The logic was unassailable, but life wasn’t about logic. It was about living. It was about excitement, challenge, and adrenaline. It was about finding one’s boundaries and pushing through them. Discovering what one was capable of and what one wasn’t.
As her associates’ caution came to feel more and more like a straitjacket, Cyrah began escaping it through personal pursuits. Rock climbing. Bungee jumping. Cave diving. They helped fill the empty part in her soul, but not in a way that was particularly satisfying. Nothing could match the thrill of the hunt and it made little sense for her to risk her life for free when she could do it for significant profit.
So, when they’d received the dossier on Claudia Gould, Cyrah had jumped. Not only because Claudia had been half of one of history’s most successful private contracting teams, but also because of the series of events the attack on the Franschhoek house had unleashed. The fact that Claudia and her partner had been able to defeat Gustavo Marroqui’s hit squad was impressive, but nothing compared to what followed. Over the course of just nine days, they’d not only located Marroqui, but killed him. And not with a gunshot or by paying off some disgruntled associate. No, they’d annihilated the entire top of the mountain he’d lived on.
Claudia Gould was not only an incredibly dangerous woman; she was also a woman with style. Someone with the courage to say that she was not to be crossed and then vigorously support that statement through action.
Cyrah felt a dull pulse of excitement at the realization that she wasn’t safe. No matter how careful she was, no matter how well crafted her plans, there was no way to fully protect herself from Claudia Gould. And anyone arrogant enough to think they could would likely end up like Gustavo Marroqui.
CHAPTER 21
NEAR FRANSCHHOEK
SOUTH AFRICA
THE weather had turned cold, barely above forty degrees Fahrenheit, with heavy clouds rolling in the night before. The rows of vines on either side of the muddy road Rapp was driving down seemed particularly still as they disappeared into a hazy distance.
It had taken him and Coleman a full two weeks to get out of Guatemala. The death of Gustavo Marroqui had been a far more significant event than they anticipated. The government had descended into chaos as corrupt politicians lost their cover. Gang warfare erupted throughout the country and someone at MS-13 had provided the authorities with his description. So, with no backup, grade school Spanish, and dwindling cash reserves, they’d had to get out on their own. The day they’d finally made it across the border to El Salvador had been one of the happiest of his life.
Rapp looked up through the sunroof but didn’t see anything beyond overcast. Despite that, it was certain that he was being watched. He’d booked his flight from Central America under the name Mitch Burhan and made no secret of renting the car at the Cape Town airport. There was no question that he’d been reacquired, as had Scott Coleman when he’d transited through Entebbe on his way back to Nick Ward’s compound.
With that, Rapp and his core team would all be accounted for again. He’d agreed to stay in plain sight, and it was in his best interest to live up to that agreement at this point. He was still suspicious that Cook wasn’t actually abiding by the terms of their truce, but for now it made sense to pretend. Blowing things up at this point would open another battlefront that he wasn’t prepared to deal with. Better to leave that war for later. Or, with a little luck, never.
The gate leading to Claudia’s house was pulled closed and covered in corrugated metal. Rapp slowed the car to a crawl but kept driving. There was no point in going out in the rain when he could let the front bumper do the work.
Once inside the courtyard, he pulled up to the porch and stepped out. Police tape was fluttering in the wind, and he pulled it off before opening the door. A quick test of a light switch suggested the power was out—likely shut down at the main to prevent any nicked wires from catching fire. The bodies were gone but he could still smell death beneath what he assumed was a punctured sewer line.
Pretty much everything in the living room was a loss. Tape outlines remained on the tile and there was water damage on the ceiling that was starting to mold. Walls were in equally bad shape, some having taken fire in addition to the explosives. Even worse was Claudia’s beloved artwork.
He continued into the kitchen and found it in somewhat better condition. Based on the stain on the floor, the freezer had melted. Maybe it was that and not sewage causing the smell, but he didn’t open it to find out. Instead, he grabbed a bag of tortilla chips and a warm Coke from the pantry. After righting a stool stained with dried blood, he sat at the pockmarked island and dug in.