Chapter 12

Noordhoek Beach cottage.

As a concession to the winter chill, I swapped my usual sleepwear — or lack thereof — for real pyjamas and set the electric blanket to the “just-drive-the-chill-out” setting. I’ll switch it off before slipping under the covers; no need to wake up in a sweat bath at 2 am.

Contrary to Fiona, who was supposed to be dead on her feet, I didn’t feel particularly tired. The overhead light was off, leaving only the bedside lamp to cast a warm, muted glow, enough to chase away the shadows without glaring into my eyes.

A book. That was the plan. I reached for the one I’d been chipping away on and off at for the past few weeks — Tom Clancy’s Carrier: A Guided Tour of an Aircraft Carrier. A military reference, not a novel, but a damn good read if you liked technical details and operations. Ships weren’t my first love, but they played a role in my past, and understanding how an aircraft carrier functioned was just another piece of the puzzle. Besides, Clancy had a way of making military hardware sound like something you’d want to take home for a test drive.

Lying on top of the bed, waiting for the electric blanket to warm up, I flipped to the chapter on aircraft — their range, their power, their weaponry. I was halfway through a passage on catapult launches when a shadow fell across the doorway. A small shadow.

I glanced up. Fiona stood there, wrapped in fleecy pyjamas, long flaxen hair tumbling over her shoulders, looking more like a lost kid than the sharp, capable woman I knew.

“I thought you’d be in la-la land by now,” I said.

She scrunched her nose. “The bed is cold and lonely.”

“Well, this one ain’t exactly cosy either,” I pointed out. “It’s still simmering.”

“So, you’re not going to invite me in?” she asked, still lingering in the doorway, her voice soft, uncertain.

I sighed, closing my book. “Fee, you’re gonna end up here anyway.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t want me there?”

“I want you here, but ... it’s getting dangerous.”

A slow, mischievous smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and her ice-blue eyes sparkled. “How dangerous?”

“Fee...”

“Never mind,” she said, dismissing the teasing with a little wave. “I just want to be close to you.”

“Then come be close,” I relented, lifting the blankets on the right side of the bed. “Slip in.”

Fiona practically skipped across the room like a teenager and dove under the covers.

“How was the bath?” I asked as she burrowed in, pulling the blankets up to her nose.

“Invigorating. I don’t feel so stiff and sore anymore.”

I smirked. “Progress.”

She wrinkled her nose again. “Still freezing, though.”

“It’s winter in Cape Town. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” she muttered, already snuggling closer.

I slid under the covers as well, reached over, and switched off the lamp. In the darkness, Fiona shifted, tucking herself into my side. Without thinking, I slipped my arm under her and pulled her close.

“Night, Roy.”

“Night, Fee.”

She sighed softly.

“Oh lord, where that sigh falls, no grass will ever grow,” I teased.

“I’m just relaxing.”

“Good.”

Silence settled between us, warm and comfortable. Then —

“Roy?”

“Yeah, Fee?”

She hesitated. “No ... never mind.”

I frowned in the dark. “What’s wrong, Fee?”

“Nothing ... I’ll tell you later ... some other time...”

Her voice trailed off, her breathing growing slower, softer. Asleep. Third night in a row.

Maybe she just felt safe here with me.

I let out a breath and closed my eyes. Now, if I could just ignore the beautiful woman tucked against me, I might actually get some sleep.

Cape Town was throwing one of its famous tantrums, the kind that tourists don’t believe until they see it for themselves. The northwester howled around the cottage, rattling the windows like a burglar testing the locks. The sea, visible through the steamed-up glass, was an angry, lead-grey expanse, frothing and surging as if it had personal grievances against the shore. Thick, dark clouds blotted out the mountain, their wispy tendrils dragging over the slopes like the fingers of some vengeful spirit. It was the sort of day that made you grateful for a roof, a fireplace, and — most importantly — the divine aroma of bacon wafting from the kitchen.

And bacon always smells divine. Trust me.

Fiona was at the stove, performing some kind of culinary witchcraft. She had the kind of easy confidence that suggested she could rustle up a gourmet meal in the middle of a war zone, and at that moment, she was sprinkling something mysterious over a pan of perfectly scrambled eggs.

“It gets bloody cold around here,” she muttered, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Cape Town is like a baby,” I offered. “If it’s not wet, it has got winds.”

She chuckled. “What do you know about babies?”

“Only that they’re noisy and produce a lot of stinky stuff.”

“Noisy little shit factories,” she said with a grin. “I read that somewhere.”

“FIONA! We are working with food here!” I protested, horrified.

She giggled, entirely unrepentant, but before I could launch into a full lecture on kitchen etiquette, my cell phone started vibrating across the counter like a caffeinated cockroach.

