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To Fear The Dawn

By Sean Young

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To Fear the Dawn



Manantau Scofield dived through the open door in a military-style roll. He crouched, pressing his back against the rough concrete wall, and pointed his nine-millimetre Beretta into the darkness. Silence. He glanced from left to right, searching for any sign of life. Nothing. It was like staring into a void.
The door should not have been open. Where was everyone? Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the empty hallway for a moment before plunging it back into darkness. One, two… The thunder was explosive. Scofield moved with the crash, using it to mask any sound he might make. He shot through the archway into the lounge and dropped to his knees.
His heart pounded in his chest. Adrenaline electrified his senses. He listened. Still no sound. Torrential rain battered against the roof and windows, but inside the home an eerie stillness hung. With no light to speak of, vision was useless. He concentrated all his nervous energy in his ears.
Nearly two minutes passed. But for the drumming rain outside, the mansion remained shrouded in ghostly silence. A second flash of lightning cracked the sky, illuminating the room for an instant. Three lifeless faces stared back at him from the opposite end of the room. Scofield’s stomach knotted. It was a scene from a horror movie. The heads were tilted at unsightly angles and their expressions were hideous masks of terror. The lightning vanished, engulfing the room in darkness once more. One second, two seconds. The thunder exploded outside and, again, Scofield rolled under its cover. Never remain in your last position.
Dead! The grotesque picture of his superior’s corpse was etched in his mind like a surreal sculpture. Garrick Slater had been murdered. And everyone else at the Johannesburg cell. How was it possible? Did the Hypatia conglomerate’s tentacles already stretch this far?
Scofield shook his head as if to clear it. The thought was too terrifying to accept. If they had infiltrated Interpol’s most clandestine operations then there was nothing they were no longer capable of. They were truly unstoppable. Nobody knew the whereabouts of the cells. Each one operated autonomously. How in Hades had they traced this cell? Had Cape Town been taken out too?
Lightning flashed again. Scofield scanned the room, taking in as much information as he could in the brief flicker. Slater and the two others had been shot in their seats at the opposite end of the room. Their bodies leaned at impossible angles and trickles of blood cut across their faces like stained-glass windows in some hellish church. A fourth body lay face down on the floor to his right. The multiple-murder had the organisation’s unmistakable signature written all over it. Only the Sons of Molech could have pulled this off.
Scofield sighed and stood up. The need for silence had long since passed. He moved across to Garrick Slater and felt the man’s wrist. It was an action born of habit. There was no pulse. Hardly surprising. The freakish stare told him all he needed to know. Something bothered him, though. He frowned and shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the thought.
The body was cold. What was it? Another flash. Scofield’s gaze flicked towards the dining room. Footprints! The carpet was covered with mud. It had only started raining ten minutes before. And these men had been killed hours ago. He dropped to his knees and scrambled for cover behind the blood-soaked sofa, his heart racing.
He clenched his teeth and waited. An eon passed. Why had the killer not fled the scene? Or had he? Scofield strained his ears in the darkness for any sign of the assassin’s presence. He had to be there. Nothing. Perhaps he was upstairs, or outside.
Scofield allowed the minutes to stretch by. Still no sound. Yet, he waited, delaying the moment, straining any predator’s patience to breaking point. All the while, he listened – for a breath, a light scrape or rustle of clothing as someone changed position. Nothing. Finally convinced that no danger lurked, he moved under the cover of darkness. Staying low, he edged forward on his knees using his left hand for balance. His right hand held the gun erect, ready to fire.
Halfway across the floor, glass crunched under his knee. He felt the sting as the shard sliced his patella. Almost simultaneously, there was a slight cough from the dining room and two slugs smashed into his chest.
The bullets ripped through his torso like flaming meteors. Recoiling from the force, he rolled to his right and smashed into a vase against the wall. This time he saw the flashes and returned fire in mid-roll.
