Chapter 10

The drive back to Noordhoek Beach cottage.

Fiona screamed in terror, a raw, piercing sound that shattered the tension already coiled like a spring in my chest. Her hands flew to her face, fingers clawing at her eyes as if she could block out the inevitable. But I had no such luxury. My eyes were locked on the oncoming car, its headlights blazing like twin beacons of insanity in the darkness. The bastard wasn’t moving. He was playing chicken, daring me to swerve first.

It’s not happening.

My knuckles whitened on the wheel, my foot steady on the accelerator as the cliffside rushed toward us in a blur of asphalt and shadows. The Atlantic roared to our left, its dark waves crashing against the rocks below, whispering promises of destruction should I miscalculate. To the right, the mountain loomed, jagged and unyielding, a sheer rock face that would crush us like tin if I made the wrong move.

And still, the car hurtled toward us.

The space between us evaporated in seconds. Thirty meters. Fifteen. My pulse pounded against my ribs, a war drum in my ears. At the very last moment, the idiot flinched, jerking his car left, out of my lane, out of my way. The road opened up, and I seized the gap, threading the Range Rover through like threading a needle at a hundred kilometres an hour.

The tires kissed the gravel shoulder, spitting up dust, but the chassis control and all-wheel drive held firm. The Range Rover stuck to its line, and we shot past him. A split second later, a sickening crunch erupted behind us.

I caught a glimpse in the mirror. His car clipped the low stone wall running along the edge of the road, bucking violently to the right. The left side lifted, and for a moment, I was sure he was going to roll. But instead, it skidded along the sandstone barrier like a stone skipping across water, sparks flying as metal screamed against rock. Then, the wall ended.

His car didn’t.

With nothing left to hold it up, the vehicle toppled over the edge, tumbling forward, disappearing into the abyss. I craned my neck, barely able to see it flipping end over end down the rocky slope, headlights, and taillights swapping places in dizzying rotation. Then, midway down — darkness. The lights blinked out, swallowed by the night. Then an orange, yellow and red ball of flame blossomed in the night as the wreckage hit the rocks below, curling up in the air and folding in on itself in a mushroom shape.

Then silence. The only sound left was the distant, echoing crash as metal met stone, and then the relentless, eternal roar of the sea.

My foot eased off the accelerator, my hands suddenly slick with sweat. The road twisted again, another treacherous bend looming ahead. I took it slower now, more out of instinct than conscious thought.

“Stop the car,” Fiona’s voice was ragged, barely more than a gasp.

“Give it another hundred meters,” I said, scanning ahead. “We’re almost at the end of the pass. There’s a safe pull-off.”

She didn’t argue, but when I glanced at her, she was clutching a hand to her mouth. I knew the signs instantly. I hit the gas, pushing us through the last hairpin curve, and as soon as the road widened out onto a flat overlook, I swung off the asphalt, cutting the lights.

Before the wheels had even stopped rolling, Fiona was out. She staggered two steps and doubled over, retching violently into the dry grass.

“Dammit,” I muttered, wrenching the door open. I grabbed the bottle of water from the side pocket and yanked some Kleenex from the glove compartment before making my way around the car.

She was still bent over, her body trembling, gasping for breath between bouts of vomiting. I placed a hand lightly on her shoulder.

“Here,” I said softly, holding out the tissues and the water. “Wipe your face, rinse your mouth. Take a sip.”

She straightened slowly, snatching the Kleenex first, then the bottle. Her fingers fumbled with the cap as she wiped at her mouth. Her breathing was erratic, her shoulders still shaking.

“Don’t ... ever ... do ... that ... again,” she hissed between ragged gulps of air.

I exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down my face. “Fee, I had to get us out of there. Alive.”

“I know.” She took a shaky sip of water, swished it in her mouth, and spat. “It’s just ... freaking warn me next time!”

I couldn’t help it — I chuckled. “Sorry, Fee...”

“Don’t ‘Fee’ me!”

“Okay, okay.” I opened my arms, expecting her to shove me away. Instead, she collapsed against me, her hands clutching at my shirt like a lifeline. Her face buried into my chest, her whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm.

And then, the dam broke.

Silent shudders gave way to sobs, deep and raw, shaking through her as she clung to me. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close, pressing my chin to the top of her head.

“It’s okay,” I murmured, stroking her hair. “We’re okay. It’s over.”

But even as I whispered the words, I knew they weren’t entirely true.

Because somewhere down below, amidst the jagged rocks and blackened waves, a wreck lay shattered in the night. And I wasn’t sure if the man who had tried to kill us was still breathing, or if the sea had already swallowed him complete.

Then there was still the car following us. It was somewhere behind us in the darkness. Only minutes away.

A dull glow of light from around the hairpin bend alerted me to the approaching car. My pulse, still hammering from the first encounter, kicked up another notch. Not over. Not yet.

I grabbed Fiona and shoved her toward the SUV just as the first glint of headlights flickered through the curve. First one, then the second—high beams cutting through the darkness like blades.

