Secure Target (Elite Operators) (8 page)

The rendezvous point turned out to be the restaurant at a local microbrewery. On instruction from Detective Harris, Lacey went inside alone and asked for a table for two. She sat facing the door so she’d immediately be able to identify her dining companion. Each second seemed to drag on for days, and she drummed her fingers until she was sure she’d worn a groove in the table. After five minutes spent straining her neck, tapping her foot and running through worst-case scenarios in her mind, she’d half convinced herself Thando would walk in wearing a grave expression, ready to deliver bad news.

When Bronnik’s tall figure filled the doorway instead, she practically burst into tears.

He slid into the other side of the booth, his forehead creased in a frown. Before she could say anything he leaned forward and put his hand over hers.

“I’m sorry, Lacey, we didn’t get him. He was there—I could feel it—but he didn’t take the chance and we couldn’t catch him.”

Having Bronnik close to her again—the realness of him, to see him alive and unhurt—cut the last thread of her control. She dissolved into steady weeping, wrapping her hand over her mouth so as not to make a scene.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured soothingly, and in one smooth motion he was beside her. He slid his arm across her back, and she leaned gratefully into his side. “None of that now. Don’t cry,
bokkie
, you’ve been so brave. We’ll get him next time.”

She sniffed, collecting herself with great effort. If only he knew what had really upset her. “I’m fine. Just stressed.”

“I know,” he said sympathetically, moving back to his original seat—which Lacey tried not to feel too glum about. “But we’ve got the rest of today to try to flush him out. And I mean it when I say you’ve done incredibly well. Grace under fire.” He smiled encouragingly.

She managed a weak smile in return. Bronnik opened his menu. She supposed they really were here for lunch and not some secret tactical decoy. Apparently even elite operatives had to eat sometime.

“I know you’ve had a trying morning, but try to get some lunch down. It’s not over yet, and you need to keep up your energy.”

She nodded, pulling her own menu across the table, although she was so far from being hungry she wasn’t sure she remembered what it felt like. As she stared unseeingly at the page listing side orders, a question leapt into her mind. “What is
bokkie
?”

“I knew you were going to ask that, as soon as I said it. It’s just a nice word for someone, like ‘sweetheart’.”

“Any other crucial Afrikaans phrases I should be learning?”

He shrugged, returning his attention to the food options. “Maybe just
lekker
, which is like your American ‘cool’. That’s pretty general South African slang.”

“Is English your first or second language?”

He exhaled heavily, shutting the menu. “You do ask some questions. Am I going to get time to eat anything just now?”

“Sorry. It just seems so exotic, being able to speak two languages. And you’re welcome to ask your own questions, if you have any.” As if he’d be as remotely curious about her life as she was about his—as if her little dream of owning a bridal boutique could be of any interest to someone who shot guns and kicked down doors for a living.

He leaned back in his seat, regarding her steadily. “Technically Afrikaans is my first language, because I spoke it at home. But I always went to English-language schools, so it seems slightly unfair to say English is my second language. I’m fluent in both.”

“And which do you dream in?” she pressed, trying to imagine what it would be like to have two languages at her disposal. Her high school French hadn’t lasted long. “Which do you think in?”

“Both,” he replied, and Lacey could sense he was beginning to get impatient—or perhaps slightly uncomfortable at the personal nature of her questions.

So he was happy to kiss her, but not to discuss being bilingual?

“It’s called code-switching, when you use more than one language in the same sentence or conversation. Or dream, I suppose. It’s really not that remarkable.” He shrugged. “Most people in South Africa speak a language other than English, whether it’s Afrikaans, Zulu, whatever. Thando speaks Xhosa at home with his children.”

“Thando has kids?”

“Three. All girls. Anyway, what’s good to eat here? I’m absolutely starving. Nothing works up an appetite like standing in the freezing cold trying to ensnare a deranged murderer.”

He wasn’t exaggerating, Lacey thought later as their meals arrived and she watched him thoroughly demolish a pulled pork sandwich. Despite having barely eaten that day, she picked at her own plate of quesadillas, her stomach still unsettled after the morning’s stresses.

“You said you left college to look after your mom,” he said suddenly. Her attention snapped up from her plate. “What happened?”

“I had a scholarship to the University of Minnesota,” she explained almost automatically, feeling detached from this long-ago version of herself. “When I visited for Christmas, my mom had been diagnosed with cancer. That side of the family all live in Wyoming, and I knew my two brothers wouldn’t be any help, so I left school and came home. The disease ripped through her in about six months, and then I had to deal with the funeral and the legal loose ends. By then I’d lost the scholarship—and the momentum, if I’m honest—so I just stayed here.”

His expression was thoughtful rather than pitying, for which she was grateful. Nothing annoyed her more than people feeling sorry for her.

“It surprised me, back at the mall, when you said you were nothing special,” he said neutrally. He paused for a sip of Coke, and then leveled his gaze on her. “I think you’re very strong. Very special.”

A flush rose in her cheeks, and she was instantly irritated by the degree to which she found herself caring about his opinion. “I bet you say that to all the girls,” she muttered, staring down at her food. Then a chilling thought crept through her mind, and she raised her eyes warily. “Do you? Did you do this”—she swept her arm to indicate the restaurant, their shared meal—“with Hardy’s last victim?”

He dropped his gaze to the table. “No. I barely spoke to her.”

She frowned. He drew a deep breath and continued, “Our theory is that Hardy doesn’t really care about you. He doesn’t care about any of his victims. They’re not real people to him, they’re just a physical template that he needs in order to act out an impulse, to find his sick catharsis. Police involvement adds massively to the thrill. Avoiding capture is probably almost as exciting for him as the murders themselves. That’s why he phones ahead, and that’s why he lurks in the shadows instead of going to ground.”

