Stolen Love (Beauty in the Stolen 3)

Chapter 22

Cas

When I strap the Colt Python Damian gave me to my ankle, I think about Ian. I can’t help it. I remember the night he took me to Oliver’s birthday party and how the sight of the pistol strapped to my thigh under my dress had turned him on. The memory lances into my heart, but I brush it aside. Now isn’t the time to get sentimental.

Focus, Cas.

I eat an energy bar and swallow my pills with a bottle of water, glancing at my watch every few minutes as if it will make the second-hand tick faster.

When it’s finally time, I pull the imitation Phantom ski mask over my head. Despite the air conditioning blowing full force in my room, a trickle of sweat runs between my shoulder blades. It’s a good plan, but even good plans have flaws.

I spare a glance through the window. The Phantom fan club did their work. A steady trickle of protestors flock toward the Nelson Mandela Bridge, waving their banners to appeal an irreversible decision. The march seems futile, at least for Ian, but opposition parties grabbed the opportunity to march against corruption. The fan club proved a worthy channel of communication. Within hours, news of the protest had gone viral. Already, a huge crowd dressed in orange jumpsuits and Phantom masks are toyi-toying in front of the courthouse.

At eight o’clock tonight, Ian will be transported from the holding cell at the courthouse to the Kgosi Mampuru II prison in Pretoria. We know this thanks to Damian’s contacts. The correctional service wants to wait until after peak hour and after dark. Their aim is moving Ian speedily, quietly, and without fuss, or I should say that was the aim. Now people are gathered on every street facing the High Court building. Television crews arrived to report on scene, which means the police will be extra careful. Already accused of corruption, they can’t afford to fire rubber bullets or injure peaceful protestors.

I fit the bag with my most essential belongings—a false passport, ammunition, pills, money, a change of clothes, and, of course, the diamonds—onto my back. The strap doesn’t bother the wounds on my shoulder any longer. The holes have closed on both sides, and the stitches have dissolved. The wig and the rest of my clothes are already in a waste disposal bin outside. I checked out of my room an hour earlier. All that’s left to do is to join the protestors and walk down to the courthouse.

I go downstairs and fall in line behind a small group. When they flag down a minivan taxi, I get in with the rest of them.

The sight that awaits at the corner of Pritchard and Kruis Streets makes me utter a silent gasp. There are more people than what I expected. They’re dancing and singing, the majority waiting at the underground parking exit for the armored police van that will transport Ian.

Getting lost in the crowd is easy. Surprisingly, the beat of my heart is steady. I’ve recovered after being shot. I’m stressed but well rested. This time, I’m not failing. I’m not allowing my body to give up.

Reporters are waving microphones in people’s faces, asking what the reason for the peaceful demonstration is. My focus is trained on the armed officers guarding the exit and creating a barrier to keep the protestors back.

The van appears earlier than planned. The move is supposed to take everyone by surprise, but not us.

I get into position. When the gates open, the motorcycles leave first, leading the convoy. The van follows after the bikes. That’s when my heart starts galloping. That’s when it gets real.

On the opposite side of the road, Leon releases the spikes as soon as the bikes have passed. At the same time, the men we’ve planted in the crowd shoot darts at people. When the first person tumbles to the ground, the front tires of the van explode.

Pandemonium breaks out. The line of cops aren’t strong enough to hold the mob. The protestors burst through the barrier, driving back the shielded cops. People run in all directions as darts fly at them from seemingly nowhere. The police watch on helplessly, aiming their guns but not knowing who to aim at in the chaos. The cops on the bikes turn around, but screaming people are running in the road.

The spikes explode the tires of the second convoy that was meant to tail the van, winning us time. The van swerves. From the side of the road, Leon fires the gas missile. It lands on the roof of the van, the magnets finding purchase while the gas detonates and filters through the vent.

The minute the van skids to a standstill, its weight tipping toward the flat tires, Leon is there. We’re temporarily buried in a sea of orange. The panic that prevails provides us with cover, but we don’t have much time. The crowd is running to escape the darts.