Hardy had made a mistake when he chose this one. She was nothing like his other victims.
As the last rays of the sun dropped away, a montage of the dead women’s faces flickered through his mind, their eyes dim and unseeing, their tongues lolling from between bluish, parted lips. Tension flooded through his body, and the usually soothing ocean waves suddenly seemed menacing and aggressive. The nauseating knot of dread was back in his stomach, bigger and tighter than before.
He had a sudden urge to get back to the house. Immediately.
“Let’s get out of here,” he told Lacey, not bothering to conceal the urgency in his voice. Her expression was questioning, but wisely she said nothing as he pulled her into his side and began hiking back up toward the road.
Everything seemed sinister as they made their way through the gathering dark. The wind-bent palms were arching their backs in agony, the music drifting from the bars was a discordant, jarring cacophony, and the taxi drivers leaning against their vehicles waiting for customers all seemed to watch him with violence in their eyes as he hustled Lacey along the sidewalk.
He practically dragged her up the hill where he’d parked, gave the Congolese car guard a few coins from his pocket and soon the Land Rover’s engine was roaring to life. As Bronnik drove back over the mountain toward Tamboerskloof, she turned to him, her winter-pale face luminous in the fading light.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice impressively calm and steady.
He shook his head. “I can’t explain it. I just have a feeling Hardy is going to make his move any time now—if he hasn’t already.”
She nodded, and seemed to brace herself. “Then we’ll have to take tonight as it comes.”
The smile she gave him was positive and assured, and he took his hand off the gear stick for a moment to reach over and squeeze her thigh just above the knee, her runner’s muscles taut beneath the thin cotton of her dress. Then he focused on the road, on his tactical training and on the night ahead.
He kept his foot light on the gas as they turned into his quiet street, creeping slowly past the rows of silent, dark houses.
“Bronnik,” Lacey said hollowly as they pulled up in front of his driveway. “The door.”
He followed the direction of her gaze and sure enough, the metal gate over the front door was unlatched and ajar. All of his nerves seemed to stand on end in that moment, and he felt for the handheld police radio stored between the two front seats.
He reached the Special Task Force dispatcher and relayed his address. “Alert Thando Zarda and Dassie Jones, and scramble the officers on duty,” he instructed. “Possibility of an operator down, high risk of a hostage situation. Suspect armed and extremely dangerous.”
“Roger that, Sergeant,” the dispatcher replied, and in another second he heard her on the open frequency, sounding the alarm in concise, efficient language.
Bronnik considered his next move. If he was smart, he would stay put and wait for backup—they’d be here in five minutes or less.
On the other hand, if Warren was bleeding out in the house, five minutes could be the difference between life and death. Added to which, the very thought of Hardy gaining entry to his home pumped him full of hot, irrational rage.
If Hardy was in there, he decided, he’d shoot him on sight. Moral high ground be damned—it was time to get his life back and put an end to this absurd, unending game of cat and mouse.
The Land Rover’s engine was still running. He turned to Lacey. “Can you drive a manual transmission?”
At her nod he continued, “You’re going to take my seat, and if you hear or see anything—a light coming on in the house, anyone moving on the street, hell, if you see my neighbor’s cat—I want you to drive out of here as fast as you can, and don’t stop until Thando or I come on this radio and tell you to. Just drive in circles around the beach, or back in the city—this part of Cape Town is perfectly safe, so you shouldn’t have any bother. Is that clear?”
Her eyes were wide, but when she responded her voice was firm. “Clear.”
He put his palm against her cheek, and promised himself it wouldn’t be the last time he touched her. He felt there was something else he should say, something significant, some kind of confession or profound reassurance.
Instead he drew the Beretta and started toward the front door, second-guessing himself the whole way but refusing to look back.
He climbed the stairs, trying to peer into the big windows on the front of the house, but the blinds were down. He approached the open gate quietly, his weapon held at the ready. He pulled the gate open the rest of the way, only barely making out the squeak of the hinges above the blood pounding in his ears.