Scofield reached the safety of a chair and used it for cover. He forced his breathing to slow in an effort to control the inferno in his chest and, once again, listened for the shooter. The man was a wraith. It was as if he’d never been there. Escape. Scofield couldn’t afford to tangle with the assassin. He had to warn the other cells. And he had to get his information to Cape Town – or London. It was plain that the Johannesburg cell had been obliterated. Hypatia had their number. The others had to know what had happened.
Quietly as he could, he headed back to the hallway, using the chair for cover. The killer came through the archway in a shadowy blur. Scofield fired off a small burst of rounds, tracking the man’s trajectory. Sparks flashed where they ricocheted off the walls. The man’s silenced weapon coughed twice more and Scofield felt the sharp thud as another bullet tore into his left shoulder.
Move now. If the intruder got to his feet, he was as good as dead. He dived for the coffee table and upturned it, using it for cover. He smashed it into the chair behind which the intruder had landed and shoved in an attempt to crush his attacker.
The intruder slipped from behind the chair like a cat and sprang around the table. A gun-barrel glinted in the darkness. Scofield lashed out with his foot. The weapon spun from the killer’s hand. It flew across the room and clattered against the wall. The man came at him with the savagery of a serpent.
Scofield lashed out at the man’s groin and clawed for his eyes with his fingers, but the assassin was too quick. Fortunately, he was now between the killer and his gun. He pushed the man back and levelled his own weapon.
The killer unleashed a blitzkrieg. Scofield fired blindly, but couldn’t tell where the next striking limb would come from. The man ripped the gun from his hand and Scofield felt his finger snap under the trigger guard.
He lashed out at the assassin’s knee in desperation and the man went down. Scofield spun away, diving through the wood-paned window. Glass and wood shattered under his weight. The deafening roar of his own gun erupted behind him and a shower of bullets ricocheted off the floor. Run.
He raced for his car. Why had he parked all the way around the back? A bullet rebounded off the wall as he turned the corner. He ducked and rushed for his vehicle. Scofield struggled with the key in the ignition. The engine turned for a moment, then sputtered and died. On his second attempt, it roared to life.
He spun the vehicle around, heading for the main gate. The assassin rounded the corner as he approached it. Lightning flashed across the sky in a cruel fork. It illuminated the killer’s freckled, boyish features for an instant. A quick twist of the wheel. He aimed the vehicle at his assailant. The man dived for cover, but Scofield’s windshield shattered in two places. The bullets lodged in the passenger seat.
He veered to his right and careened down the tree-lined driveway. Rain splattered against his window as the vehicle gathered speed, obscuring his vision. Scofield fumbled for the wipers but failed to find them in the darkness. No time! He drove blind until the gates loomed out of the darkness ahead of him. Bullets smashed though the rear window just as he reached the corner. There was a shriek of tyres as the car slid out of control. Manantau Scofield struggled with the wheel. A burst of searing pain rocketed through his injured shoulder down his arm and across into his chest. He gasped and blinked in an effort to force back the blackness that began to encroach on his vision. With Herculean effort, he clenched his teeth and ignored the agony, holding the vehicle through the turn.
The vehicle’s tail spun out when he reached the road and he geared down to gain traction. Then he gunned the motor. Free at last he raced down the street. He spun round the first corner to avoid any more shots. After two blocks, he turned again in case the killer had continued the chase on foot. Headlights glared out of the darkness ahead of him. He raised a hand to shield his eyes. That was when he felt the final bullet. It struck him at the base of the neck.
Manantau Scofield groaned in agony. In his rear-view mirror, he saw the vehicle already making its turn. He twisted the wheel, turning left, then right. Another left found him on a narrow dirt road. He switched off his lights and pushed on in the darkness until he spotted a fallen tree. In a flash, he swung off the road. His ancient Beetle bounced across a ditch that flanked the narrow track. He twisted the wheel back and slid in behind the tree.
He waited for more than twenty minutes. His pursuers never appeared. What now? Cape Town was out of the question. He could already feel the effects of his injuries. He didn't have much time left. Scofield grimaced at the realisation. He’d never see another sunrise. That was what he'd miss the most. Sunrise was the most beautiful time of day. Especially in Africa.
His fist clenched on the wheel. The information had to be saved. And he could think of only one man he could pass it on to. It was a long shot, but he was out of options. He sighed in resignation and struggled to reach his mobile phone.