I grabbed it, checked the screen. Unknown number. That was rarely good news.

“Roy speaking,” I said cautiously.

There was a slight pause, then a voice I recognized immediately.

“It’s me. You know who. Don’t say my name.”

Johan. His voice was low, urgent.

“Calling me from a burner phone?” I asked. “Must be serious.”

“Yes. It is serious,” he confirmed. “Is Professor Reid with you?”

“Why?”

“Don’t ‘why’ me,” he snapped. “You’re being charged with kidnapping an esteemed academic of the University of Pretoria and detaining her.”

I blinked. “By whom?”

“Alan Anderson.”

“The mother fucker...”

Anton continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “He’s claiming you want to ransom her for a couple of millions. He’s given the SAPS an address where you, and she, can be found.”

I had a sinking feeling.

“Let me guess,” I said. “My cottage. Noordhoek.”

“Bingo.”

I exhaled sharply. “That scheming son of a—”

“But we ain’t that stupid,” Anton interrupted. “We just comb our hair that way. There’s another development...”

“What development?”

“We are detaining Anderson. Right now. Cape Town Central.”

“For what?”

“Human trafficking.”

I nearly dropped the phone. “No shit?”

Anton’s voice was dry. “No, Roy. I just called to make up a bedtime story.”

I whistled under my breath. “You finally got something on him?”

“We received an anonymous tip-off about an Anderson Shipping Line vessel preparing to leave for Dubai. Cargo container full of young girls and boys.”

My stomach twisted.

“The tip-off was good,” Anton continued. “The ship’s in the dead dock, crew detained, and as a precaution, we picked up Anderson as well.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Was he in Cape Town?”

“As if you didn’t know! He was here all right. And someone whipped him good with leather bull whip.”

I blinked. “What?”

“He looks like he had a disagreement with an angry dominatrix. So, tell me again — you didn’t know?”

I frowned. “I didn’t know.”

“Right. And my name is Seyyed Ali Khamenei. Of course, you knew he was here. You sly old fox.”

I rolled my eyes. “You always have to be dramatic.”

Anton ignored me. “Where is Professor Reid?”

I glanced toward the kitchen where Fiona was taking note of the unfolding disaster, shooting me glances with tight lips as she stirred the eggs in the pan.

“Currently?” I asked.

“Yes, currently. And be straight with me.”

“She’s cooking bacon and eggs on toast about five paces from me.”

There was a pause. “Roy Reasor...”

Chuckle.

“So, I take it she’s safe?” Anton asked.

“As safe as a pig in Palestine.”

“Good. But you have to move. Word out on the street is there’s a contract out on you.”

I froze. “Only on me? How do you know?”

“I have my sources with the gangs too. You’re the target. Professor Reid is not to be harmed — just retrieved and returned to her benefactor.”

“Anderson,” I muttered. “That schweinhund.”

“What?”

“I said Anderson. Anderson is Professor Reid’s benefactor. He’s been paying her to find something for him. A priceless artefact.”

Anton swore under his breath. “Shit, shit, shit...”

“Yeah. So, keep him locked up.”

“Oh, he’ll be out by lunchtime,” Anton said grimly. “His lawyer is already on a flight. Claims his client isn’t responsible for the crew’s actions.”

“Dammit.”

“But it confirms one thing for me,” Anton added. “Anderson is behind the contract on you. That Funky Boys scum you took out? Well, they were on a certain Jimmy “The Knife” Stravinsky’s payroll. And guess who is our choir boy Anderson’s second in command? Yes, you are correct: Jimmy Stravinsky.”

“Stravinsky?”

“Not his real name.”

I sighed. “I’ve had worse days.”

“Yeah, buddy. Keep your head down. I’ll update you.”

“Wait a second,” I said. “I might have something for you...”

I turned to Fiona. “Where’s Anderson’s farm?”

She looked at me, eyes widening. “Along the N3, just before Heidelberg. Anderson Ranch. Why?”

I returned to Johan. “Did you get that? Anderson Ranch, N3 near Heidelberg. He keeps young girls there for his and selected guests’ pleasure too.”

There was a beat of silence, then Anton swore again. “Shit! That’s big. He could deny the ship thing, but not a farm full of trafficked girls. I need to move.”

“Good hunting, your royal eminence.”

“Fuck off, Scrooge McDuck.”

Chuckle.

I put the phone down and exhaled, rubbing my face.

Fiona stood by the stove, arms crossed, looking at me with sharp, assessing eyes.

“So,” she said, tapping the wooden spoon against her palm, “are we eating before running for our lives, or should I just pack it to go?”