The wooden front door was shut fully. He drew a breath and held it, then leaned into the doorknob and pushed it open in one swift, decisive motion.
The door swung halfway open before it lodged and stuck on something inside, something soft and heavy. He was just able to wedge himself sideways through the gap, and the first thing he saw in the dark room was the gleam of Warren’s polished boots.
“Dammit,” he whispered hotly, and shoved the rest of the way inside. Warren was slumped on his side, the Glock dangling loosely from his hand.
Bronnik dropped to his knees beside his friend, the Beretta still held aloft as he remained on alert for the slightest sound in the rest of the house. A quick check found Warren’s faint pulse, and he released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. There was no blood, no sign of struggle or any visible wounds, and he filed this unexpected information in his mind for later examination. He pulled Warren into the recovery position and sprang back to his feet, surveying the room and what he could see of the corridor into the kitchen.
There was a bullet wedged in the wall beside the lintel of the front door. It looked about the right caliber for the Glock. Warren must have fired before whatever it was that knocked him out had a chance to work. That was the only sign of confrontation; even the welcome mat was still neatly aligned with the wall.
He crept through the kitchen and swept first the guest bedroom, then the bathroom. There was no one there, and no sign that anyone had been. He had just put his foot on the first step up to the bedroom when he heard tires squealing on the road outside.
Bronnik bolted out of the house and hit the steps just in time to see the taillights of a blue hatchback careening down the street. Adrenaline flooded his veins as he sprinted to the Land Rover. The driver’s side door hung open, the police radio was blaring.
And it was empty.
He vaulted into the driver’s seat roaring a string of curses in Afrikaans. The engine was off but the key was inside. He turned it, and nothing happened. Turned it again, and realized the wires connecting the ignition barrel had been pulled out from behind the steering wheel.
Bronnik punched the dashboard so hard it sent pain radiating up his arm, and then he was on his feet, tearing down the road in the direction he’d seen the car drive away. His heart thudded in his chest as he ran like he’d never run in his life, his crepe-soled boots slipping on the asphalt, the impact of his powerful stride against the unyielding surface of the road juddering up through his muscles, the raw scar across his ribs throbbing in complaint.
As he sprang around the turn onto Kloof Nek Road he spotted the car heading down toward the City Bowl. He paused and raised his gun. A jumble of thoughts lurched through his mind, and he felt like time had come to a complete halt.
He couldn’t shoot the driver—the car would lose control. He could shoot the tires. The car might flip—but it might not. Could he even hit it from here? What if he was wrong? What if he was wrong?
Numbly, as though he were merely a spectator in someone else’s body, he aimed his service weapon and pulled the trigger.
The shot hit the bumper. The car swerved slightly, then accelerated, disappearing down the hill and into the urban crush beyond.
Bronnik’s legs trembled and buckled beneath him, and he f
ound himself on his knees on the sidewalk, not quite sure how he’d gotten there. He felt furious and nauseous and bewildered all at once. He’d made the wrong decision; maybe he’d been making wrong decisions all along. It didn’t matter now—he’d failed. She was gone.
He sat back on his heels and stared down at the gun in his hands as if he’d never seen it before. Distantly he heard the sound of sirens, the rumble of the Task Force’s four-by-fours, shouts for his attention in Afrikaans and English hollered from the open windows of passing vehicles. He didn’t move—he couldn’t move.
Then Thando’s hand was on his shoulder, and his partner was squatting beside him.
Bronnik stared at Thando’s silent, sympathetic expression as he crashed back to the present, and despair washed over him like a heavy, black wave, threatening to drown him.
“He took her,” he managed hoarsely, before the meaning behind the words registered fully in his brain and choked off his ability to speak. He crumpled forward on to the ground, pressing his forehead into the rough pavement.
