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An odd sensation nestles in the pit of my stomach as I walk through the dark, deserted house to my room. I can’t explain what happened, tonight. I only know that my solid, trustworthy mind is no longer in control.
Somewhere between sunset and now, my heart became the master of my decisions.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Angelo
An hour before dawn, I pull on a tracksuit and search my hotel room for items suitable for a kidnapping. I settle on the laundry bag and one of my socks. The thick black bag won’t let light through, and the sock won’t leave marks. Then I scribble a note on the hotel stationary to inform my father that I’m going for a jog on the beach. After slipping the note under his door, I snatch a pair of golf gloves from the kiosk in reception on my way out.
In the car, I pull the address I’d taken from the HR records at Edwards’s office up on the GPS. Selecting the shortest route, I head out to an affluent neighborhood on the outskirts of George and park in front of a modern house that overlooks the valley.
The morning is misty, the sun battling to break through the clouds on the horizon. Cows graze on the green hills behind the sea. I switch on the car heater to defog the windscreen. While I wait, I fire off an email from my phone, instructing our best man to get on the next available flight to South Africa. I give him detailed instructions and demand a daily report.
I’m finishing an email to clear the payment for his expenses when the door of the house across the street opens, and Edwards’s junior accountant steps out. Elijah Johnson is a short, thin man with manicured nails and perfectly styled brown hair. He wears skinny pants and a Karl Lagerfeld jacket with a matching waistcoat. Transferring a leather satchel from one hand to the other, he checks his wristwatch and hurries to a BMW parked in the driveway.
He gets behind the wheel and inspects his reflection in the rearview mirror before pulling out of the yard. I wait until he’s turned the corner, and then I don the gloves, start the engine, and follow at a reasonable distance. When he hits the secondary road that runs through the empty field before joining the national road that goes to town, I cut him off.
His shiny black car skids over the tar as he plucks the wheel to avoid hitting me. The tires squeal as he slams on the brakes. I get out and walk to his side of the car. The gearbox complains as he obviously fails to throw the car into reverse in his flurry of nervous clumsiness.
I knock on his window.
He glances up, squinting like a child peeping through his fingers at a horror movie. When he recognizes me, his shoulders slump.
He winds down the window. “I almost crashed my car. Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Get out. You’re taking a ride with me.”
He turns paler than Snow White. Watching me with a panicked expression, he jabs his finger on the button to raise the window. I’ve seen it coming. I’m already reaching inside and pressing the button on his armrest to unlock the doors. He screams like a banshee as I open his door and pull him out by his arm.
“What do you want?” he shrieks, plastering his arms against his sides and holding his hands in the air as if I’m pointing a gun at him.
“Behave, and you’ll get to the office without a crease in your suit.”
“It’s not a suit,” he says, sounding offended.
I drag him to the rental and slam him facedown over the hood, keeping an eye on the road to make sure it remains clear.
“Oh, God,” he cries in a thin voice. “Are you going to rape me?”
I chuckle. “You’re not my kind.”
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” he chants as I grab his wrists behind his back in one hand and take the sock from my pocket with the other. “You’re going to kill me. You’re going to kill me.”
“Shut up.” I tie his wrists and pull him to his feet. “As I said, cooperate, and you’ll be sipping your organic filter coffee at your desk before eight.”
“This isn’t how it works,” he squeals as I open the backdoor and push him inside. “I know how people like you operate.”
His eyes grow round when I take the bag from the door compartment.
Despite twisting from side to side and bucking like a pig with rabies, it doesn’t take much effort to pull the bag over his head and shove him down on the seat.
“Stay low,” I say. “If you show your face, I’ll cut off your nose.”
He whimpers at the threat.
I shut the door and lock the car in case he gets it into his head to run with a hood over his head and his hand bound behind his back. I’m not in the mood for chasing him through cow dung and muddy fields.
