Read Online Random Violence by Jassy Mackenzie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jassy Mackenzie
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pink highlighter, a camera battery charger and a USB cable.
The second drawer contained an empty box for an elec-tronic listening device and three Peppermint Crisps.
Under a copy of Hustler in the bottom drawer were some lined sheets of paper with “Grobbelaar Investigations— Client Sheet” printed at the top. She moved over to the filing cabinet to see what happened to all these client sheets once he had filled them in.
A handwritten label pasted onto the top drawer read “Clients A–M.” His filing system looked haphazard. Folders were dog-eared, names scrawled on the cardboard. She couldn’t see a file for Botha. She wondered if there had been one before the drawer was opened.
Pulling her jacket sleeve over her hand so there could be no confusion over prints, she pulled out the second drawer, labeled “Clients N–Z.” She saw a file labeled “Storr–Yolandi.” It looked old and battered.
She closed it again. The bottom drawer was labeled simply: “Pending.” Perhaps she would find the folder she was looking for in here.
As she bent down to check, a sound from the doorway star-tled her. She spun round, an apology on her lips, expecting to see an irate building superintendent standing there, or perhaps even Grobbelaar himself.
Two black men in bulky duffel jackets shouldered their way into the office. The taller one was hefting two plastic jerry cans filled with pale fluid. His partner was carrying a gun.
9
The two men paused when they saw Jade. In a heartbeat, she assessed her predicament. It couldn’t be worse. There was no time to draw her weapon. She was outnumbered. And cornered. She’d walked into a dangerous situation without backup. Investigating a run-down office block in broad day-light might not be a high-risk activity in Britain, but this was South Africa. She should have been more careful.
Jade’s gut constricted as the Beretta’s barrel swung towards her. She dived to the floor behind the desk, scrabbling under her jacket for her own gun, her heart banging against her ribs. As she fell, she heard a deafening report from the Ber-etta’s muzzle. Plaster scattered to the floor.
Her finger curled round the trigger of the Glock. She could hear the men speaking in rapid voices. An African language. She couldn’t understand the words.
Heavy footsteps stomped towards the desk. Jade crouched under her wooden shelter, waiting for the man to come into view. They didn’t know she was armed. If she was fast enough, she could have the advantage.
One of the men shouted, his voice urgent. The footsteps stopped and then retreated.
Jade waited, listening. He didn’t speak again. Moments later she heard a trickling sound and the acrid fumes of gaso-line filled the air.
Dread curdled her stomach. The men were planning to torch Dean’s office and all its contents, including her. They weren’t going to bother to shoot her first. In any case, gunfire was out of the question now. The tiniest spark—or a muzzle flash—would ignite the vapor into a deadly inferno. She was certain of that. But she wondered if the two thugs handling the gas were up to speed on its volatility.
If she ran, would the gunman shoot and risk trapping them all inside a giant fireball?
Jade knew she didn’t have a choice. If she tried to escape, death would be possible. But if she stayed where she was it would be a certainty.
She tensed, ready to sprint to the door from her precarious shelter, sure that when she left the desk she would see the tall man bent over the jerry cans and his partner facing her, his finger tight on the trigger.
Then she heard footsteps echoing in the corridor.
Were the arsonists expecting backup? If they were, her odds had just narrowed to at least three against one. If not, she’d been given her only chance. An unexpected arrival would distract the two men.
Jade grabbed the desk and boosted herself to her feet. She pushed away from the heavy wood and flung herself across the room. The
The second drawer contained an empty box for an elec-tronic listening device and three Peppermint Crisps.
Under a copy of Hustler in the bottom drawer were some lined sheets of paper with “Grobbelaar Investigations— Client Sheet” printed at the top. She moved over to the filing cabinet to see what happened to all these client sheets once he had filled them in.
A handwritten label pasted onto the top drawer read “Clients A–M.” His filing system looked haphazard. Folders were dog-eared, names scrawled on the cardboard. She couldn’t see a file for Botha. She wondered if there had been one before the drawer was opened.
Pulling her jacket sleeve over her hand so there could be no confusion over prints, she pulled out the second drawer, labeled “Clients N–Z.” She saw a file labeled “Storr–Yolandi.” It looked old and battered.
She closed it again. The bottom drawer was labeled simply: “Pending.” Perhaps she would find the folder she was looking for in here.
As she bent down to check, a sound from the doorway star-tled her. She spun round, an apology on her lips, expecting to see an irate building superintendent standing there, or perhaps even Grobbelaar himself.
Two black men in bulky duffel jackets shouldered their way into the office. The taller one was hefting two plastic jerry cans filled with pale fluid. His partner was carrying a gun.
9
The two men paused when they saw Jade. In a heartbeat, she assessed her predicament. It couldn’t be worse. There was no time to draw her weapon. She was outnumbered. And cornered. She’d walked into a dangerous situation without backup. Investigating a run-down office block in broad day-light might not be a high-risk activity in Britain, but this was South Africa. She should have been more careful.
Jade’s gut constricted as the Beretta’s barrel swung towards her. She dived to the floor behind the desk, scrabbling under her jacket for her own gun, her heart banging against her ribs. As she fell, she heard a deafening report from the Ber-etta’s muzzle. Plaster scattered to the floor.
Her finger curled round the trigger of the Glock. She could hear the men speaking in rapid voices. An African language. She couldn’t understand the words.
Heavy footsteps stomped towards the desk. Jade crouched under her wooden shelter, waiting for the man to come into view. They didn’t know she was armed. If she was fast enough, she could have the advantage.
One of the men shouted, his voice urgent. The footsteps stopped and then retreated.
Jade waited, listening. He didn’t speak again. Moments later she heard a trickling sound and the acrid fumes of gaso-line filled the air.
Dread curdled her stomach. The men were planning to torch Dean’s office and all its contents, including her. They weren’t going to bother to shoot her first. In any case, gunfire was out of the question now. The tiniest spark—or a muzzle flash—would ignite the vapor into a deadly inferno. She was certain of that. But she wondered if the two thugs handling the gas were up to speed on its volatility.
If she ran, would the gunman shoot and risk trapping them all inside a giant fireball?
Jade knew she didn’t have a choice. If she tried to escape, death would be possible. But if she stayed where she was it would be a certainty.
She tensed, ready to sprint to the door from her precarious shelter, sure that when she left the desk she would see the tall man bent over the jerry cans and his partner facing her, his finger tight on the trigger.
Then she heard footsteps echoing in the corridor.
Were the arsonists expecting backup? If they were, her odds had just narrowed to at least three against one. If not, she’d been given her only chance. An unexpected arrival would distract the two men.
Jade grabbed the desk and boosted herself to her feet. She pushed away from the heavy wood and flung herself across the room. The
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