He breathed slowly, concentrating on air in and air out. He gave himself over to this mix of emotions, the sweeping rush of sorrow and futility. He allowed himself these few pathetic, wallowing moments before forcing himself to push back up to his knees.
The moon was high now, bright and full. He inhaled the fresh summer air.
And then he got angry.
Chapter Fourteen
Lacey came to consciousness slowly and with great difficulty. It felt like she had a tremendous hangover—her head pounded, her throat was dry and sore, and her stomach churned. Her eyes felt gritty when she opened them.
The room came into focus. It was some kind of office reception area, with two big windows at the front, both of which had the shades pulled down to the floor. She blinked, utterly disoriented—what was going on?
There was a faint noise to her left. She twisted her neck, and suddenly a rush of memories zoomed back into her head.
Bronnik disappearing inside the house, and the scary isolation of being alone in the car on an empty street. The movement in the shadows, and her fumbling, chaotic, panicked attempts to engage the clutch. The rush of warm air as the door was opened from the outside, the hand on her ankle as she tried to scramble across the seats, the sharp sting in her thigh, and then the slow dissolve to blackness.
Now Lloyd Hardy was seated in one of the leather-upholstered waiting-room chairs, humming tunelessly and flipping through a magazine. The pace of Lacey’s heartbeat tripled, and as she realized she was in an office chair with her wrists and ankles bound with plastic cord she gulped hard, momentarily quelling the shrieking hysteria that bubbled up in her throat.
Her efforts at silence must have failed in some way, because Hardy looked over and, seeing that she was awake, curled his lips into a disturbing smile.
“Hello, princess.” The cool, serpent-smooth tone of his voice sent a chill dancing across Lacey’s nerves. “How are you feeling?”
Her heart was beating so fast and pumping so much adrenaline through her body, she thought she might faint, or throw up, or both. Her fingers trembled in her lap.
She wished desperately that Bronnik had told her what to do if she was captured—and then just the thought of him had tears welling in her eyes. How would he find her? How could he possibly get her out of this mess?
She forced a slow, rasping breath into her tight lungs. She had to stay calm if she was going to get through this. She had to be smart and strategic.
He would come for her. That thought was her anchor, and she lashed all of her flailing emotions to it.
Since she hadn’t had Bronnik’s interrogation resistance training—the dinner where he’d mentioned that seemed so long ago, the restaurant in Topeka so impossibly far away—and she had zero insight into the appropriate psychological tactics for serial killers, she decided honesty may be her best option, at least until she could figure out something else.
“I’m a little thirsty,” she replied finally, her voice croaking barely above a whisper.
“That’ll be the tranquilizer wearing off,” Hardy informed her matter-of-factly. He rose from the chair and walked across the room to a water cooler stocked with little paper cups. As he moved, she noticed he held his left arm awkwardly, presumably from the gunshot wound a few days earlier.
He came back with the cup and held it to her mouth. Lacey found the man’s proximity at once repulsive and slightly humiliating, but her throat was burning, so she allowed him to tip the water between her lips. When she finished he resumed his place in the chair and looked at her expectantly.
She could only think of one statement he might be waiting for, and it was ludicrous. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied cordially. He sat back and balanced one ankle on the opposite knee. “I suppose you’re wondering about tonight’s agenda.”
She bit back several sarcastic responses, figuring it wouldn’t pay to be facetious. She settled for a nod.
“Tonight”—he smiled, revealing a row of small, square white teeth—“we’re going to make your boyfriend very unhappy.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily call him my boyfriend,” she replied frankly. She wouldn’t—would she?
Hardy raised a skeptical brow. “He brought you halfway around the world. He kept you at his house. He ran after the car like a maniac when I took you.”
Her heart soared with hope at this last piece of information, but she kept her face carefully neutral. “I don’t know how he feels—he hasn’t told me. Anyway, does it really matter? He wasn’t involved with any of the other women you killed, as far as I know.”