I grinned. “Let’s eat. If someone’s going to shoot at me today, I’d rather not die hungry.”

Fiona’s turn.

This was one of those days you read of in a Hitchcock story. Glum, grim, rainy, windy. Much windy. The northwester was howling around the cottage, rattling the window panes, sounding like a homesick animal, lost and calling out for its people but never finding its way home.

The day had started out good enough. I’d dressed warmly in a thick sweater and a comfortable pair of denims, bracing for the kind of weather that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore. I wanted to be useful, so I invaded the kitchen, taking over the stove to make breakfast for Roy and me. The scent of sizzling butter and eggs filled the air, mingling with the rich aroma of toasted bread. It was almost enough to drown out the relentless wind. Almost.

Roy sat at the table, watching me with quiet amusement as I worked. He didn’t say much, just sipped his Rooibos tea — the drink he swore could warm a person up faster than coffee. I had my doubts about that, but today, I wasn’t about to argue.

He took a call from someone that made me worry. I heard every word as he had the phone on speaker. Roy did not seem to be worried.

Then my phone rang.

I almost ignored it. The number wasn’t one I recognized, and experience had taught me that unknown numbers rarely brought good news. But something — instinct, curiosity, or maybe just foolishness — made me answer anyway. I was glad I did.

“Doctor Reid,” I said cautiously. “How may I help you?”

The voice that came through the line turned my blood to ice.

“Finny? Is that you?”

I froze. My grip on the phone tightened. That voice. I knew that voice. But it couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.

My breath hitched. “R ... Rosie? Can it be you?”

“Yes, Finny. It’s me.”

The world around me blurred, the sounds of the wind outside fading to a distant howl. I felt the warmth of the stove against my back, the heat from the fire Roy had made in the hearth, yet suddenly, I was cold. A deep, soul-deep chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

“I thought you were dead.” The words came out before I could stop them.

“I can assure you I’m alive,” Rosie said, her voice eerily calm. “More alive than you think. But Finny, I need to see you. Today. This morning. It’s serious.”

A dozen questions swarmed in my head, but I latched onto the most immediate one. “Are you in trouble, Rosie?”

“No. I’m not in trouble. But you know trouble has a way of seeking us out.”

I turned, my eyes flicking to Roy. He was watching me now, his cup of tea held midway to his lips, his expression unreadable. He’d heard enough to know something was wrong.

“Rosie, hold on a second.” I pressed mute on the phone and looked at Roy. “Is there a safe place around here where I can meet an old friend?”

“The Farm Village,” he said without hesitation, setting his mug down. “Across the main road. There’s a nice place called The Foodbarn Café and Tapas.”

I nodded, unmuting the call. “Where are you now, Rosie?”

“I’m in Grassy Park. But don’t come here. I’ll meet you somewhere. Just say where, and I’ll be there.”

“The Foodbarn at the Noordhoek Farm Village. Ten this morning.”

“Perfect. I’ll be there.”

I hesitated. “I’m bringing a friend. He can go window shopping while we talk.”

Then Rosie said something that made my skin prickle.

“It’s okay, Finny. If he is who I think he is, bring him along. What I need to speak to you about concerns him too.”

My pulse quickened. “Rosie?”

“Never mind, Finny. See you at ten.”

The line went dead.

I set my phone down on the table, staring at it as though it might ring again and explain everything. But silence stretched between us, broken only by the wind clawing at the cottage and the faint crackle of the fire.

Roy finished chewing his bite of toast, took another sip of his tea, then leaned back in his chair. “Are you going to tell me what that was about?”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “Roy,” I said, my voice lower than before. “I need to tell you something.”

He didn’t press, just nodded for me to go on.

I exhaled, forcing myself to say the words. “That was Rosie.”

His expression didn’t change, but I saw the shift in his eyes. Calculating. Measuring. “And that means...?”

I clenched my hands together, staring at the table. “It means either I’ve lost my mind ... or the dead don’t stay dead.”

That got his attention. He leaned forward slightly. “Explain.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Rosie ... she was a friend. More than that. She was part of my past — before all this, before you. And she’s supposed to be dead.”

Roy’s jaw tensed. “But she just called you.”

“Yes,” I murmured. “That’s what’s throwing me. I saw her die, Roy. Or at least — I was told she died. It wasn’t a question. It was fact.” My voice wavered. “And yet, she’s alive.”

Roy said nothing, just watched me, waiting.

“She said she needs to speak to me,” I continued. “Face to face.”

He let out a slow breath. “Sounds like trouble.”

“She said she wasn’t in trouble,” I admitted. “But that trouble has a way of finding us.” I hesitated, rubbing my arms as if I could shake off the cold. “And then she said something else. Something that didn’t make sense.”