Stolen Love (Beauty in the Stolen 3)

“Walk!”

He stumbles, looking back at me.

“Face in front!”

A firetruck sounds in the distance.

Someone pulls me to my feet. I grit my teeth at the pain as my injured shoulder almost dislocates from the force. I hold onto what little strength I have left, not for me, but for the man I love. I die ten times over as they lead him back to the road, handcuffed and powerless. Seeing him like this hurts like seeing a lion chased into a camp to be canned. It hurts to see the dejected look on his handsome face when they push him into the back of a police car. It hurts to see the elusive, untouchable Ian Hart surrender.

Chapter 15

Ian

The police drive me to the station in Rustenburg and locks me in the only holding cell. They took Cas in a different car.

An hour has passed.

My guess is they’re interrogating her in the office. They’ll get her statement first before coming for mine. That’s how it works. They’ll tell me she confessed to put pressure on me to do the same. They’ll tell me she’ll testify against me and how that will go down in court. It’s a game of manipulation, playing us off against each other in the hope of getting an admission of guilt.

The cell is a concrete room with a narrow window close to the ceiling. The only furniture is a wooden bench. The window is fitted with iron bars. The door is metal. Unbreakable. They searched me and took my belt and shoes before throwing me inside. I have no weapons and nothing I can use to pick the lock. Even if I managed to pick the lock, an armed cop is stationed on the other side.

I pace the floor, concern about Cas eating me alive. She’s spent more time inside a police station than what she should’ve, courtesy of me. I hope to God she’s all right. I don’t doubt she can stand up for herself. That pretty, frail woman is stronger than most men I know. She’s strong where it matters, in spirit and heart. What I’m worried about is her health and how they’re treating her. If they lay their goddamn hands on her, I swear, behind bars or not, I’ll find a way to kill them all.

The sun pulls into a four o’clock position in the sky. It’s like an oven inside with the window that can’t open. Dark patches stain the armpits of my T-shirt. The front is smeared red from wiping Cas’s face clean of blood. In my mind’s eye, I picture her with the blood that splattered on her porcelain skin and caked in her hair. The image nearly kills me. I was going to make Wolfe go down on his knees and apologize to her, that lousy, no-good, fucking sack of shit. I’m still pissed off that I had to shoot him before I’d gotten a chance to make him crawl.

A key scrapes in the lock on the other side of the door. The metal squeaks as the door swings open. Hackman stands on the threshold. When Wolfe took Cas in for questioning, I checked which local detective was on the case. Wolfe was with the head office in Pretoria, but Hackman is born and bred in Rustenburg.

I measure the detective. Wolfe was shady, but according to Hackman’s record, he’s always done everything by the book. That was until he teamed up with Wolfe.

“Sit,” Hackman says, pointing at the bench.

The order isn’t given for my comfort but for his safety. I walk over and sit, bracing my back against the wall and spreading my legs.

Hackman enters, followed by an armed cop. Another cop carries a chair and small desk inside before exiting and locking the door behind him.

“If you try anything funny, he’ll shoot you in the head,” Hackman says, throwing a thumb at the cop who stands at attention in front of the door. “No questions asked.” He sneers as if he’d rather shoot me than interrogate me. “Is that clear?”

I wipe my sweat-damp hair from my face and give him a smile just to rattle his cage. “Crystal.”

He motions at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. “Everything is recorded.”

My smile turns broader. “Naturally.”

Clenching his teeth, he sits in the chair and slams a writing pad on the desk. “We already took Ms. Joubert’s statement. It’s in your interest to cooperate. She confessed everything.”

Everything is broad and vague. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “How is she doing?”

He glares at me.

“She has a heart condition,” I say.

“I’m aware.” He purses his lips and says after a beat, “She’s fine.”

I nod. Good. That settles my most pressing worry.

“Care to explain how she miraculously came back from dead?” he asks. “It’ll be interesting to hear your side of the story.”