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Sweat prickled my forehead and I clutched my purse like it was a lifeline. Believe me, please.
“Ahhh. Lucky man. I can do that yes.”
“Thanks.” I attached another smile to my face.
Five minutes had never taken so long.
When the taxi pulled up, I slid into it as sedately as the queen on an outing, arranged my dress, and waved to the guard. We drove off. Thirty seconds later, I leaned forward. “Do you know where the Australian embassy is?”
“You mean the high commission? Yes, I do.”
He spoke English, and he was right about it not being an embassy. A smart taxi driver. My luck was turning.
“Take me there, please.”
“Sure. Though I don’t think they open this early. It’s way across the city.”
Fuck. “It’ll do.”
I could wait.
And so, I left Pieter, my fellow captive, my rock, and maybe the only love of my life, behind me. But you couldn’t really love a killer, could you? It was just a phase. Had to be.
It was Stockholm syndrome. The realization jarred me. The taxi, the surge of the engine, the bumps as he drove, the smell that said used-by-a-hundred people, it all faded. I was a fool. How had I missed that? Years of journalism under my feet and stories filed about kidnap victims, I knew Stockholm syndrome back to front. I’d missed it.
Why? Because he’d gotten deep under my skin, into me, and so logic made as much difference as a grain of sand in the ocean. Pieter. I’d never forget him.
I cleared my throat of the sudden thickness then sat up straighter, staring out the window and seeing little through my blurred vision.
My life was moving on. My Pulitzer Prize was waiting.
He was back there. I wondered if he would understand.
Chapter 27
The door banged open and I jerked my head off the pillow.
“Get your ass in gear. Your lady friend has escaped.”
I blinked away sleep crud. It was Glass, dressed, grumpy, and as determined as a bloodhound on a trail.
Ma se poes. Escaped? “Where the hell is she going?” I flung back sheets and rolled to my feet. That she’d run from me, rather than trusted me, was the cruelest part of this. And damn if I didn’t want her back. The need had never hit me so hard.
How dare she slip away without talking? I yanked on shorts and a T-shirt.
“Where? The high commission. Hang onto my mobile phone.” He tossed it to me. “Tell me what the guard sends us. Luckily he thought to double-check her story. He’s down as Security two.”
The high commission. Now that was serious shit. If she spoke to anyone there, we were in deep kak. I ran with him to the door that led into the garage. The big outer door was trundling up already. We slid into his jeep and rumbled out onto the road.
Once through the guard’s checkpoint, Glass threw a querying look my way. “News?”
“The guard says he’s talking to the taxi driver via text. The driver’s pulled over and he’s telling her he has a problem from base to sort out.”
“I told him to get the driver to pretend he was going to the high commission. He’ll be going to a different address.” He spun the wheel and headed out along a straight stretch between suburban houses. “You need to be ready.” He glanced across. “I know you like her but this isn’t good and I have an email about who she is too. Read it. Top one in my Gmail account. Her name is...” He stopped at traffic lights. “Jazmine Foulkes, and she’s a journalist. Known for breaking some big stories. My guy did a shallow search for info on the net.”
I’d found the email. She wasn’t a librarian. I sagged back into my seat. “Well, this is just fokken dandy, hey?”
“Surprised?”