**********

“Gallagher, is that you?” The voice on the other end of the line hissed like a dying serpent.
Nicholas tensed, suppressing the urge to pull the phone away from his ear. “Who is this?”
“Willow. We need to meet. Be at Tuxedoes, Rivonia in fifteen minutes.” The man sounded as if he’d run a marathon, and the silence that ensued was broken with laboured gasps for air.
Nicholas felt his stomach knot. Of all the bad timing! I don’t need this. He took a breath before replying. “Now’s not a good time. Can we make it tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow will be too late. It has to be now. There are things —” the words choked off and ended in a retching cough. Several seconds lapsed before the man resumed. “There are things I need to tell you.”
Nicholas shook his head. His lips curled in a sardonic smile. “Willow, it’s eleven o’clock. I’ve had a lousy day, and my wife’s expecting me home in half an hour.”
“I have information about the Pentagon deal you just lost. No charge this time.”
Nicholas jolted at reference to his lunchtime meeting. Annoyance immediately turned to intrigue. How could Willow know about that already! And for free. Information about the Pentagon deal would be worth a fortune. No. It went deeper than that. Willow sounded terrified. Nicholas chewed his bottom lip as he came to a decision. “Okay, I’ll be there. This had better be good.”
More heavy breathing. The man sounded like an overworked rasp. “Make sure nobody follows you. They’re probably watching you as we speak.”
Nicholas glanced out of his office window. A fork of lightning arced across the shrouded sky. Ridiculous. Nobody could reach you here. On an impulse, he pressed a button on the remote. The blinds closed across the windows. Why did Willow always make him so jumpy? “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”
He replaced the telephone on the receiver and rose from his teak desk. He had a sudden involuntary shiver. The room had become rather chilly. Cursed air-conditioning. After donning his jacket, he reached for the phone again.
“Hello?”
“Hey, beautiful,” Nicholas smiled at the sound of the voice on the other end of the line.
The tone brightened. “Hi, darling. How’s it going?”
After nearly five years of marriage, the sound of Jessica’s British public-school accent still enthralled him. “Don’t even ask.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Well – we lost the Pentagon contract, for a start.” Nicholas clenched his teeth. Simply verbalising the defeat rekindled his contempt for the slimy American bureaucrat who had cost him the deal.
There was a pause. “How much?”
“Three and a half billion.”
“U.S.?”
“Uh-huh.”
Another pause. “How much was he asking for?”
“A hundred thousand US.”
“Was Peter with you?”
“Naturally.”
“And what did he say?”
Nicholas shook his head and smiled. “You know Peter. He reckoned I should slip the money under the table and be done with it.”
“Well, I guess we won’t starve. There’ll be other contracts.”
“I guess.” Nicholas grimaced. “Then I got a call a few minutes ago – from Willow – just as I was wrapping up.”
The silence settled like frost over their conversation. “And what did he want?” she finally replied.
“I have to meet with him right away. He says he has information I might be interested in.”
“You’re going to meet him now?”
Here it comes. Nicholas held his breath and tightened his grip on the telephone. Her sudden rise in pitch and sharp tones spoke of a coming lecture. Try to keep it short. “I’m afraid so. I thought I’d better call and let you know I’ll be home late.”
“I don’t like him, Nicholas. He’s mixed up in something and it’s dangerous.”
“This could save the Pentagon deal. I can’t pass it up. I won’t be long, I promise.”
She sighed. “Okay. I’ll wait up.”
Her tone was sulky, but the lecture was over. Nicholas smiled. “How’s Jared?”
“He’s fine. The phone woke him. He's jumping up and down, to speak to you.”
Nicholas chuckled. “Let me talk to him.”
A rustle. “Hello?”
“Hey, big guy. How're you doing?”
“Fine.”
Nicholas smiled. The telephone was a new toy for Jared. It made conversation painfully reserved. “And what did you do at nursery school today?”
“I drew a picture.”
“A picture! Of what?”
