And that’s when Barbara Girdner made her move.
Taking Krantz completely by surprise, Barbara soared to her feet and dove over the table, a steak knife in her right hand. Krantz realized what was happening a fraction of a second too late. For the first time in his life, he had made an unforgivable tactical error. She had played him all along, biding her time for the right moment to strike. For some reason, Krantz’s eyes moved to Girdner, and judging by the face he made, the general was as surprised as Krantz by his wife’s sudden attack.
Barbara crashed into Krantz with astonishing velocity, pushing him back several feet as she landed on the floor flat on her stomach. Krantz didn’t realize she’d stabbed him in the chest until he felt the blood gushing out of his wound. He staggered back, looking in disbelief at the steak knife embedded to the hilt in his chest.
He felt no pain. Odd.
Barbara was in the process of getting up when Krantz shot her in the top of her head. She collapsed not far from his feet without a moan. The general screamed as he leaped forward, his arms outstretched in front of him. By the time Krantz turned to face him, Girdner was almost on him. What should have been an easy shot suddenly wasn’t. Krantz’s arms had become heavy, and his legs weren’t working right either. Krantz fired just as Girdner slammed into him, sending Krantz crashing backward into the kitchen island and his pistol clattering across the hardwood floor.
Then the pain came. And it was searing. It was as if a cold steel rod had been forced through his chest. His breathing became shallow and ragged, and there was a peculiar wheezing sound at each short inhalation he took. Krantz knew what it meant. The knife had pierced one of his lungs, which was now filling with blood, drowning him from the inside.
Girdner was on the floor, too, doubled over, clutching his stomach. An impressive amount of blood had already pooled underneath him. Krantz watched him get up on his knees and slowly make his way to his wife while crying in agony. He didn’t get far before he fell to his side.
As he watched the ceiling, Krantz felt the irrefutable grip of fear that came right before death. As the pain became unbearable, he started to cough; foamy red saliva dribbled down his chin. Slowly, his surroundings dimmed into a black fog.
“Fuck,” he wheezed through blood-soaked lips as his life slipped away. “Fuck.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Cape Town, South Africa
Clayton White paid the cab driver, including a generous tip, and stepped out of the vehicle, grateful for the fresh air. He collected his suitcase and started toward the main doors of the hotel. He’d taken a nonstop eleven-hour flight from Paris to Cape Town that arrived thirty minutes after the scheduled arrival time. Business class or not, the flight had been long.
The doorman gave White a huge smile and opened the door for him. White thanked him with a nod and walked into the lobby. It was a massive and inspiring modern atrium with majestic views of the sea. The sun, as red as White had ever seen it, had just lost its lower edge as it began its descent into the ocean. There was still a little bit of natural light shining through the lobby’s glass dome eighty feet above. In the center of the space stood three glass-fronted elevators. Luxurious sofas, love seats, and armchairs were grouped together in various locations. A brightly lit and busy lobby bar occupied the wall to White’s right. At least two dozen patrons were seated on barstools or standing around high tables, talking loudly with their favorite drinks in hand.
White didn’t slow down as he walked across the marble floor, heading directly to the reception desk.
“You have a reservation, sir?” asked the receptionist, a tall, handsome auburn-haired woman in her forties.
White was about to give his name but changed his mind at the last moment. “No, it’s a last-minute thing. Do you have any rooms available?” he asked, knowing from his online research that the hotel was booked to capacity.
“One moment. Let me check for you.” Her long and perfectly manicured fingernails tapped on the keyboard in front of her.
White used the large mirror behind the reception desk to survey the lobby. The space was busy, but not too crowded. There was a constant flow of smartly dressed men and women, none of whom gave White a second glance. A security guard wearing black pants and a white shirt exited the men’s room.
“I do have a two-bedroom suite on the concierge floor,” the receptionist said, smiling at him. “It has an unbroken view of the ocean. A last-minute cancellation.”
White winced. “It sounds lovely, but it’s out of my budget,” he said, his eyes still scanning the lobby behind him. There was a feeling he’d had since he arrived at the airport. “Do you have anything else?”