In Johannesburg, prosperous whites live behind gates; when they exit their cars to open the gates, carjackings are common. But seldom is the victim killed, much less shot twice, like Annette Botha. And now, Piet Botha, the husband of the wealthy woman, is the primary suspect in his wife's murder.
P.I. Jade de Jong fled South Africa ten years ago after her father was killed. Now back in town, she offers to help her father's former assistant, Superintendent David Patel, with his investigation of this case. Under apartheid, Patel, of Indian descent, could never have attained his present position. But he is feeling pressure from his ''old line'' boss with respect to this investigation and fears lingering prejudice is at work.
As Jade probes into this and other recent carjacking cases, a pattern begins to emerge -- a pattern that goes back to her father's murder and involves a vast and intricate series of crimes for profit.
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JASSY MACKENZIE was born in Rhodesia and moved to South Africa when she was eight years old. She loves the energy, danger, and excitement of Johannesburg and believes there is no better place for a thriller writer to live. She herself has been hijacked at gunpoint outside her home and had her car taken from her by force. She is thirty-nine years old and lives in Kyalami with her wonderful partner Dion, two horses, and two cats.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Annette arrived home in the dark. Her car’s tires crunched on the sand driveway and the brakes squeaked as she pulled to a hurried halt outside the tall metal gate. The heater’s fan was on maximum and the eight o’clock news was starting on the radio, but she didn’t have time to listen. Stopping at night was risky. Getting out of the car was even more dangerous, but she had no choice. Pulling the keys from the ignition, with the useless gate buzzer dangling from the bunch, she climbed out.
She hunched her shoulders against the cold, hugging her flimsy work jacket around her as she hurried over to the gate. She passed the “Sold” sign, rattling against the metal stakes that held it in the ground. The wind was blowing hard, hissing and whistling through the long dry grass that flanked her driveway. The growth swayed and parted and she peered at it suspiciously. For a moment it looked as if somebody was crouched inside, trying to hide.
Her head jerked up as she saw movement ahead of her. Four large dogs rushed towards the gate, their shadows stretching out behind them in the beams of her car’s headlights. The lead Alsatian snarled at his followers, defending his position as the others crowded too close. Leaping and wagging their tails, the dogs pushed their noses through the bars in welcome.
Annette smiled in relief, leaning forward and scratching their coarse fur. “Hey, boys. Just a minute and I’ll be inside.”
She fumbled with the bunch of keys, searching for the right one, her breath misting in the icy air. The giant padlock was easy to open because it was new, but it was difficult to remove because of its size. It was wedged into the thick steel rings between the gate and the gatepost. She struggled with the stubborn metal, so cold to the touch it seemed to burn. She glanced behind her at the lonely road while the dogs whined and shoved their muzzles against her hand in encouragement.
Finally the padlock jerked free, pinching a fold of skin on her finger as it came loose. She swore, cradling her hand against the pain. She would have a blood blister tomorrow, to add to the one from yesterday.
“Got to get that gate motor fixed,” she told the dogs.
Her keys dug into her palm as she wrapped her hands around the bars and shoved her shoulder into the heavy gate. The sand and rust clogging its runners made it a swine to slide open, especially at the start. Once it had been forced to get moving, it was easier. But as she started to push, her dogs tensed and one of them barked. Spinning round, she squinted into the blackness beyond her little Golf. She saw another vehicle pull to a stop in the road. It had approached silently, headlights off. Its dark body gleamed faintly red in the glow of her taillights.
Annette stared in disbelief as the driver climbed out and strolled round the front of the car towards her, as casual and relaxed as if he was a friendly neighbor stopping to give her some help. But she lived on two hundred acres of land and spoke to the neighbors two or three times a year about fencing and firebreaks. If they drove past her place at night, they would have their headlights on full and their feet on the accelerator, gunning their car down the dark ribbon of tarmac, counting the minutes until they reached home.
This man wasn’t a neighbor. And he certainly wasn’t friendly. Once he was clear of the car, he turned to face her. With a heart-stopping rush of terror, she saw the shape of a gun in his hand.
“No, please, don’t. Oh Jesus. Help me!”
Her first instinct was to run. But the dark car blocked the road ahead of her, and there were deep drainage ditches in the overgrowth on either side. She turned back to the gate, pushing with panicked strength against its stubborn weight. If she could let the dogs out, she’d have a chance. It moved a few inches and then jammed, just as it had done the night before. The dogs were all barking now, hurling themselves at the gap in their efforts to protect her. Their noise was a solid force that pulsed against her face, but they couldn’t get through to help her. Sobbing from the effort, her shoulder in agony, she knew she had no more time to try.
She turned back to face her attacker.
“Do you want my car? Here, take it.” Her voice sounded thin and high and the keys jingled in her unsteady hand as she held them out towards him.
The shadows on the man’s face deepened. He shook his head. He took another step forward and raised the gun.
Above the clamor of the dogs, Annette heard a metallic clicking sound. She didn’t know much about guns but there was only one thing this could mean.
The safety catch was off.
Her legs wouldn’t move. Her arms dropped to her sides. She wanted to plead, to beg him for her life. But what good would it do? He had already refused her car. And her throat had become so dry, she doubted whether she could speak at all.
Her fingers brushed against the pepper spray on her key ring. It was her only chance, even if it was a hopeless one. She fumbled with the metal canister. Quickly now. Lift and spray. Aim high, go for the eyes. Praying for a miracle, she raised her hand.
The man fired twice. The first shot got her square in the chest, slamming her back against the gate. As she began to slide to the ground, the second shot caught the side of her neck, ripping it open. Gushing blood, she collapsed onto the stony surface.
The killer watched her die, and then moved over to the open door of her car, where the heater was blowing and the newsreader was telling listeners about the price of gold and the strength of the rand against the dollar. With gloved fingers, he removed her handbag from the passenger seat. As quietly as it had arrived, the black vehicle moved away. At the gate the dogs continued to bark, their eyes brilliant in the glow from the headlights, their muzzles now crimson with blood.
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