Suddenly Jared became animated. “I drew a picture of our jet at the airport. And you and me and mommy were there. And Hughes, the pilot. And it was flying to Disney World!”
“Disney World! Is that where you want to go?”
“Mommy hung it on the fridge.”
“That's great. When can I see it?”
“Daddy? When you coming home?”
“Soon, big guy. And then I'll look at your jet, okay? Will you call Mommy again for me?”
Another rustle, then Jessica came back on the line. “Come home soon. He's been on at me all evening.”
“Just as soon as I'm done with Willow. I promise.”
“Um – Nicholas. I hate to spoil your day further, but I got a call from Father McCain’s office today. They said it was urgent.”
Nicholas winced. “What is it this time? An orphanage – an old age home?”
“That’s not fair, Nicholas.”
He sighed, accepting the light rebuke. The priest seldom asked for money and when he did, it was always for a good cause. The incessant calls that came in waves two to three times a year were for something far more excruciating than financial assistance.
“He invited us to a service again, didn’t he?”
“They didn’t say. It was a new guy that called. He just asked if you could phone back.”
“They’ve been calling all week, leaving messages. I guess I’ll have to get back to him some time.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just give in and go?”
“It wouldn’t help. A visit would only encourage him.”
She chuckled. “Well, I’ve done my duty. You’ve got the message, so I can sleep with a clear conscience.”
Nicholas laughed too. “Let me get this meeting over with and come home. I’ll see you in an hour – two at the most.”
“Till then. Love you.”
“Kiss Jared for me.” Nicholas replaced the telephone on the receiver and quickly shut down his computer. He made his way to the elevator, passing several offices en route. Only one was still occupied. Nicholas stuck his head through the open door.
“Cheers, Peter. I’m off. Don’t stay here all night.”
Peter Solzsenheim raised his hand in a half-hearted wave, but didn’t look up from his monitor. Nicholas nodded. The man was clearly still upset about the luncheon fiasco. One hundred thousand lousy dollars. It was chicken feed. All he’d needed to do was slip the leather brief case under the table and the contract would have been theirs. But he’d baulked. Peter would never understand. Nicholas wasn’t sure he understood it himself. Lawrence would have approved. That was the only consolation. He owed it to his friend – or to his memory, at least.
Leaving Peter to stew, he headed for the elevator and down to the basement. It was practically deserted at this hour of the night. His footsteps echoed off the whitewashed walls.
Nicholas shivered. He couldn’t help the furtive glance over his shoulder as, once again, his thoughts turned to his conversation with Willow. They’re probably watching you as we speak. Who were they? In two years, Willow had never revealed that secret.
The silver Maserati GranTurismo gleamed under the basement's harsh fluorescent lights. It was parked a good thirty metres away. Nicholas glanced over his shoulder a second time and cursed the fact that he hadn’t found a parking bay closer to the elevator.
Just relax. Nobody could get past security without a valid card. But this knowledge failed to slow his heart rate or stop the thin film of perspiration that formed on his forehead. Why did he tolerate Willow’s nonsense? Like Jessica said, the man was obviously involved with dangerous people. On the other hand, his information was always accurate and, in the world of international finance and technology deals, information was everything.
He reached the vehicle and sighed as the engine roared to life. Two levels up, he waved at the security guard. The man saluted and lifted the boom. Nicholas glanced at his rear-view mirror as he sped away. There was only one other vehicle in the street. A dark sedan with square headlights – that was all he could make out.
Make sure nobody follows you. He kept an eye on it until he reached the on-ramp. Was he being followed? Absurd. Any vehicle leaving Computer Park at this hour would be headed for the freeway. It was the quickest route home, no matter where you were going. Nicholas tried to keep his eye on the vehicle, but lost track of it in the traffic behind him.
Probably nothing. He turned north, heading for Rivonia. The ten-minute drive gave him a chance to clear his mind. He took the off-ramp and headed into the heart of Rivonia’s nightlife district. Even in the middle of a Highveld thunderstorm, the pavements danced with chic clubs and trendy sidewalk cafés. Nicholas slowed down, giving way to a group of people crossing the street. Women in their early twenties. They wore a variety of fashionable denims and short tops that revealed sculpted waistlines. Still not a patch on Jessica.
