Private: Gold Page 2

  Chapter 3

  The youngster was fast, but Joey’s swift reflexes helped him recover instantly. Picking himself up, he used the momentum to fling himself forward. With his muscular, broad-shouldered build, he had won rowing championships at college; sprinting had never been his forte, but now his anger lent him wings.

  He’d had everything else taken from him in the past few days and he was damned if some crazy mugger was going to get away with this.

  As he pounded across the road, he heard the screech of brakes. He glanced to his right to see a minibus taxi hurtling toward him; an ancient-looking death trap of a vehicle. The driver had run the red light and now, too late, he was stamping on worn brakes, as threadbare tires skidded over the wet road. The taxi was hydroplaning, and Joey was directly in its path. The blare of its horn filled the air. He could see its windshield wipers…one moving at full speed, the other hanging down, broken.

  Stop, he thought. Back!

  It was the safest option. But already the skinny youth was sprinting down the opposite sidewalk and if he stopped now, he’d lose him.

  Joey decided to make a run for it.

  The rear of the taxi was fishtailing…its grille loomed, far too close, and the wailing of worn rubber on tarmac filled his ears. He leaped for the opposite curb, vaulting the crash barrier to safety just as the out-of-control taxi rattled past.

  Usually, this sidewalk was cluttered with pedestrians at this time, but today only a few braved the elements, heads bowed under umbrellas and mackintoshes. It was easy to spot the fleeing thief darting between them. It looked as if he was heading for a beaten-up Mazda which had stopped on a yellow line, engine revving.

  Frustration surging inside him, Joey realized his assailant had too much of a lead; he wasn’t going to catch him in time.

  But then the youngster tripped, sprawling to his knees as a cracked manhole lid gave way. He picked himself up and carried on, limping badly, and Joey knew he had a chance.

  “Stop!” Joey yelled, racing to intercept the Mazda. The driver was reversing to meet his accomplice. The passenger door swung open and the thief dived in.

  But Joey was on him. A desperate lunge, and he had hold of the man’s knee, dragging him out again even as the Mazda’s driver tried to accelerate away. The thief was clinging to the seat-belt strap, his body in the moving car and his legs scissoring on the asphalt. The Mazda jerked to a stop.

  “Give it back!” Joey shouted, twisting the man’s left ankle hard. From the screams that followed, he guessed he had gotten hold of the injured leg.

  The man kicked out at him wildly with his right foot, but Joey grabbed it with his other hand. He clawed at Joey’s head, trying to pull his hair, but Joey’s dark buzz cut was too short for him to get a hold. One more powerful yank on the legs, and he pulled the thief right out of the car. He hit the road butt-first, then his head followed with a bump, and finally, his outstretched arms came free. He still held Joey’s rucksack in a death grip in his right hand and Joey wrenched it loose.

  Street fighting had taught him his skills—crude, but effective. A kick to the crotch, and the thief forgot all about his injured ankle and curled into a ball, his screams turning to sobs.

  Lying there in the rain, the young man looked vulnerable and terrified, and Joey suddenly felt sorry for him. He didn’t know the would-be mugger’s circumstances, but guessed they were even more dire than his own. At any rate, he had his possessions again, and that was what mattered. As the man crawled back to the Mazda, helped in by the visibly shaking driver, Joey shouldered the bag and turned away, jogging down the sidewalk as the rain stung his face.

  He passed a streetlight with a newspaper headline poster attached to it. Torn by the wind and ripped by the hail, the print on the paper was illegible apart from a single word at the bottom.

  …COINCIDENCE? it read.

  Joey looked at the dripping newsprint as he passed, thinking of everything that had happened to him in the recent past. The word stayed in his head, refusing to leave.

  He’d sure been unlucky. But had it all been coincidental?

  He didn’t have Khosi’s background as a PI. He’d qualified with a business degree and worked as a forensic analyst in top-level corporate finance. Even so, he should be able to deduce if there was a pattern here, and whether this mugging and the recent burglary were linked.

  Damn it, he thought, realizing he shouldn’t have let the thief get away without answering some questions. He turned, shielding his eyes against the rain, but the Mazda was gone.

  Chapter 4

  “You okay?” the removal-van driver called out from under the shelter of his umbrella, as he saw Joey crossing the road. “Did you catch him?”

  “Yes, and yes. I got my bag back,” Joey replied, reaching over his shoulder to pat his rucksack. “Let’s load up and get out of here.”

  “Never known crime to be so bad in this neighborhood,” the driver said, shaking his head. “Crazy that you can’t even walk around safely in broad daylight.” He glanced dubiously at the storm clouds, as if unsure whether this awful weather did, in fact, qualify as broad daylight.

  Joey gripped the desk again firmly. But as he lifted it, he saw a silvery oval object gleaming on the pavement below.

  “Just a sec,” he said, because it looked familiar. He bent and picked it up.

  He was correct, and his heart quickened as he examined it.

  “You dropped it?” the driver asked.

  “No, it must have fallen—from somewhere under the desk, I think.”

  It was Khosi’s USB storage device, specially engraved with his name, which Joey had given him as a gift. That had been only three months ago, just before all the trouble started. The device had been attached to a keyring, but Joey saw that the ring had been removed and a piece of double-sided tape attached to it.

