Read Online Stolen Lives by Jassy Mackenzie - Free Book Online Page B

a successful pawnshop in this area—and his instincts were starting to scream at him that, perhaps, doing this wasn’t a good idea.
    Perhaps, in fact, it was a very bad idea.
    It was all too easy. Was this some kind of test?
    Garry lifted his finger and the little bunch of notes riffled back into the stack. He carried on counting out the notes, and when he had reached the exact amount, he handed the envelope back to his customer.
    Then Garry put the other three knives and their sheaths into a white plastic bag and pushed it across the counter, noticing that the man didn’t add the fourth knife to it. While Garry had been packing the other three up, he must have done something with it. Garry had no idea what. All he knew was that the knife was no longer visible.
    “Anything else?” he asked.
    The man paused for a moment. Then he beckoned Garry closer.
    The action was suspicious, particularly given the mysterious disappearance of that knife. Garry didn’t want to feel that blade pressing against his throat, didn’t want to have to comply with a hissed request to give that cash right back again, thank you.
    Garry leaned partway across the counter, keeping his gaze fixed on the older man’s hands.
    “I heard you can organise South African passports,” he whispered. Close up, his breath smelled sour.
    Garry had just closed his hand around the grip of the Colt.45 he kept under the counter as a precautionary measure. The words caused him to recoil. He dropped the weapon back on the shelf. What the hell? Was this guy a cop?
    “What’s all this about?” He raised his voice, glowering down at the man.
    Unperturbed, the black man beckoned him in again, speaking softly.
    “I am asking you only because one of your customers told me you do it.”
    Garry blinked rapidly.
    The man was right. He had organised docs for various people, including a couple of regular customers, a number of times in the past. For a while it had been a thriving sideline. But it had become too dangerous. He’d almost walked into a police trap last Christmas, and after that he’d decided it wasn’t worth the risk. In any case, his connection in Home Affairs had recently retired.
    “I don’t do that anymore,” he muttered.
    “I can pay. Whatever it will take.”
    Garry considered his options for a moment.
    A while back, he’d heard that a woman had set up shop somewhere in Pretoria, specialising in the procurement of South African documents. One of his old customers had told him about her. In fact, Garry had even taken her details down, but after the Christmas situation, had never used them.
    Perhaps he should take the money the black man seemed so willing to invest and contact her now.
    Or perhaps not.
    An elegant solution to his dilemma suddenly occurred to Garry.
    “If you want to pay, you can buy a phone number from me. Hand over the rest of the money in that envelope, and I’ll give it to you.”
    The man twisted away from Garry and coughed again, his shoulders hunched. The noise was rough and rasping and sounded like it hurt.
    Then, turning back, he shook the last sheaf of notes from the envelope onto the glass counter.
    Garry scribbled the lady’s details down on a sheet torn from his spiral notebook.
    “Thank you,” the man said, as he pocketed the paper. Then, once again, he leaned closer.
    “You have done me a favour. So I will do one for you, too.”
    “What?” Garry snapped. He had been hoping the old gogo would go away now.
    “You need to watch out,” the man whispered. “One of your customers is armed.”
    “What the hell?”
    Then Garry’s head snapped up as he realised that the coloured man had moved closer to the other end of the counter and was fumbling for something under his faded shirt.
    “Moffat!” he yelled.
    His assistant dropped the duster he was holding. He glanced over at Garry and then, reading the situation instantly, dashed towards the coloured man.
    “Hands up! Drop it!” Garry shouted.
    Jesus