Finally, the giant structure with a pink neon sign bearing the name Tuxedoes came into view. An air of seedy elegance oozed from the building.
The high-priced, luxury vehicles lining the parking lot should have looked out of place against the garish neon backdrop above the door. Instead, they only served to complete the picture. He grimaced and hunted for an empty space. Willow was usually more selective when choosing a rendezvous.
A scruffy-looking parking attendant rushed to point out one of the few spaces remaining. Nicholas swerved to avoid running over the man. Parking attendant – a flattering title for what amounted to a beggar. It had become almost impossible to go anywhere in Johannesburg without being accosted by someone expecting a buck to ‘keep an eye on your car’.
The man beamed and pointed first at his own eye and then at Nicholas’ vehicle. Nicholas gave the traditional thumbs up sign to the eager ruffian and headed for the main entrance.
The interior was garish and artificial, with midnight blue carpeting and mini spotlights lining the walls and ceilings. That, coupled with the disco lights on the stage, gave it the appearance of a casino.
Nicholas groaned inwardly as his eyes acclimatised to the dim light. The reception room’s south wall was a series of mirrored panels that reflected the glitzy lighting of the main hall. As he entered, one of the panels swung open. A tall man emerged from the room beyond. He was dressed in a well-tailored navy suit and had a neatly trimmed moustache and haircut to match. Expensive jewellery gleamed in the artificial light and his polished Caterpillars shone like ebony.
“Mr Gallagher! It’s an honour to have you in our club.” The man spoke with only the slightest trace of an Afrikaans accent and acted as if Nicholas was a regular customer. He held Nicholas’ gaze just a little longer than necessary as he shook hands.
Nicholas shuffled in discomfort. This was the price of being a member of South Africa’s social elite. With his face constantly in the newspapers and on television, it was difficult to go anywhere without being recognised. “Good evening, ah –”
“Danille.” The manager reached out, taking Nicholas by the arm. “Have you booked a private lounge, or are you meeting a party?”
“Meeting someone. He would probably have booked in the name of Willow.”
The man winced. “Sorry to tell you we’ve had no calls from Mr Willow this week. Are you sure he booked?”
Nicholas shrugged. “Perhaps he didn’t. It was a last minute sort of arrangement. I can wait at the bar.”
“Mr Gallagher, I wouldn’t hear of it!” the man exclaimed with a wave. “If you’re not going to be very long, I can squeeze you in near the stage. It’s a private lounge – booked by a partner in one of Johannesburg’s eminent legal firms, and he never arrives on time.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, the man led Nicholas into the main hall. The room was littered with high steel tables. Groups of rotund men in creased, collared shirts milled about. Most of the patrons had removed their jackets and some had already lost their ties.
Several bars, lined with an army of waiters, flanked the gigantic hall. Nicholas watched in mild amusement as the waiters bustled between the bars and tables carrying a flamboyant array of cocktails and shooters.
“Here we are.” The manager ushered him into a small lounge near the edge of the stage. “The seating’s more comfortable, although your angle to the stage isn’t great.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Nicholas dismissed the man’s concerns with a wave. Like I care. The performances were supposed to be extremely artistic and, according to the country’s most respected critics, made all sorts of deep political and social statements, but when you got right down to it they were little more than an upmarket strip tease.
It was an ideal meeting place for Willow as the hall was dark and the blaring music that accompanied the incessant parade of performers would drown out all conversation from unwanted eavesdroppers.
The manager seated Nicholas in one of the comfortable armchairs, fussing over him like a concerned grandmother. “I’ll send a waitress and have the reception staff look out for Mr Willow.”
The waitress arrived in less than sixty seconds. She was pert, with shoulder length, blonde hair. “Anything to drink, sir?”
“Nothing yet, thank you. I’ll wait until my appointment arrives.”
It was another ten minutes before Willow appeared. Nicholas caught sight of him long before he reached the lounge. The man’s gait seemed rigid and he fixed Nicholas with a granite stare. He’d wrapped a giant trench coat tightly around his body.