  Peeling off the tape, he pocketed the USB.

  He guessed it had been stuck to the bottom of the desk. If the mugger hadn’t shoved Joey off balance and caused him to drop the desk, dislodging the device, then Joey would never have found it. It was sheer luck it had landed on the sidewalk and not in the gutter, to be washed away by the cascading storm water.

  Suddenly, Joey shivered, and not just from the chill of the blowing rain.

  He was wondering if this USB might contain Khosi’s suicide note.

  Chapter 5

  Thanking his lucky stars that his watch was waterproof, Joey checked the time and saw it had only taken ten minutes to finish loading the office furniture. The attempted mugging hadn’t caused too much of a delay.

  But there was no time to check the USB he’d picked up. He needed to get to his bodyguarding assignment with Isobel Collins—the sooner, the better.

  In the building’s small basement garage, he stripped off his soaked shirt and put on a dry one. He always kept a change of clothes in the trunk of his SUV, because investigation work was unpredictable. In the past, he’d often had to drive straight from a dirty, dusty site to a boardroom meeting. Today, he was especially thankful he’d packed a fresh pair of shoes and socks. His gym bag with the change of clothes was packed next to the other essentials in the Private Johannesburg world—cable ties, duct tape, rope, bottled water, and a knife.

  Then he set off, joining the Friday rush-hour traffic heading out of the city center and onto the highway going east.

  As soon as he got onto the road, he called Jack Morgan on his cell phone.

  Jack seemed to travel almost nonstop. When Joey had phoned to break the news of Khosi’s death, Jack had been in Paris, on his way to board a plane to New York. In the few seconds this call took to connect, Joey had time to wonder in which country, and which continent, Private’s owner would be now.

  “Joey.” Jack answered after just one ring, sounding concerned. “You doing okay?”

  “It’s tough at the moment, but I’m coping,” Joey replied. “I’m on my way to a bodyguarding assignment. It’s the first time I’ve done this. I t
hought it would be routine, that it was just a tourist needing some extra security. But the lady sounds scared, and she’s staying in a very dangerous part of the city. I don’t know why she’s there. Don’t know if it’s my job to ask questions.”

  Jack was silent for a moment, and Joey was sure he heard a seagull calling in the background.

  “As a professional, your job is to assess the risks and threats effectively,” Jack said eventually. “Ask all the questions you need to in order to do that, and continually assess your surroundings. Circumstances can change very quickly in those situations, so keep your eyes open.”

  “I will,” Joey promised.

  “And remember, whatever she’s there for, your role as a close-protection officer isn’t to get in her way or try to stop her, it’s to keep her safe while she does it.”

  “Thanks, Jack. Appreciate the help.”

  “All the best with it, and call me if you need anything else.”

  “I will.” Putting his phone down, Joey accelerated through a gap in the traffic, heading to his assignment with a renewed sense of purpose.

  Chapter 6

  “What the hell have I gotten myself into?” Isobel Collins muttered to herself. Frowning through the downpour, she inched her rental car down the road, which was studded with potholes. Hopefully she would spot a house number at some stage. The people living here didn’t seem to be into numbering their homes. Or repairing their crumbling walls, or replacing broken window glass.

  She’d been driving for what felt like hours through torrential rain. She was already feeling seriously out of her depth, and not just because the roads were starting to flood.

  The person sitting next to her on the plane had been a friendly fashion designer who’d raved about Johannesburg’s buzz and energy. He’d told her about the inner city’s upliftment project, the thriving markets, the music scene and the arts and crafts venues. Then he’d written out a list of trendy bars and restaurants that she simply had to visit during her stay.

  But while she’d been waiting at baggage reclaim, she’d spoken to a grim-faced woman heading back to see her elderly parents. She’d been shocked to hear Isobel was traveling alone. She warned her that the country was going to the dogs, crime was out of control in Johannesburg, and that her father had recently been robbed at gunpoint while walking across the road to the grocery store.

  Which one of them to believe?

  On arrival at O.R. Tambo International Airport, she’d been reassured by how modern, pristine, and efficient it was, bustling with a diversity of visitors. However, her confidence had evaporated as she’d left the airport and driven into the bleak outskirts of Johannesburg, with views of heavy machinery and mine dumps dimly visible from the highway. Now, the area where she was heading was far more run-down than she’d expected. The housing ranged from dilapidated dwellings to tin-roofed shacks; the metal rattling and banging in the wind.

  Isobel reached a building with a high precast concrete wall that she assumed to be her lodgings. It was the only place she’d been able to find in the area, and now she could see why travelers’ accommodations were so scarce.

  Fear simmered deep within her and she tried to subdue it by humming to herself as she parked outside, pretending that everything was okay. That she was used to traveling alone in strange countries where violent crime was rife. That she hadn’t made a huge error of judgment in coming here at all, which was confirmed by the fact that she’d not realized she was overnighting in a slum.

  The front door wobbled on its hinges; its battered surface made her think someone had once tried to kick their way in. After she knocked, it was opened by an elderly woman in a gray smock.

