Chapter 18

On the walkway along Avondlust Circular Road, Noordhoek.

We were just walking. Hand in hand, like we always did when the world felt too big, too loud. The gravel crunched beneath our feet, soft and rhythmic. Fiona’s hair caught the late afternoon sun—golden flames dancing in the breeze. The cottage sat quietly behind us, tucked against the slope like it was dozing in peace. We were heading toward the intersection, the spot where the narrow lane met the sweeping curve of Chapman’s Peak Drive. A perfect, open stretch of road, flanked by sloping shrubs and jagged stone. Serene.

And then it wasn’t.

CRACK!

The sound was sharp, brutal — like God had just snapped a dry branch above our heads.

Fiona jerked.

Her body twisted violently in my grip and then she was flying sideways, as if yanked by invisible strings. A bloom of red exploded across her chest, staining her pale shirt. Before I could scream, CRACK! — another shot. It hit her again, a fraction off the first, the force folding her backwards this time. She hit the ground hard, and I dropped with her, dragging her limp form into my lap.

“Fiona!” I shouted. My voice cracked. I felt something inside me unhinge.

She wasn’t moving.

Blood. Christ — so much blood. Spreading fast, soaking her front, oozing out the side of her mouth in thin red threads. Her eyes fluttered, unfocused, lips parted in a silent question. My hands were on her, trying to do something — anything — but they were slipping, wet and useless.

I looked up. The shooter.

Movement in the scrub across the road — a figure, dark and quick, bolting from behind a low bush, sprinting toward a car parked half-hidden in the shade. No hesitation. I reached under my jacket, yanked out my Beretta. My finger was already on the trigger. The slide coming back and a round into the chamber.

First shot — bang. I saw the impact. Mid-back. The figure stumbled.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The body dropped face-first on the tar, arms sprawled, still clutching something. A rifle, with a makeshift silencer. I wasn’t counting.

I was back with Fiona. My heart hammering against hers.

Her chest rose and fell in short, shallow jerks. Her breath sounded wet. Laboured.

“Stay with me,” I whispered, pressing my hand against her chest. The blood was sticky and hot. Her eyes rolled up briefly, then blinked back to mine.

I could hear tires screeching. Horns. Distant voices shouting. A car had stopped—then another. Doors slammed, footsteps pounded. Strangers. Rushing toward us. Calling out. One had a phone. Another was pulling off his jacket, kneeling beside me, reaching for Fiona.

“Don’t touch her!” I barked. I didn’t know who they were. Couldn’t risk it. My hand was still on my gun.

Fiona made a sound — a low moan, almost like a groan.

I leaned closer, brushing blood-matted hair from her face. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. You hear me?”

She blinked once. Just once. But it was enough.

Around us, chaos bloomed. A few people shouting about calling an ambulance. Someone tried to get me to move aside, but I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. I stayed crouched over Fiona, shielding her with my body.

I glanced across the road again. The shooter lay still, half in the grass, half on the tar. No movement. No blood I could see from this distance.

Everything reeked of copper, sweat, gunpowder, and fear.

The world was noise now. Footsteps pounding, doors slamming, voices barking over each other. A bakkie screeched to a halt behind the parked car. Another vehicle pulled off too sharply and clipped the curb. A woman screamed. A man yelled for someone to call the cops. Phones were out — held up, flashing red dots. Recording. Always recording.

I kept my body over Fiona’s, shielding her, her blood hot against my arms. Her breathing was shallow, but steady — just steady enough.

A tall guy in a running vest knelt nearby, offering help. Too eager. His eyes scanned the scene more than her wounds. Another man, older, in a buttoned shirt with a “Table Mountain Rescue” badge sewn onto the sleeve, crouched next to the shooter’s body across the road — checking for a pulse. He didn’t touch the weapon. Smart.

Neither of them looked at me directly.

That was the first clue.

And then the sirens came. First faint, then sharp and rising. A rapid thrum that vibrated in the chest. Blue lights carved through the tree line.

An ambulance tore around the bend, overshooting slightly, gravel spitting from its wheels. It skidded to a halt just short of Fiona’s legs. The back doors flew open. Paramedics jumped out — two of them. One barked for space. The other looked straight at me.

He recognized me. I could tell. Didn’t say a word — just nodded once, fast and tight, then went to work.

They slid a board under Fiona, checking her vitals with rapid-fire efficiency. She moaned again, low and wet. One of the paramedics whispered something I couldn’t catch, then looked at me as if to say You did good. We’ve got her now.

I stood slowly as they loaded her into the rig. My arms were sticky with her blood. My hands still trembled, even as I gripped the pistol tight at my side.

More sirens. A convoy of SAPS vehicles pulled up in a stuttering rhythm — one after the other. White with blues and yellow stripes, blue flashers, and a buff-green and white Forensic Services van behind them. Uniforms poured out. Rifles ready. One cop started pushing people back, forming a rough cordon around the scene. Another began stringing up tape.

