Chapter 9

Dragon Peaks Resort, Lakeside Suites.

For three ... maybe five seconds, Megan simply stared at me.

Not saying a word.

The fire had gone out of her anger, leaving only exhaustion behind. Then, almost self-consciously, her gaze drifted down to the floor, following the grain in the wooden planks as though the answer to something might be hidden there.

“If the others ask ... what are you gonna tell them where I am?”

“I’ll tell them you’ve picked up a stomach bug and don’t feel well,” I replied. “Nobody will question it. Half the recovery team has been living on coffee and takeaway food for the past week.”

She nodded faintly, still studying her feet.

“Why do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Look out for me...”

There was no accusation in her voice anymore. Only quiet curiosity.

“It’s the right thing to do.”

She looked back up. “Bullshit.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “See?” I said. “Delirious already. You’re imagining motives that aren’t there.”

I folded my arms loosely against my chest. “I’m simply doing what a lead investigator is supposed to do—looking after one of his team.” I gave a small shrug. “I’d call that friendship.”

Her expression softened, but only by a fraction.

“Besides...” I continued, “if I let you anywhere near that King Air today, you’ll probably grab the nearest hammer and beat the wreck until it confessed it was really a helicopter all along.”

For a heartbeat she simply blinked at me. Then, despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched. A tiny smile. Fragile. Real.

“Okay...” she sighed. “Point taken.”

She rubbed one hand across her forehead. “So ... I’m confined to barracks?”

“Yes, you are.” I nodded. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“No.” I grinned. “I’m worse. I’m the lead investigator.”

That earned me a quiet snort.

“I’ll come and check on you later.”

She folded her arms.

“You took my laptop, so what exactly am I supposed to do?”

“Take a hot shower.” I held up one finger. “Then get into bed.” A second finger. “And sleep.”

She rolled her eyes with theatrical resignation.

“Aye-aye, Captain...” she muttered. Then, with the faintest hint of mischief returning to her voice, she added, “But stop shivering my timbers.”

There she is, I thought. The real Megan was slowly resurfacing.

“Good,” I smiled. “Now lock the door, have that shower, and get some sleep. We’ll still be chasing this mystery when you wake up.”

I reached for the door handle. “I’ll come and fetch you around lunchtime.”

She gave a small nod. “Okay.”

It was only a single word. But for the first time since I’d walked into her suite that morning, it sounded as though she actually believed everything was going to be all right.

I heard the heavy deadbolt slide home behind me the instant I stepped out onto the covered walkway.

The solid metallic clunk echoed briefly beneath the timber roof before the sound disappeared into the stillness of the morning.

Good. She’d actually locked the door.

I remained where I was for a few seconds, drawing a slow breath of crisp mountain air into my lungs. Overnight, the valley had shed the last remnants of yesterday’s warmth. The air carried that unmistakable late-winter bite that stung your nostrils without quite becoming painful. Somewhere across the lake a hadeda called, its familiar cry ricocheting off the sandstone cliffs before fading into the distance.

Under my arm, Megan’s laptop suddenly felt heavier than it had any right to. It wasn’t the weight of the aluminium casing. It was what might be hiding inside it. Either it contained nothing more than another dead end in an investigation already full of them ... or it held the digital fingerprints of the man who had decided that destroying an engineer’s reputation was easier than letting her finish her report.

I shifted the laptop into a more comfortable grip and started towards the pathway leading back to the restaurant. Amanda would want this as quickly as possible.

If anyone could peel apart encrypted email headers and trace them back to their source, it was Mandy.

I had barely taken half a dozen steps when another sound drifted across the parking area.

Not loud. Just ... distinctive. The deep, lazy rumble of a large V8 diesel settling into its idle.

I stopped instinctively.

Years in aviation—and before that, years in police work—had taught me that engines often told you more than the people driving them.

The sound came from the chalet parking bays beyond the stand of indigenous trees separating the Lakeside Suites from the luxury accommodation.

Without really thinking about it, I moved sideways until the broad trunk of an old wild fig broke up my silhouette.

Habit. No point advertising that I was watching. A sleek black Toyota Land Cruiser 300 GR Sport eased backwards out of parking bay forty-two, reversing with the smooth confidence of someone who knew exactly where every corner of the vehicle was.

The SUV wore a respectable coating of road dust, dried mud splashed along the wheel arches and lower doors. Not neglected. Driven.

The morning sun glanced off the tinted side window just long enough for me to catch the driver’s profile. Silver hair. Square jaw. Expensive sunglasses.

Karl Steinhoff.

There wasn’t the slightest hint of urgency about him.

One hand rested casually on the steering wheel while the other adjusted his sunglasses. He looked like a businessman leaving after a pleasant weekend away rather than a man who’d spent the previous evening attempting to intimidate a federal accident investigation.

My eyes dropped automatically to the painted number on the parking bay.

Forty-two.

I knew exactly where Bay Forty-two sat. Directly opposite the Lakeside Suites. Less than fifty metres from Unit Thirteen. From Megan’s suite.

The pieces clicked together so quickly I almost felt them. Steinhoff hadn’t driven up from Johannesburg for dinner. He hadn’t stopped over because the roads were long. He’d booked himself into Dragon Peaks. He’d spent the entire night here.

While Megan lay awake listening to Beethoven’s Ninth over and over again, trying to silence the panic in her own head ... he’d been sitting comfortably in a chalet across the lawn. At exactly twenty-three minutes past midnight, her phone had chimed. The anonymous email. The timing suddenly felt far less anonymous.

The Land Cruiser rolled towards the security gate, slowing only long enough for the guard to recognise both vehicle and driver. The boom lifted almost immediately. No inspection. No questions. Just a polite wave.

Steinhoff acknowledged it with the briefest nod before squeezing gently onto the accelerator.

The V8 rumbled away down the Champagne Valley road towards Winterton, its exhaust hanging for a few moments in the cold morning air before dissolving into the sunlight.

I stood watching until the black SUV disappeared behind a bend lined with eucalyptus trees.

He didn’t send that email from Johannesburg. My jaw tightened. He sent it from here. From a room overlooking these very suites.

Close enough to see the light burning in Megan’s window while she wrestled with a decision he’d tried to make for her.

That wasn’t intimidation from a distance. That was surveillance.

And if he was prepared to stay overnight just to watch the pressure build ... then this investigation had become far more personal than I’d realised.

I tucked the laptop a little tighter beneath my arm and lengthened my stride towards the breakfast terrace. Amanda needed to see this computer.

Immediately.

Dragon Peaks Resort, Restaurant.

I walked back into the main dining area, my boots clicking rhythmically against the stone floor, heading straight for the corner window table.

Linda and Amanda were still there. The breakfast plates had been cleared away, leaving only two empty coffee cups and Amanda’s open laptop resting on the pine table. The moment I approached, Linda sat up, her sharp, trained eyes taking in my posture before dropping instantly to the silver computer under my arm.

“Where’s Megan?” Linda asked softly, setting her paper napkin down.

“In her suite,” I said, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite them. “I’ve put her on mandatory rest for the morning. She’s locked in, getting some sleep.”

Linda’s dark eyebrows pulled together. “Is she ill?”

“She got an email at twenty-three minutes past midnight,” I said, setting Megan’s laptop flat on the table between us. “Direct to her personal address. Someone’s threatening to drag her SACAA credentials through an official board review if her report doesn’t conclude pilot error for the King Air crash. So she worried and did not sleep the whole night. She looks like shit.”