“I don’t see the connection.”

“He’s arrogant, and so was I. When the Task Force commander called me in to tell me I was taking over the case from the homicide unit, I assumed it was a matter of blundering cops falling flat against a slightly above-average killer.” He shook his head in disgust. “Then six months ago, in England, I heard the girl scream and I knew he’d gotten her, that she was dying. I knew that for the first time in my career, I’d failed. I massively underestimated Hardy, and someone else paid the price for my arrogance.”

They sat in silence for a moment. “Then what?” she prodded gently.

His smile was grim. “The bastard got me. Hardy stabbed me, just here.” He touched a place below his ribs, on the left side. “I thought I was going to die. I’ve been cut before, and I’ve been injured—in an average week I probably get shot at three or four times, minimum. But lying there on the ground, tasting blood? I thought my life was over. And I thought I probably deserved it. I couldn’t save that girl in the office, so why should I get to walk away?”

She just stared at him, her mind spinning with half-formed thoughts.

“Anyway”—he shrugged—“I lived. I got a second chance I definitely didn’t earn. And all the time spent in hospital for surgery and recovery gave me a lot of space to think. I realized that each one of Hardy’s victims would have felt just like I did, like their life was slipping out of their hands, and it was only luck that had kept me alive where they died.” When he looked at her, his face was resolute. “I’m determined not to let that happen to anyone else, ever again. I know who I’m facing now, and I refuse to let him take another life. I swear, I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe, Lacey.”

To her annoyance, she felt her eyes begin to well again. She believed him. All the way through from her head to her toes, she believed him.

“You’re a good man, Bronnik,” she said earnestly, her voice barely above a whisper.

His lips quirked into a boyish half smile. “I’m getting there.”

As Bronnik held up her coat so she could slide her arms into the sleeves, Lacey realized that for all of their serious conversation, they hadn’t discussed the plan for that afternoon.

“What do we do now?”

“More of the same. Keep giving Hardy chances, hoping we spot him just before he takes one. Any other stores you’d like to visit elsewhere in town? I think we’ve wreaked enough havoc at the mall for one day.”

The idea of dragging him through another series of women’s clothing departments made her cringe. “What kinds of stores do you like?”

He looked doubtful as he held open the door for her to pass through. “Bookstores, I guess. When they aren’t crowded. Mostly I hate shopping altogether.”

She ran through a mental list of Topeka’s retail offerings as they walked to the car, when he suddenly volunteered behind her, “Actually, I have an idea.”

She turned with a smile, but when she saw the figure lurching toward them from the other side of the parking lot, it slid from her face. She felt an old, familiar shame wash over her before it settled in the pit of her stomach.

Harlen Cross was the same age as Bronnik, but years of hard living and perpetual dishonesty made him look at least a decade older. His staggering approach let his sister know he’d already managed to get drunk by early afternoon, which she found mildly surprising considering he’d been unemployed for months.

He probably had another one of his sterling women in his life, happy to fork out cash to fund his thirst in exchange for his dubious charms. She hoped he hadn’t already knocked her up.

“There you are.” His slurred holler rang across the empty lot. “So this is the guy? The one you decided you’d just get engaged to without bothering to tell your family?”

Tilly. Of course.

“Bronnik, I’m so sorry,” she whispered as her older brother made his way over, his oversized, ragged coat slipping off of one shoulder, his hair thinning and matted.

She just caught Bronnik’s flash of confusion at her words before Harlen was upon them. He squared up to the police operative—who was a good three inches taller—and poked his finger in his chest.

“Thought you could steal her away without telling anyone, huh? Thought you could just take her hand in marriage without asking her brother’s permission?”

Lacey froze, poised for disaster, but Bronnik smiled calmly, if a little bemusedly, and extended his hand. “You must be Harlen. I’m Bronnik Mason. It’s a pleasure.”

Harlen focused, with difficulty, on Bronnik’s hand, and then turned to Lacey, the slight movement leaving him swaying gently. “I can’t understand a word he’s saying. Couldn’t get an American guy to date you, I guess. Or is this one of them immigration scams so he can come over here and take jobs away from honest, hard-working citizens?”

“What, like you?” she retorted. She instantly regretted her outburst and held up her palms, eager to defuse the situation and send Harlen on his inebriated way, when her older brother roughly grabbed her wrist.

“Where’s the ring? Why ain’t you got a goddamn ring?” He looked at Bronnik. “Now I don’t speak French or wherever it is that you’re from, but I hope you know enough English to understand when I say you can’t propose without a ring. Only a no-good, cheap son of a bitch would expect something for nothing.”

When he turned back to Lacey, his tone was scathing. “And only a whore would say yes.”

Her temper bubbled over, but as she opened her mouth to tell him where to go he pulled back his hand, and she flinched preemptively, squeezing her eyes shut.

But the blow never came.

When she opened her eyes Harlen was facedown on the snowy asphalt. Bronnik had both of her brother’s wrists pinned together behind his back and was standing with one black combat boot planted on Harlen’s waist.

Harlen wriggled and squealed, his nose digging a trench in the snow. Bronnik leaned down until his mouth was beside the other man’s ear.

“If you had touched her,” he said icily, “I would’ve broken your arm. I assume you know enough English to understand that.”

Harlen’s reply was muffled by the snow, and as Bronnik began to explain the terms on which he’d be willing to let her brother stand up, she reeled with conflicting emotions. The warm, swelling delight she felt that anyone would stand up for her to such a degree—even someone who was essentially getting paid to look after her—was bisected by a jagged, cutting sense of fear and disquiet as she considered the extent of the violence he was capable of.

She’d seen him kick down a door on video—she’d seen him point a gun in person. He spoke freely about being shot at, about being stabbed. But the silence and swiftness with which he neutralized Harlen was something new.