The road sign to our left reflected in the glare, its bold black letters momentarily illuminated: CHAPMAN’S PEAK DRIVE. As the car passed it, the white reflector plate burned red in the light wash. The bastard had seen us. And he was slowing down.

A bad sign.

In the dull backwash of his headlights, I caught movement — an arm, extended out of the left front window. Something clutched in his grip. I didn’t need to see it clearly to know.

Gun.

My body moved on instinct. I shoved Fiona hard down behind the SUV’s wheel well and reached for my own nine-millimetre.

Crack!

The first bullet punched the ground near the rear tire, kicking up a puff of dust and grit.

The second—smash!—shattered the back right window, glass raining down like ice shards.

The third went high, whistling past the SUV’s roof, lost to the night.

I crouched, heartbeat steady despite the chaos, angling over the hood just as the shooter’s car hurtled past. He was leaning back now, his aim shifting — less accurate, less controlled.

That was his mistake.

I came up in one fluid motion, raised my weapon, and double-handed my grip. My sights tracked his window. Breathe. Lead your shot.

Fifteen rounds. I fired every single one.

The impact was immediate. The arm jerked back, something dark flying from his grip just before the first rounds struck metal. The windshield splattered — red mist or shattered glass, hard to tell in the chaos. The back window exploded inward, a fountain of sharp fragments catching the dim light as the car swerved violently.

Right. Left. Right again.

The driver fought to regain control, tires screeching against the pavement, but he wasn’t stopping.

I reloaded fast, sliding another magazine into place, but by then he was out of effective range, gaining speed as he veered wildly toward Fish Hoek.

I held my stance, tracking the taillights until they vanished into the darkness.

Only then did I exhale.

I turned, lowering my weapon, and found Fiona still crouched low, her hands clenched into fists against the asphalt. She was shaking. Hard.

I bent down and pulled her up gently, feeling the tremors running through her.

“Come on,” I said, voice softer now. “Let’s go home.”

Her fingers curled into my jacket. “Why — why did they want to kill us?”

I brushed a few shards of glass from her sleeve. “You were okay, Fee. I was the target. Not you.”

“But why?”

“Because someone doesn’t want me helping you find the Star.” I pulled open the passenger door. “Now, get in. Let’s go home.”

She hesitated, looking at me, searching for answers I couldn’t give her.

“Home?” she echoed.

I nodded, checking the road once more. “Yeah. Home. For now.”

The drive back was silent except for the occasional scrape of shattered glass shifting in the back seat. Fiona sat rigid beside me, arms wrapped around herself, staring out the window but not really seeing anything. The SUV’s headlights carved through the dark, the coastal road stretching ahead like a ribbon of asphalt disappearing into the void.

I kept my focus ahead, scanning the shadows for any sign that the bastard had doubled back, but nothing moved except the wind-blown mist rolling in from the ocean.

Still, I wasn’t taking chances.

My fingers drummed against the wheel, adrenaline still humming in my veins. The roads were too empty. Too quiet.

Fiona’s voice, small but steady, cut through the silence.

“Who were they?”

I didn’t answer immediately. The truth was, I didn’t know. But I had my suspicions.

She turned toward me, eyes dark pools in the dashboard’s dim glow. “Roy. Talk to me.”

I sighed, shifting gears as I took the last bend before home. “Hired muscle. Probably locals. Someone with deep pockets and a lot to lose wants me off this job.”

“The Star,” she said softly.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

A few minutes later, I pulled the SUV into the driveway, shutting off the engine. For a moment, we just sat there, the sudden silence pressing in on us. The house loomed ahead, dark and still, its walls holding the promise of safety — but only for now.

I reached over, resting my hand lightly on Fiona’s arm. “Let’s get inside.”

She didn’t move right away. “What if they come back?”

“They won’t. Not tonight.”

She swallowed, but I could see the question forming before she asked it. “What if they try again?”

I met her gaze. “Then we’ll be ready.”

That wasn’t enough for her, but it was all I had.

She exhaled sharply and pushed open the door. I followed, scanning the perimeter before unlocking the house. Inside, the air was cool, carrying the faint scent of old wood and sea salt. The place was quiet, the kind of quiet that made a man’s skin itch.

I locked the door behind us, checking the deadbolt twice.

Fiona stood in the middle of the living room, arms still wrapped around herself, looking small despite the steel in her spine. She turned, her voice shaking now. “Roy ... I need to understand. Why would someone kill to stop us from finding it?”

I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling. “Because whatever the Star is, it’s worth killing for. And that means it’s worth finding.”

She flinched at my words, but she didn’t look away. “Is it worth dying for?”

The question hit me harder than it should have.

I looked at her, really looked at her. The way her fingers were pressed into her arms. The way she was standing, bracing herself like she was ready for a fight she knew she’d already lost.

I thought about lying. About softening it for her.

But lies get people killed.

“I don’t plan on dying, Fee. We do this smart. We don’t take risks we don’t need to. We don’t trust the wrong people. And we don’t stop.”