  “Power’s out,” the woman muttered. Before Isobel could gather her thoughts, she’d handed her the key, opened her umbrella, and set off down the road.

  “Well, I’ll bring my own bags in,” Isobel shouted after her, angrily brushing water from her short blond hair. Her annoyance at this rudeness did little to budge the coldness that had settled in her stomach. She was completely alone here. Apart from Joey Montague, only one person knew exactly where she was staying—her friend Samantha, back in the States, who had helped her organize this secret mission.

  Once inside, between the crashes of thunder, she heard a persistent tapping sound. She discovered it was water, dripping down onto the tiled floor from a leak in the roof.

  Her smart crimson luggage looked out of place when she set the bags down in the gloomy hallway. She locked the front door before taking them to the bedroom. Closing the bedroom door made the room even darker, but seemed like the safer option, even though it didn’t have a lock.

  The place smelled dusty and disused, and she found her toes reflexively curling as she looked at the narrow single bed, with its dented mattress, gray pillowcase, and threadbare coverlet.

  You are just a spoiled princess who’s forgotten how most of the world lives, she chided herself. Since she’d met her husband five years ago, she’d only traveled in luxury, because Dave was a wealthy man. She’d become used to palatial accommodations, crisp white sheets, five-star service.

  We won’t be able to afford those hotels for much longer, unless I can work out what the hell’s going on here, Isobel told herself.

  She unzipped the compartment of her bag and took out the notebook where she’d written the findings of her investigation. In the very front of it, she’d noted down the coordinates she needed. They were nearby—this was why she’d chosen these lodgings—and she took a deep, shaky breath at the thought that she was finally so close.

  She didn’t need to look in her book, because she’d memorized the coordinates: 26 degrees, 14 minutes, 48 seconds south; 28 degrees, 13 minutes, 18 seconds east.

  She checked the time on her cell phone, and compared it again with the calculations she had made in her notebook. Nervousness clenched her stomach as she realized she’d need to be at this location in two hours. After weeks of waiting, it suddenly seemed like a very tight deadline, and she hoped that Mr. Montague would arrive before she had to leave, because if he didn’t, she had no idea what she’d do.

  You’ll have to go on your own, she thought. Can’t be worse than staying here, can it?

  Well, actually, she wasn’t convinced about that, because she would be venturing into the unknown. The only certainty was the place marked by the coordinates…she had no idea what she would find there.

  “Twenty-six degrees south,” she said out loud, wishing she felt braver.

  And then another crash from outside the bedroom made her jump.

  That wasn’t thunder. It sounded different, and closer…much closer. Isobel eased open the bedroom door and peered out.

  Chapter 7

  The storm had made the Friday afternoon traffic worse. Much worse. From personal experience, Joey knew Johannesburg drivers fell into two categories. Some of them believed a storm meant they should drive at top speed to try and outrun the rain. The others believed they should stop dead in their tracks at the first sign of a storm, and wait the weather out.

  The problems occurred when the two categories of driver collided.

  It took Joey twenty minutes to struggle past numerous bumper-bashings onto the highway, only to discover that an earlier accident had caused a massive tailback. The blare of horns provided a continuous soundtrack to the frustrating conditions.

  Waiting in an immobile queue of cars, Joey tried to call Isobel to reassure her he’d be there soon, but he couldn’t connect to her number. Perhaps she’d turned her phone off, but he thought it was more likely the storm had wiped out cell signals in that area. Whatever the reason, it meant he had no way of getting hold of her at all.

  He forced himself to relax his grip on the wheel, telling himself that worrying was counterproductive. He could only hope that she had also been delayed and wasn’t sitting alone in her lodgings, vulnerable and afraid.

  To help calm himself, he glanced down at the photo on his phone’s screen: a beautiful
young woman with green eyes and dark hair. His fifteen-year-old daughter, Hayley, had inherited his coloring and his height, but he wasn’t sure where she’d gotten her love of storms and thunder. And heavy metal, and anything loud.

  She was his favorite person in the world, and she had just moved to Cape Town with his ex-wife. She’d planned to travel to Jo’burg to do intern work for Private in her school holidays. He’d been looking forward to it. But with everything that had happened recently, and the trouble the business was in, he guessed it would be better for Hayley to stay in Cape Town with her mother.

  The last time he’d seen her, she’d pranked him by setting his phone’s ringtone to Metallica’s “Fade to Black.” He’d kept it, because it reminded him of her. Now, the tune started playing loudly.

  “Montague speaking,” he said.

  “Joey? It’s Paul Du Preez.” He recognized the voice of the pathologist who was doing Khosi’s autopsy.

  “Paul. Is there any news?” he asked, surprised. The mortuaries were so crowded that it usually took weeks to obtain results.

  “No, the autopsy’s scheduled for next Friday. But I drew blood when the body was signed in and sent it for testing.”

  “Is that usual?”

  “You know Khosi was a good friend of mine. Just last week we sat down for a beer together and he didn’t seem depressed.”

  “I didn’t think so, either,” Joey admitted.

  “I did a quick examination when the body came in. There was a spot of blood on his pants and a tiny hole in the fabric.”