife. He and the dog were in this together now. Both afraid. But not broken.
“Soek,” he whispered softly, holding his palm down to the soft red earth that was still dry under the fat branches and old canopy of the nyala tree—it was his indication for Jock to start a search.
Amal shot Mbogo a quick glance and raised an eyebrow.
“Lodge owners were Afrikaners,” Mbogo said quietly. “Guess they spoke to the dog in Afrikaans.”
In his peripheral vision Jacob was keeping an eye on the one-armed Arab and his big bull of a comrade, Mbogo. Jacob was a skilled hunter, trained to observe, to listen, without appearing to do so.
Mbogo cradled an AK-47 in his meaty hands. Bandoliers filled with ammunition crisscrossed his broad chest and a giant panga was sheathed down the side of his tree-trunk-size thigh. In contrast, the Arabic man at his side was slender with a narrow face and wild eyes. Even so, Jacob felt the Arab was the more dangerous one. He spoke English with an American accent and he also carried a panga, the blood of the delegates and lodge employees still black on his blade. A smaller curved and bejewelled dagger was hooked into his belt.
At Jacob’s boots, Jock sniffed the soft indentations in the earth where the man who took the princess had crouched. The dog was circulating air through his nasal passages with soft snorts, cataloguing the scent. Behind where Amal and Mbogo stood on the raised wall of the lapa, bodies lay among overturned chairs, broken glass. The fire in the circular pit had died, food in the pots burned, the scent of it all pungent. Ants had already found the slain. There would be flies later, and when the sun rose, the cadavers would begin to rot fast. Vultures would circle up high and silent on thermals above the camp as the heat of a new day pressed down.
Jacob was going to kill that one-armed bastard and his big bull. He’d kill them or die trying. But if he was going to stay alive long enough in order to make the attempt, he had to prove his worth and lead them close to their quarry. Jacob could do this. He was one of the best. The dog would help him—they were both born of a land that knew hardship and betrayal. They knew how to be patient.
“Good boy,” he whispered to Jock as the dog locked onto the scent of his quarry and began snuffling toward the outer fringe of the nyala grove, heading toward thick kikuyu grass wet with rain.
“Boss, over here!” Jacob called as he moved quickly after the dog into the grass.
“Bring the lights!” Amal yelled to his men.
Two men came running with game spots taken from the lodge. White light flooded the ground where Jock worked, shadows darting around the periphery.
“Do you have his scent?” Amal said,
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