Fiona’s eyes searched mine, looking for something — reassurance, maybe. Hope.

“Okay,” she said finally. But the doubt was still there, lurking beneath the surface.

I checked again the lock on the door, checked the windows, then checked them again. Habit. Or maybe paranoia. Either way, I wasn’t taking chances.

Tonight had been close. Too close.

But if they thought I was done?

They had another think coming.

“Sorry I dragged you into this...” She kept her eyes on the floor.

“You dragged me into nothing, Fee,” I said. “I made my own decision to help you find the right cave.”

“But I asked —”

“Yes, you asked. And I agreed.” I met her gaze. “But it was Anderson who started this feud. He came here intending to hurt you, and I stopped him.”

“Yes ... that’s true. But still...”

“But still nothing,” I said firmly. “If I hadn’t stepped in, where would you be now?”

Fiona shifted uncomfortably and looked away. She had no answer for that. I turned away and went to the small cupboard in the lounge, pulling out a bottle of Wellington VO brandy and two glasses. I poured us each a measure and handed one to her.

Fiona hesitated before speaking again. “He would’ve whipped me. Like he does to all...” She trailed off, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“Like he does to all who cross his path?” I finished for her.

She scowled. “Stop finishing my sentences.”

“Sorry. It’s just logical.”

“I was about to say — like with all the girls he keeps on his farm. They’re slaves, and he’s the master.”

That hit me like a punch to the gut.

“And he tries that with you?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. “Why, Fiona? What does he have on you? Are you a slave to him?”

She let out a breath and shook her head. “I’m tired. I’ll tell you all about it someday.”

She lifted her gaze to mine, and that’s when I saw it — how drained she really was. The fire in her eyes had dimmed. Her face was pale, and her ice-blue eyes were dulled to grey.

I softened my tone. “Here. Take a sip of this first,” I said, nudging the glass toward her. “Then I’ll make you some toast.”

She took the brandy and raised it to her lips. “Yeah ... I left my meal on the side of the road. That was your fault — playing Max Verstappen on a public street.”

I smirked. “Sorry, Fee. But you were never in any danger. I did an advanced vehicle handling course. I saw the way out before that guy even considered swerving.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Roy Reasor, don’t you think it’s time you tell me what you really did in the Middle East and Eastern Europe?”

I leaned against the counter, exhaling. “I was a foreign correspondent. I fed stories of conflicts to the media.”

“Trash, Roy!” Fiona shot back, settling onto the chair. She downed the brandy in one gulp and immediately grimaced, pulling a face like she’d swallowed a mouthful of fire. She coughed, punched her chest with her fist, and let out a small burp.

“Now out with it!” she demanded. “One: A company in Little Creek, Virginia, USA? Two: Retiring at thirty? Three: SEAL Team Two is stationed at Little Creek.” Her eyes locked onto mine, the fire flaring back to life. “Roy Reasor, were you a SEAL? And don’t give me any crap about working nine to five in an office or being a cook.”

I rolled the glass between my fingers, considering my answer.

“How do you know about Little Creek and SEAL Team Two? And what has that anyway got to do with the price of eggs?”

“Two and two makes four. And there is good old Uncle Google. Do you want a link?”

“No, thanks.”

“So?”

“I was a media correspondent,” I said evenly. “I was deployed and employed within the parameters of my expertise.”

Fiona scoffed. “And you wouldn’t have been deployed if you hadn’t completed training and been certified, right?”

I hesitated, then nodded once. “Yes.”

“So, you were a trained SEAL?”

I sighed. “Does it matter? I can’t balance a ball on my nose...”

She sat back, studying me with a slow, deliberate blink. “It explains a lot about you. The way you handled Anderson. The way you —” she waved a hand vaguely in the air, “— dealt with those guys the other day. How you reacted tonight. And the way you sh — sh ... shoot.”

Her tongue tripped over the word, and she frowned like the betrayal was personal. Oops. The brandy is affecting her more than I thought.

I met her gaze. “And is that bad in the eyes of Fiona Reid?”

She lifted a finger, as if she had a point to make, but then squinted at it like it wasn’t quite doing what she wanted. “Fiona Reid ... is grateful to be kept safe by y ... you,” she declared, a little too grandly. Then hiccuped.

Her nose wrinkled in surprise, and she pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oops.”

I smirked. “You okay there, Fee?”

She nodded, a beat too late. “M’fine.” Then, with the seriousness of someone trying very hard to seem sober, she added, “You ... might have given me too much brandy.”

I let out a breath, shaking my head. “Or you drank it too fast.”

She considered this, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “Or ... and hear me out ... maybe the brandy was too strong.”

I chuckled. “You want some water?”

She waved me off, then tried to stand — only to pause as if she wasn’t entirely sure the floor would cooperate. Instead, she flopped back onto the chair, glaring at it. “Chair moved,” she muttered.

“Uh-huh.”

She pointed at me. “D’you know what your problem is, Roy Reasor?”