Nicholas frowned. It struck him as odd that Willow would dress so warmly in the stuffy atmosphere of Tuxedoes.
Willow stepped into the lounge and slumped down in the armchair opposite Nicholas. He nodded in greeting, but said nothing. Instead, he slid a piece of paper across the table between them.
“What’s this?” Nicholas asked, reaching for the crumpled sheet. He frowned as he read the note. It contained a name – Bancroft & Mellencamp – and a clearance code of some sort. He recognised the name. It belonged to a well-known attorneys’ firm. In fact, they did a lot of work for one of his company’s subsidiaries.
And the code – a file reference, maybe? He frowned. At the bottom of the sheet were the words Clifton – Partner. The large, shaky letters looked like they’d been written by a child.
Willow leaned back in his chair, gasping for breath. His face was drenched in sweat and his movements seemed feeble as he struggled to loosen the buttons on his coat.
“Are you alright?” As he asked the question, Nicholas noticed a dark stain on the white shirt beneath the trench coat. It was the colour of a mature red wine. His breath choked in his throat and he stared in horror at the crimson tide spreading across the man’s shirt.
Before he could say anything, the waitress returned. “Would you like me to take your order now, sir?” She addressed Nicholas first. Then her eyes wandered towards Willow.
Nicholas panicked. “Johnny Walker on the rocks,” he cut in quickly, “a double. And my friend will have a Castle Light.” He reached into his jacket pocket and whipped out his wallet, offering the woman a large denomination note. He was desperate to draw her attention away from Willow’s injuries.
“Right away, sir,” the waitress smiled.
Relief. “Quickly please. I have another appointment in half an hour. The change is yours.”
The woman practically rocketed from the room, clutching the note in her right hand. Nicholas held his breath. As soon as she’d left the lounge, he rounded on Willow.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “You should be in hospital.”
“No time,” Willow croaked. “It’s too late for that now, anyway.”
“Who did this to you?”
“I’m sorry, Nicholas. I couldn’t tell you before.” The man paused. Even those few words had worn him out. His breath came in short, painful gasps.
“Look, Willow. I —”
“My name’s not Willow. It’s Manantau Scofield.”
Scofield? “Are you involved in something illegal?”
Willow grimaced in what sounded like a chuckle, but could have been a cough. “There’s no time. Everything you need to know is in that document.”
“This document?” Nicholas waved the small piece of paper in confusion.
Willow’s breath rasped in Nicholas’ ears. He made a mammoth effort to speak. “Go to the attorneys. They’ll give you what you’re looking for.”
Nicholas rose from his seat and stepped towards the door. “Look. I don’t know what you’re involved in, but we’re through. Understand? Don’t ever try to contact me again.”
Willow leaned forward, grasping Nicholas by the arm. Nicholas tried to shake him off, but even in his weakened state, the man’s strength was astounding. Willow’s grip felt like a vice.
“Sit down,” he hissed. “I’m with Interpol. The people we’re after – they’re powerful men. And they’ve marked you. Don’t ask me why. My unit was taken out earlier this evening. Go to the lawyers. Get the information. It’s the only thing that will save you now.”
“Why me? Why not give it to someone else?”
“Haven’t you been listening? There’s no one else left.” The man’s gaze bordered on lunacy. He released Nicholas’ arm and slumped back into the armchair.
“What am I supposed to do with this? I’m not an investigator. I don’t even know who you are!”
Willow panted for breath. “Contacts – for Cape Town – London. All in the documents. Reach the other cells. They’ll help you.”
Before Nicholas could reply, the waitress returned with the drinks. Nicholas shot from his seat and stepped between her and Willow. “Thank you.” He forced a smile as she placed the glasses on the table. He waited until the woman had left, then turned to Willow again.
“Who are these people? Who are you investigating?”
Willow made no reply. He wore an expression of slight amusement, but the vacant stare was unmistakable.
Nicholas felt like he’d just been punched in the solar plexus. Should he call for help? Useless. Willow was beyond helping. It suddenly dawned on him that he might even be implicated in this man’s death. Willow – Scofield – was an unknown entity.