But it was the black Mercedes GLE that caught my attention. No lights. No sirens. Just rolled in smooth and silent, like a predator. The back door opened before it stopped. A man in SAPS blues stepped out. His shoulders were broad. Brass gleamed on his epaulettes. A Brigadier. Stone-faced. Eyes hidden behind dark lenses.

He didn’t speak. Just stood there. Watching everything. Processing it all with a look like granite.

The paramedics were already moving again, wheeling Fiona to the back of the ambulance. Another gurney was being rushed toward the body across the road. I caught a glimpse — just a little blood from the wounds showed where the three bullets had hit.

They were loading both casualties. Fast. Where the hell did all of them come from so fast. It was like they were waiting in the wings?

Two of the bystanders peeled away from the crowd and helped the paramedics lift the shooter onto the second stretcher. They were clean-cut. Fit. Way too calm. One of them muttered something to the driver and banged on the side of the rig. The door slammed shut.

Ash’s people. No doubt in my mind. Rangers. They were waiting. Good.

The ambulance peeled off, howling down the narrow road with tyres squealing.

I didn’t have time to think. A plain-clothes officer approached me. No name tag, no badge on display, but his tone was pure command.

“You need to come with us, sir.”

I nodded. Still holding my weapon.

They didn’t cuff me. Didn’t even ask for the gun. Just opened the back door of a discreet silver Toyota Land Cruiser with tinted windows. The inside smelled like coffee and antiseptic. One of the Rangers — now in a wind breaker and jeans — sat up front, eyes forward. Didn’t say a word.

I slid in. The door shut behind me.

The last thing I saw before we pulled off was the Brigadier stepping over the police tape, speaking quietly to a forensics techs. He hadn’t looked at me once.

Didn’t need to.

He knew exactly what had just gone down.

Beneath all of it — there was order. Purpose.

Every move had been rehearsed.

Fiona was bleeding, yes. But not dying. Artscape Theatre stage fake blood can be convincing. And a bulletproof vest can help.

I knew what lay beneath her shirt. I knew what was hidden under mine. And I knew the shooter’s face even before they reached her.

But right now? All that mattered was the show. And for anyone watching, it was playing perfectly.

And the shooter behind it? She was not dead. She wore a vest too.

Just like we planned. So that Anderson and his cronies can THINK Fiona is dead. She will still testify against him in court. I would like to see his face when she walks in. But until then she is for all practical purposes – dead.

And Rosie? Rosie needed to get out of this deadly game. This was her way out. But I have a notion that Ash had other ideas for her.

Once the Toyota sped away from the scene, I finally exhaled. I hadn’t even realised I was holding my breath. The guy sitting in the back with me turned to me, flashing a grin like we’d just pulled off a bank job.

“Now that went off well,” he said, chuckling. “I just hope the TV and newspapers get it right!”

I gave him a sideways look. That laugh of his was a little too casual for my liking, considering we’d just faked a double homicide in broad daylight. But it confirmed what I already suspected — Ash had pulled strings in places I didn’t even want to know existed. The man operated in layers. Deep layers.

The guy beside me leaned over, extending his hand. “TC Kowalski. Major TC Kowalski — but just call me TC.” I noticed the light scar on his left cheek and the old military watch on his left-hand wrist.

I shook it firmly. “Hi, TC. Pleased to meet you. I suppose you know who I am?”

He gave a nod. “Roy Reasor. But let’s leave all the credentials and curriculum vitae talk for another time...”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Let’s leave it for now. So, what now?”

“We head to a place in Newlands. Sort of a safe house. We’ll rendezvous with Ash, Dr. Reid, and a slinky little mocha lady named Rosie.”

I let out a laugh despite myself. The blood at the scene had looked convincingly real, and Fiona’s expression of agony — those short, laboured breaths — had sold the act perfectly. For a moment, even I had doubted. But I knew the physics: a 45 ACP round, even cushioned by Kevlar, is no joke. It hits like a freight train.

“I hope there’s some kind of health remedy for my dry throat,” I said, half-joking.

“Ash only stocks the best of the best,” TC replied with a smirk. “Glenfiddich — twelve and eighteen-year-olds. There’s some Glenlivet and Glen Grant’s if you like. Top-shelf stuff. You’ll be firing on all cylinders after a dram.”

I chuckled and leaned back. “Who was that SAPS big brass at the scene?”

“Brigadier Joe Franks,” TC answered. “You’ll meet him later.”

“He in on the ploy?”

“Very much. Without him, faking both the doc’s and Rosie’s deaths would’ve been ... complicated. The paramedics too — and some of the people who helped you. Four of them were my security team.”

“You don’t say. They looked so ... normal.”

“Normal,” TC grinned, “but deadly. Like the guy driving us. His name’s Boomer. Just Boomer. He likes things that go boom.”

“Ahhh,” I said with a nod. “A man after my own heart.”

Boomer gave a short chuckle and flashed me a smile in the rear-view mirror.

“That 45 target loads did its job well, wouldn’t you say?” TC asked.

“No doubt. Still, Dr. Reid will be sporting some lovely blue-purple bruises for a few days.”

“Every sport has its injuries,” TC said, laughing.

