Private Gold

Chapter 14

It was unusual for Steyn to be frustrated. But now, he felt his control slipping away. Standing in the mud and staring at the SUV’s receding brake lights, he clenched his fists as pure, killing rage overwhelmed him.

She’d escaped again. Who had picked her up? Her bodyguard had been canceled — he had made sure of that. But someone had rescued her, and random knights in shining armor were in short supply around here. So she must have booked somebody else. With this man’s help, she had outwitted him.

Breathing hard, he stared into the rain until the SUV disappeared from view. He was soaking wet. His beanie was drenched. He ripped it off and shook out his brown hair, cut into a neat and unremarkable style.

His nails dug into his palms as he imagined the woman — overpowered at last, perhaps injured, but not yet dead. She’d bested him, and that was unforgivable. It was seldom Steyn had the opportunity to exact a slow revenge. But now he promised her silently: When I find you — not if, when — I will not give you the mercy of a quick death.

It had been a long time since he’d been able to have his own way with a victim. In jobs, the clients’ needs came first, and a faster killing was less risky. He’d had the opportunity last year, a happy accident of timing, and he could remember every moment. The victim had lasted for thirteen hours and eight minutes before he’d died. As Steyn had listened to his screams hoarsen and fade, and watched the man’s struggles slowly weaken under his ministrations, Steyn had felt something inside him slowly release, unfolding into warmth. He very seldom had feelings of joy. Anger, occasionally. Fear, never. His only fear was being confined. He wasn’t sure why, but suspected it was to do with his early childhood, of which he had only vague memories and occasional nightmares.

Now, remembering that rare surge of pleasure, he managed to calm himself again. There would be time. Later, he promised himself, there would be time. If not for the woman, then for the man. He might not know now who Isobel’s rescuer was, but Steyn could easily find out. He had a wide network of connections in government departments. Information was a currency, one he traded in frequently. He occasionally paid bribes, but preferred to offer a monthly retainer to key people in exchange for their services.

And for now, his thoughts were clear again, logic slicing cleanly through the emotion and allowing him to formulate a new plan. There could be only one place where his target, and her mysterious Good Samaritan, were headed. After all, it was where he expected her to go. They were taking the back route, a slow, tortuous journey through mired dirt roads. Steyn could take the highway; a longer drive, but so much faster. In fact, it would leave him time for an important detour along the way.

“I’m coming for you,” he murmured.

Then he climbed into the BMW and carefully backed it off the muddy verge. Speed was not his friend here... the tires needed time to bite and grip. A minute later, and he was safely back on the road.

Soon afterward, he was back at Isobel’s rental house. His mouth twisted in amusement as he walked inside. What she must have thought, arriving here... a spoiled, wealthy housewife. He doubted she’d dreamed she would find herself in such a place. There was her luggage in the bedroom: a beautiful set of Louis Vuitton bags. It was ideal for his purposes. He would need it when he created the scenario surrounding her death.

One of the bags was unzipped, and a small notebook filled with neat handwriting lay on top of the folded clothes. Steyn removed it before closing the bag, and slipped it into his jacket pocket, in case it contained anything useful.

Picking up the bags, Steyn mused over the challenge of making the woman’s death slow, rather than swift. It might be best to plant the bags and the car somewhere and have her simply vanish. A missing person. Perhaps he could drop some clues surrounding her disappearance — a few key items removed from the suitcases, to hint at the fact that she might have purposely disappeared. The police wouldn’t look as hard if they suspected she was a runaway.

Once he’d had his pleasure with her, he would dump her body. He had the ideal location in mind already: a large piece of open ground in Johannesburg’s sought-after northern suburbs. It had recently been bought for development but, as yet, the property was unsecured. A sewer line ran through it. Built in the early 1900s, it was still in use today. The brick-and-mortar tunnel was high and wide enough to easily accommodate a body, and Steyn had recently read an article stating that the manhole covers in that area were continually being stolen for their scrap-metal value.

Johannesburg’s sewer system was under enormous pressure as a result of the city’s recent growth. Blockages — if they occurred — were often left unattended for weeks or months. If Isobel’s body was ever discovered, it would be thoroughly rotted and completely unrecognizable. Nothing would ever link those corrupted remains back to Steyn.

Mulling over his plan, he walked back to the hallway, but when he reached the front door, it was snatched open from the outside before he could touch the handle.

Steyn found himself staring at an overweight, angry-looking stranger. Shaven-headed, he wore a black vest that showed the tattoos on his neck and chest, and the bulky muscles of his arms and shoulders.

“What’s going on?” the large man demanded. “I live down the road. I heard shooting and a woman’s screams coming from this house awhile ago. Where’s the lady? Were you fighting?”

Looking at the stranger’s hands, Steyn saw he was carrying a Taser in his right hand and a large knife in his left.