Hardy’s smile was broad. “I’m almost sorry that it’s you, Lacey Cross. You have so much more spirit than the others. I might have even let you go after the last time, if you’d been smart enough to leave well enough alone.” His face suddenly darkened and twisted, and his voice became a hiss. “But no, you went straight into his arms. Right there on the floor, right in front of me. He was all over you. It was disgusting.”
He leapt up from the chair and began pacing the room. “That stupid farm boy, swooping in thinking he’s some kind of hero, strutting around with his fancy toys,” he muttered, seemingly half to himself. He spun to face her, his eyes practically glowing with venom and hatred. “He hasn’t done much of a job saving you, though, has he? He’d be full of holes if you hadn’t picked up the moron’s gun.”
He cackled, apparently delighted by the memory of the tussle in Dr. Woodward’s office. She kept quiet, although a clammy chill had settled over her skin, and she was shivering involuntarily.
“It was a mistake,” he spluttered, his forefinger stabbing the air in front of him. “The first one was a simple mistake, and if those arrogant freaks in the homicide unit hadn’t labeled it a murder in their petty report, none of us would be here. They’d still be chasing petty thieves and carjackers, and I’d buying cocktails in Mauritius with fake bills. And then, to send that meathead Mason and his Task Force cronies charging after me? The police are practically begging me to kill you.” He threw up his hands in frustration.
Lacey must have frowned, because in the next instant Hardy was on his knees in front of her. “She just made me so angry,” he said pleadingly, his palms pressed together. “She humiliated me, and she had to suffer. But I realized straightaway that what I’d done was wrong, and if the police had just been willing to listen, to hear me out…”
His voice trailed off as he gazed down at the carpet. She swallowed hard. The full extent of Hardy’s insanity was becoming clear, and it was terrifying. There was no telling what he would do from one minute to the next. She closed her eyes for the briefest of seconds and said a silent prayer that Bronnik was already on his way.
“Anyway,” Hardy said, collecting himself as he stood up and brushed off the knees of his khaki pants. His uncanny smile was back. “I suppose you think that big, dumb blondie is going to save you.”
“I don’
t know what’s going to happen,” she replied with absolute honesty. Hardy reached out and stroked her cheek with his finger, and it took every shred of her will not to recoil at his touch.
“Let’s give him a call, shall we?” Hardy lounged against the reception desk at her right and took a phone from his pocket. He dialed a number and pressed a button to put it on speaker. The tinny ring on the other end echoed in the empty room.
“Hello, Lloyd,” Bronnik’s voice rang out from the speaker. Just the sound of it made Lacey want to sob and scream for him to save her, and she worked hard to keep as still and silent as possible. She knew it wouldn’t be wise to agitate Hardy any more than he seemed capable of doing all on his own.
“Evening, Sergeant. How are you?”
“To be honest, I’m a bit upset.”
Hardy caught her eye and smirked.
“You vandalized my car,” he continued, and Hardy’s attention snapped back to the phone. “The wiring in the steering shaft is a complete mess now. That vehicle is a lovingly restored 1995 Land Rover Defender. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find replacement parts for a car like that?”
Hardy’s face was knotting in irritation. She hoped desperately that Bronnik knew what he was doing. “I’m sure you can have it reimbursed as a professional expense,” Hardy shot back impatiently. “Now perhaps we can address the matter at hand?”
“Yes, I suppose we can. What did you call to tell me?”
“I have your woman,” Hardy jeered proudly. “And if I’m feeling charitable, I might tell you where we are. Not that that’s likely to do you any good, though, when all is said and done.”
“I want to speak to her.” Bronnik’s words were clipped and firm, and any trace of humor was wiped out.
Hardy’s lips quirked. He was enjoying this. He wanted Bronnik to make demands, and he wanted to be in control of whether or not they were met.
“I’m not sure that’s part of the bargain.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I have some assurance that she’s all right.”
Secure Target 1 Page 16
