Stolen Love (Beauty in the Stolen 3)

“Where?” Ian asks.

“Where unemployed men gather outside the building sites in the hope of getting work for the day.”

Ian narrows his eyes. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing. I offered them a grand each. For a grand, they were only too happy to keep their mouths shut.”

“Where are they now?” Ian asks.

“On the bottom of the dam.”

“I could’ve forgiven you for framing me, but accusing Cas as an accomplice?” The fire raging at Wolfe’s back reflects in Ian’s brown eyes. “Risking her life to spy on me?”

“So what?” Wolfe laughs. “You’re going to pull the trigger? You’ve always been a piece of shit thief, but we both know you’re not a killer. You don’t have it in you.”

A smile spreads over Ian’s face. “That’s where you’re wrong, Wolfe. It’s always been inside me. For all the years you chased me, I managed to keep that part of me in check until I lost the only thing that mattered.”

Wolfe’s laugh dries up. His grin slips.

“I’ve killed for her before,” Ian continues. “What’s one more?”

I step up. “You forget one thing. Wolfe is mine.”

Wolfe drags his gaze toward me. “You were always in cahoots with them.”

“You manipulated me for your own, selfish agenda,” I say. “You had no right to put me in the position you did.”

He licks his lips. “I call your bluff, Blondie. The evidence you hold over my head was never going anywhere, just as neither of you is going to shoot me. If you think justice will be served by turning me in, think again. The SIU doesn’t admit weakness. They’ll sweep the incident under the carpet and put double the men on your asses. You’ll end up in maximum security, and you won’t live longer than a week. The SIU have means of taking care of criminals in jail. Give yourself up and I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll transfer you to the Cape Town correctional service and ensure your safety.”

“You must really think I’m stupid,” Ian says. “Sorry, Wolfe, no deal.”

The look of desperation on Wolfe’s face turns into one of hopelessness. Before I can blink, he jumps, tackling me to the ground. For a man with an injured hand he’s surprisingly strong. We roll over the grass, a flurry of trees, sky, and flames passing in my vision. The sharp blades of the polls stab through my T-shirt as I come to a stop on my back. Wolfe presses the elbow of his injured arm on my throat and reaches for something in the back of his waistband. I’ve dropped his Glock, only clinging to my own gun, but it’s trapped between our bodies. The blade of a knife flashes above me when he lifts his arm.

Pop.

Red dots my vision. Blood splatters over my face and neck.

Wolfe goes still. His body turns slack on mine. I fight for air and to free myself of the dead weight bleeding on top of me. Ian’s face appears above, his expression a mask of fury. Grabbing Wolfe’s arm, he flings his body aside. I grapple for purchase, struggling to my feet.

“You’re fine,” Ian says, taking my elbows to steady me.

I wipe a hand over my face. It’s wet. Ian stares at me quietly, his tanned face pale.

I look at the body lying in the grass. Ian shot him through the temple, blowing his brains out the other side.

Cupping my face against his chest, he says in a tight voice, “Don’t look.”

I push away. “He was supposed to be mine. I was supposed to pull the trigger.”

He pulls off his T-shirt and rubs at the wetness on my face. “Did you really think I’d let you dirty your hands?” He chuckles. “Told you, that’s me.” His tone softens. “How are you doing?”

Pushing his hands away, I say, “I’m good. We better get moving. The guards will see the smoke. We don’t have much time.”

“I’ll take care of him,” he says, motioning at Wolfe’s body. “Go get your bag.”

As I run to the tree, I hear a sound above the noise of the fire. A siren. Stopping in my tracks, I spin around and look at Ian. No, not a siren. Many sirens.

Shit.

We both turn our heads in the direction of the road. Blue lights are visible through the trees. There must be at least five cars. They’re already inside the property, less than a kilometer away.

Ian stares at me, his face hard and his body rigid. Determination sets over his features. He pulls his blood-stained T-shirt with jerky movements over his head, snatches up Wolfe’s Glock, and sprints to where I stand frozen under the tree.

“Listen to me,” he says, cupping my face with a gun in each hand. “We’ve got to run for the helicopter. We can make it.”

“What about the body?” Ian took the Glock that has my fingerprints on it, but what if I left other DNA like a hair behind?