NEAR FRANSCHHOEK
SOUTH AFRICA
CYRAH Jafari couldn’t help but admire her surroundings. She’d arrived in South Africa about a week ago and had spent the time familiarizing herself with the Franschhoek area. The entire Western Cape was stunning, but this road was particularly special. It was unpaved but well maintained and bordered on either side by vines. Beyond, a series of verdant hills gradually morphed into majestic, stony peaks. Even with dark sunglasses, she was forced to squint through the sun pouring through the windshield.
The property she was searching for turned out to be accurately represented by the photos she’d seen—a clean white wall that blocked everything from view except the gray thatch roof peeking above. As she got closer, a corrugated metal gate became visible, but it had been made clear that she wasn’t to approach. Instead, she searched to the east for the narrow track that had been described to her.
It appeared after another hundred meters and she eased the car right, making sure not to kick up dust that would be visible from a distance. The path through the vines led to a shed containing agricultural equipment, with just enough space remaining for her to squeeze into.
She stepped out and, after locking the door, used the side mirror to check her appearance. The sunglasses and a knit hat left little more than dimpled cheeks and full lips visible. The coat she’d put on to combat the chilly temperatures was formless in a vaguely stylish way—a description that also fit a pair of loose-fitting jeans.
Her most memorable features—eyes, hair, and athletic figure—were well concealed, but in a far less rigid way than they had been growing up in Iran. At thirty-five, she still possessed what most people would describe as innocent beauty—a relentless cuteness that was difficult to escape with Western styles of dress. There was something about the anonymity of a Muslim upbringing that could in many ways feel comforting. Safe. A lie, of course, but not always an unpleasant one. As long as she was the one in control of it.
Cyrah shouldered a canvas purse and started back up the dirt track on foot. She was in danger of being late.
The damaged gate had originally consisted of open iron bars but they were now sheathed in metal to shield against prying eyes. It had been pulled back just enough to let her pass through, but that fact had been camouflaged by an empty police cruiser pulled up just in front. Based on the information she’d been given, the property was unoccupied and had been since the attack. As had been widely reported by the media, the owners miraculously overcame a ten-man Guatemalan hit squad and escaped to parts still unknown.
When she was only a few meters from the gate, a Caucasian man wearing the uniform of a low-level police official appeared in the gap. His deep-set eyes and thin beard fit the description Cyrah had been given by the woman who’d set up this meeting.
Officer Michael Pistorius made no effort at a greeting, instead eyeing her silently before starting across the courtyard. She followed, but at a pace that allowed her to take in her surroundings. The house was traditional Cape Dutch—white, with a central porch and a row of first-floor windows that had been partially covered with plywood. Four dormers with glass intact hinted at a second story and added interest to the steeply sloping roof. The grounds were a combination of well-tended grass, gravel, and flagstone, with an abundance of flowering plants. To the east was a sizable freestanding building with bay doors firmly closed.
“Hurry! We don’t have much time,” Pistorius said, using a key to open the front door.
Cyrah nodded and passed into the house’s dim interior. The extensive damage was immediately evident, as was a puddle of dried blood outlined in blue tape on the entryway floor.
“You have my money?” he said, making a show of his distaste for her.
“Of course.” She dug a stack of cash from her purse and handed it to him.
“What about your phone?”
“Turned off as we agreed.”
“Let me see.”
She fished it from her pocket and showed him the dark screen.
“No pictures,” he reminded her. “And any specific details you want to print in your article have to be approved by me.”
She shrugged. “I always protect my sources. The people I work for are more interested in blood and sensationalism than fact checking.”
“And who are those people exactly?”
Another shrug. “Whoever’s willing to pay the most.”
He motioned with his head toward the living area. “Don’t touch anything.”
“Can I use my flashlight app if I promise—”
She fell silent when he pulled a light from his belt and offered it to her.
The damage was indeed impressive. A sideboard was shattered on the floor, white walls had been darkened by smoke, and the sofa had been partially consumed by fire, revealing what appeared to be layers of Kevlar. Some walls had been penetrated, while others were intact. Not unusual for an old house—original walls were often constructed of stone or brick while newer partitions would be made from plasterboard. That didn’t seem to be the case here, though. There was no coherent architectural pattern and eventually she found a gouge big enough to confirm the presence of ballistic material.