He stared at Willow’s corpse. It all felt so unreal. He needed to call the police – and he needed his lawyer. Exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed him. What a day. All he wanted was to go home. The rest could be sorted out in the morning. Call the police. Give them your details and tell them to call you tomorrow.
He decided to head for reception. As he turned, he spotted the fallen note. Picking it up, he noticed the words scrawled in large pencil letters on the back. AVOID POLICE!
Nicholas shook his head. Ridiculous. He felt like he’d been dragged down some twisted rabbit hole into a macabre fantasy world. Who lives like this! He needed to get outside where the air was clear.
No! Nicholas sank back into his chair. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and collect his thoughts. A man is dead. First notify management. They would call the police. But what about the note? Nicholas chewed his lip, considering the problem. Irrelevant. Regardless of Willow’s paranoia, the police had to be notified. They’d sort it all out.
He glanced across at the waitress. It took a few moments before she made eye contact. The moment she did, he raised his hand to get her attention.
The woman was there in a flash. “Can I help you, sir?”
Nicholas sighed. “I’m afraid there’s a bit of a situation here. Can you call the manager for me, please?”
The woman shuffled from one foot to the other. Her concern was obvious. “Is there something I can do for you? If there’s a problem, I’d be happy to sort it out.”
Nicholas waved a hand. “It’s nothing you’ve done. I just need to talk to Danille. Call him for me, please. It’s rather urgent.”
The woman hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Danille arrived within minutes.
He beamed at Nicholas as he entered the booth. “Is there a problem, Mr Gallagher?”
Nicholas swallowed. His throat felt parched. “I didn’t want to upset your waitress.” He pointed at Willow as he spoke.
“Wha —!” The manager’s face went pale.
Nicholas shrugged and shook his head. “He didn’t look well when he arrived, but it was only when he unbuttoned his jacket that I saw what had happened.”
Danille stared at Willow’s corpse in bewilderment, but said nothing. Nicholas stepped forward and took the man by the arm. “We need to call the police. Can you do that for me? I’ll wait until they get here.”
The man nodded dumbly. He stared at Willow for a moment longer before coming to his senses. “Er – I’ll call them immediately.”
The man quickly headed for his office. Nicholas reached for his drink. His hand shook slightly as he lifted it to his lips. He took a large gulp of the whiskey and sank back into his seat. All he could do now was wait for the police to arrive. They’d sort it all out when they got there.

**********

“Mr Gallagher?” Nicholas looked up. Two men stood at the entrance to the booth.
“Yes?” He eyed the men.
The one on the left smiled. “I’m Detective Kleynhans and this is Detective Henderson. You reported a murder?”
Nicholas glanced at his watch. He was stunned. Barely two minutes had passed since he’d alerted Danille. “You guys didn’t waste any time.”
The man nodded. It was as if he’d anticipated the question. “Actually, we were right outside. The truth is, we’ve been following this man for some time.”
Nicholas nodded. It made sense. Scofield had to have been involved in something shady with the type of information he had access to.
The second detective stepped forward. “Look, there’s no need to keep you here any longer than necessary. I’m sure you’d feel a lot better talking to us at home than here. Our officers will take care of this.” He waved his hand toward the corpse. “Why don’t you come with us? We’ve just got a few questions. We’ll give you a lift home and prepare your statement in the car. The rest, we can sort out in the morning.”
Nicholas nodded. He was desperate to get away from this place. “Thanks. It’s been a lousy day.”
Outside, the men led him to a dark sedan. Nicholas glanced about. There didn’t seem to be any other police cars in the parking area.
“Where are your officers?”
“On their way. As I said, we were right outside. They’ll be here shortly.” Detective Kleynhans opened the back door for him while the other man hopped in behind the wheel. As soon as Kleynhans was in the passenger seat, they headed back towards the freeway.
“Where do you live, Mr Gallagher?”
“Ruimsig. The quickest way is if you take the Fourteenth Avenue off-ramp.”