We drove on in comfortable silence for a while. The kilometres rolled by, and the landscape began to change. Urban sprawl gave way to the elegant hush of Newlands, then to wooded slopes and winding roads. Eventually, we passed through the gates of what could only be described as an imposing château clinging to the lower slopes of Table Mountain’s Back Table. Not your average bolthole.

“Now for some soothing medical treatment for your nerves and a proper debrief,” TC said, eyeing me.

“Dry throat, not nerves,” I replied coolly. “Nerves are for civilians.”

He gave me a sharp glance, raising an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Ash mentioned you used to play with the SEALs...”

“Yeah, but I still can’t balance a ball on my nose,” I said, deadpan.

That got a bark of laughter from him. “Although I’m a Marine, I think you and I are gonna get along just fine. Just don’t go spreading that around.”

“My lips are sealed,” I said, grinning. “No pun intended.”

The car slowed and came to a stop in front of the château. The lights along the driveway flicked on automatically, casting long, soft shadows over the garden path. The air smelled clean — pine, distant sea breeze, and something else. Safety, maybe. Or at least the illusion of it.

We stepped out, and I took a look around. Sandstone walls, medieval windows, arched doorways, gables fronting a wide stairway, iron lanterns glowing softly in their brackets. Somewhere inside, I imagined there’d be velvet armchairs, a well-stocked bar, and a man like Ash nursing a glass of something expensive while watching the evening news of his own mischief unfold on a flat-screen.

But first, whisky.

And maybe, just possibly, a moment to breathe.

I stretched my legs with a grunt and took a deep breath of crisp mountain air — cool, pine-scented, with a trace of damp stone and burnt ozone from the last cold front. After hours on the move and a few near-death brush strokes, it felt damned good to stand still. Even if we were still under wraps, cocooned in some elaborate deception that felt a little too good to be true.

We stood in front of the so-called safe house — although calling this place a safe house was like calling a stealth bomber a crop duster. This was a château, tucked into the forested folds of Table Mountain’s Back Table, its sandstone walls kissed golden by the late-afternoon sun. It had broad verandas, deep gables, and wrought iron balconies draped in ivy, all wrapped in manicured gardens behind stone walls and layered security. A double row of cypress trees flanked the curved driveway, swaying in the breeze like silent sentinels. Somewhere, hidden from sight, cameras buzzed and watched.

Boomer, still behind the wheel of the unmarked Land Cruiser, gave us a lazy two-fingered salute. The vehicle — a silver-grey beast with enough torque to punch through a barricade — slipped into a garage with a soft hiss of hydraulics and vanished behind smooth, whisper-quiet doors.

“Nice digs,” I muttered.

TC grinned like he owned the place. “Ash doesn’t do hideouts halfway. Infra-red shielding, reinforced walls, anti-drone netting strung like a spider web over the back garden, and a perimeter that’ll make a Russian missile silo cry uncle.”

We stepped up to the heavy wooden front doors. Old-school timber, brass fittings, subtle elegance. Above us, I caught the faint click of a concealed lens locking in — facial recognition at work. A second later, the door eased open with a muted hiss, like the house was exhaling.

Inside, warm light spilled across polished stone tiles and high-beamed ceilings. The air smelled of old leather, cigars, jasmine, and something faintly antiseptic — Ash’s version of comfort. Classy, clinical, and just a little dangerous.

Rosie met us at the threshold. Whatever bruises she’d sported earlier were now just shadows. Dressed in black jeans and a snug olive tank top, she moved like she’d never been shot at — or had maybe just stopped caring. That signature half-smile tugged at her lips, her mocha skin glowing under the amber lights.

“Welcome back from the dead,” she said, handing me a crystal tumbler of something golden and promising. “This ain’t heaven, but it’s close...”

“Bless you,” I muttered, and took a sip. Glenlivet fifteen-year-old. Silky, smoky, the kind of whisky that made your chest feel like sunrise. “I think you are the first mocha skinned Angel without wings I met.”

Behind her, Fiona appeared — Doctor Fiona Reid now, the name finally landing in my head with proper clarity. She had on a navy hoodie, hood down, hair tied up, and despite the pallor still lingering on her face, she was grinning.

“Next time,” she said, raising her girlie-looking cocktail in salute, “I vote for a less realistic calibre. That point four five still has me seeing stars.”

“You sold it,” I told her. “Even had me doubting.”

“We used compressed powder loads,” TC chimed in. “Soft caps. All the drama, none of the fatal. Still stings like a bastard.”

“As they say,” Fiona added with a mock wince, “every sport has its injuries.”

“Don’t worry, Doc. You’ll live,” TC winked.

We moved into what would pass as the lounge — though the term didn’t do it justice. The place was more war room than living room. A long oak table dominated the space, strewn with open laptops, earpieces, hard-copy files, and three mounted monitors playing silent news feeds. One of them already showed the aftermath — Fiona’s ‘body’ being zipped up and loaded into the ambulance. A bold BREAKING NEWS headline crawled across the bottom: Prominent Researcher Assassinated in Brazen Daylight Attack.