“He had hidden weapons, too,” Pistorius said. “A lot of them.”
“Really?” she responded, shining the flashlight at the molding near the ceiling. There was something about it that had been bothering her and now she knew what it was. The paint was color coded to indicate the strength of the walls. It wouldn’t have been obvious in normal light, but the powerful LED beam exaggerated the different shades where the corners met.
“You have eight more minutes,” Pistorius said, looking increasingly nervous.
“My understanding is that there’s a safe room?”
He nodded and motioned for her to follow.
It wasn’t particularly elaborate—basically the best that could be retrofitted into the space. A bank of monitors were undoubtedly fed by hidden cameras covering every room from at least one angle. Redundant communications and network equipment was equally sophisticated, including controls for what appeared to be remote door locks.
It seemed almost certain that Mitch Burhan—a former Green Beret—had been fed real-time information on his enemies’ movements from this room. Combined with a truly extraordinary amount of nerve and skill, he’d managed to take down eight heavily armed killers here and two more on the road. Even with his training and background, no small feat.
“Can I go upstairs?”
On the second floor, there was enough sun coming through the windows to make the flashlight unnecessary and she gave it back to Pistorius. The layout was fairly simple—a master bedroom with an en suite bathroom, a second bedroom set up for guests, and a room that was obviously the home of seven-year-old Anna. The latter two shared a bathroom in the hall.
The fight had clearly not reached that level and there was no appreciable damage. Cyrah entered the closet and reached for a drawer but her police shadow immediately protested.
“What are you doing?”
“Just looking for some personal details. These kinds of stories are about human interest. People want to know who these people are. How they—”
“No,” he said firmly. “I told you not to touch anything and I meant it. You have three more minutes.”
“If it’s a matter of money—”
“Two minutes fifty-five seconds.”
She knew men like him and recognized that nothing short of a claw hammer against his skull was going to change his mind. Tempting, but not practical.
She finished her tour of the second floor and then descended again. There was a mangled door lying on the tile behind the entry and she looked down a hallway that led to an exit covered with plywood. Based on the limited damage to the front of the house, this is where the main incursion had likely happened. But it was tight, favoring a single man against a larger force.
“Thirty seconds.”
She would have liked to see the kitchen, but instead headed back toward the front door. There was nothing to be learned there. In the end, the visit had probably been a net negative. She’d revealed her existence to a dishonest policeman and accomplished little beyond confirming what she already knew: the family had been expecting trouble and were prepared for it. What she hadn’t fully understood—fully internalized—was how dangerous the owners of this house were. Claudia in particular piqued her interest and admiration. When those men attacked, she’d gathered her daughter, entered the safe room, and then calmly directed Burhan in his battle.
A formidable woman. It was going to be a shame to kill her.
Cyrah glanced in her rearview mirror but saw only the dirt road and mountains. Pistorius was likely securing the house in a way that would hide the fact that he’d allowed a visit by someone he believed to be a reporter.
When her vehicle reached the paved rural highway, she used her phone to send a code that would let her colleagues know that she was clear. It took longer than normal to get confirmation that the message had been received, but she wasn’t surprised. Her associates didn’t share her enthusiasm for this job and used every opportunity to subtly remind her of that.
Not that there was any need. She understood their position completely. They’d already had an extremely successful year, completing four assassinations in its first half. An Asian political hopeful, a European playboy, an aging Qatari billionaire, and a cheating husband who had underestimated both his wife’s vindictiveness and her resourcefulness. That had netted them just under seven million euros after expenses, which, split three ways, had allowed her to increase her holdings by more than two million euros.
One of her colleagues wanted to take the rest of the year off for additional training, technology upgrades, and to do a detailed analysis of the few mistakes made during the year’s operations. The other wanted to do all those things plus cherry-pick a few easy jobs. Since their fee was set, there was no incentive to take on anything dangerous or complicated. In their minds, easy money was better than hard money.
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.