Kleynhans nodded and his colleague gunned the motor. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Nicholas saw the first blue-lights arrive. Henderson raised his hand and waved at the officers pulling in. The men were obviously preoccupied. They didn’t return the greeting. Within minutes they were on the freeway, speeding towards Nicholas’ home.
The detective reached into his pocket for a notepad. “What was the nature of your meeting with Mr. Scofield?” Kleynhans asked.
Nicholas shrugged. “I used him from time to time as a private investigator. His information was invaluable to me in my business dealings.”
The man nodded. “And your meeting tonight?”
Nicholas shook his head. “A business deal went sour this afternoon. I refused to pay a bribe, and lost a massive contract. Willow contacted me —”
The man looked up sharply. “Willow?”
“That’s what he called himself. I’d never heard of Scofield until tonight.”
The man jotted down a note in his book and nodded. “Go on.”
“He said he had information about the deal. I don’t know where he got it, but I thought it might be useful, so I agreed to meet with him.”
“Did he give you the information?”
“No.” Nicholas shook his head. “He simply gave me a piece of paper with a code of some sort. I have no idea what it meant.”
“Have you got the paper with you?”
Nicholas reached into his jacket pocket. He’d forgotten all about the note until now. He pulled it out and handed it to the detective. The man glanced at it and frowned.
“You’d better get into the left-hand lane. The off-ramp is coming up.” Nicholas pointed at the overhead sign.
The driver made no move.
“Did you hear me?”
The man glanced in his rear-view mirror and made eye contact.
“I said you’ll need to —” The car shot by the off-ramp at 120 km/h. Nicholas sighed in exasperation. “If you take the next off-ramp, you can cut back through Beacon Road. I’ll direct you to my house from there.”
Kleynhans nodded at Nicholas. His eyes gleamed like those of a predator. “Do you have any idea what this note means?”
Nicholas felt his heart-rate increase. The nerves on the back of his neck prickled in warning. “If you don’t get into the left-hand lane, you’ll miss this turnoff too. Can we discuss this again in the morning?”
The driver said nothing. His eyes remained riveted on the road ahead. Nicholas watched helplessly as they passed the second off-ramp. He swallowed. “Look, I’ve co-operated with you guys as best I can, and I’ll continue to assist you. But right now, I’d just like to go home, okay?”
Kleynhans turned back to him again. “Mr Gallagher, this is extremely important. Do you know what this note is about?”
A chill ran through Nicholas’ bones and he felt a thin film of sweat break out on his forehead. “No, I don’t. Can I see your identification?” Idiot! Why hadn’t he asked to see it back at the club?
“There’s no need to be difficult, Mr Gallagher.”
Nicholas clenched his teeth. “It’s a very simple request, detective. And, one I have every right to make. Your ID, please.”
The man sighed. “I have no interest in playing cat and mouse with you, Mr Gallagher. You’ll answer our questions one way or another.”
The glare was chilling. Nicholas stared into the eyes of a cobra and realised that those eyes would be the last he ever saw. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” His voice quivered slightly as he spoke.
The man’s lips curled. “The only question is how long I’ll take. That’s up to you.”
They passed two more off-ramps before the driver slowed his vehicle and moved left. Nicholas gazed ahead at the approaching off-ramp. They’d reached an unsavoury part of town. One rife with crime. Large open fields flanked the highway – fields where a gunshot would go unnoticed and where screams for help would not be investigated.
Nicholas glanced at the road ahead in terror. Then he glanced at his kidnappers in the front of the car. His thoughts turned to the dark sedan he’d seen earlier that night. How could he have been so obtuse?
He considered his options and his pulse quickened all the more. To stay with these men meant death. That left only one course of action. Adrenaline surged through his body at the thought of what he had to do. I can’t! You must.
Kleynhans turned back to him. “Mr Gallagher —”
The car slowed a little, heading for the freeway off-ramp. Is it slow enough? No time! Nicholas lurched to his left and ripped up the door-lock. He slammed his shoulder against the door and leaped from the speeding vehicle.
Roll! Nicholas made no effort to break his fall. Air exploded from his lungs under the force of the impact. The rough surface shredded his clothes and seared his skin.

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