metal struts of another sign.
The impact was hard and searing. As the passenger airbag exploded onto Jade’s forehead and her seatbelt cut into her shoulder, Pamela, hurled forward without the protection of a belt, landed half on top of the deploying driver’s airbag. Her head connected with the windscreen with a terrible smacking sound.
The car spun through 360 degrees, rocking violently, before finally coming to a standstill just beyond the mangled sign.
Steam hissed from the engine.
Pamela was immobile, panting, white-faced and wide-eyed. Conscious, though, in spite of the knock her head had taken.
“Get out!” Jade fumbled to undo her seatbelt. “Now.”
The passenger door had buckled and she didn’t rate the chances of getting it open, so she leant over and half-pushed Pamela out of the car through the driver’s door. She was quivering all over, a delayed reaction to their predicament. Not a good state for accurate shooting if the gunman returned.
“My bag.” Pamela turned back to the car.
Jade grabbed the Gucci handbag and scooped the contents back inside it. Or those she could see, anyway.
Not surprisingly, the traffic had slowed to form a fascinated queue of rubberneckers goggling at the unusual sight of a one-car accident on a suburban verge.
The gunman could return at any moment. She was sure she could hear the distant blurt of his engine. If he did, they would have nowhere to go. They were sitting targets, as would be any well-meaning people who stopped to help. Already, Jade could see two concerned-looking motorists had pulled over onto the opposite verge.
Looking ahead, she saw the taxi that had been following them had stopped to let out a passenger.
“Quick!” Waving at the taxi driver, she set off at a run.
She jumped over the buckled sign—glancing down, Jade saw they had just entered the suburb of Birdhaven—and down onto the paved pedestrian walkway. Pamela flailed behind her, battling to keep up in her unsuitable footwear. She stumbled as her high heel twisted sideways on the bricks, and almost fell. Jade grabbed her hand and yanked her along without slowing down, and it occurred to her that from now on she should insist that clients with errant husbands wear sensible shoes at all times.
“Here.” They reached the taxi. “Get in.”
“Inside this?” Pamela stopped in her tracks, staring at the battered white minibus.
“Yes. Hurry.” Jade pushed her through the open door with more force than she’d intended.
The tinted windows made the taxi’s interior look gloomy. It was hot and airless, and reeked of diesel and tightly packed humanity. As they scrambled in, fourteen chattering people fell silent and fourteen pairs of eyes watched them. A portly black man moved out of his seat in the first row and squeezed in next to the woman in a domestic worker’s outfit behind him so that they could sit together. His chivalry was lost on Pamela, who promptly collapsed onto the cracked leather seat and closed her eyes.
The taxi lurched forward. Still nobody spoke. Jade realised she was still holding her Glock. She holstered it and tugged her wallet from her pocket. Then she sat down next to Pamela.
Was it her imagination, or was there a collective sigh of relief?
She had no idea how much a taxi-ride cost, or even where they were going, but she handed the driver a twenty-rand note and was passed a couple of silver coins in return.
“Thank you for helping us back there,” she said.
The driver shrugged, as if trying to knock gun-wielding maniacs off their motorbikes was all in a day’s work for him.
Slowly, muted conversation resumed.
Jade turned to look through the rear window, but it was painted over with an advertisement for Lucky Star sardines and was impossible to see through. The taxi had two wing mirrors, both loosely attached and one badly cracked. They wobbled disconcertingly as the driver wove between the lanes of traffic, but all she could see through the unsteady
The impact was hard and searing. As the passenger airbag exploded onto Jade’s forehead and her seatbelt cut into her shoulder, Pamela, hurled forward without the protection of a belt, landed half on top of the deploying driver’s airbag. Her head connected with the windscreen with a terrible smacking sound.
The car spun through 360 degrees, rocking violently, before finally coming to a standstill just beyond the mangled sign.
Steam hissed from the engine.
Pamela was immobile, panting, white-faced and wide-eyed. Conscious, though, in spite of the knock her head had taken.
“Get out!” Jade fumbled to undo her seatbelt. “Now.”
The passenger door had buckled and she didn’t rate the chances of getting it open, so she leant over and half-pushed Pamela out of the car through the driver’s door. She was quivering all over, a delayed reaction to their predicament. Not a good state for accurate shooting if the gunman returned.
“My bag.” Pamela turned back to the car.
Jade grabbed the Gucci handbag and scooped the contents back inside it. Or those she could see, anyway.
Not surprisingly, the traffic had slowed to form a fascinated queue of rubberneckers goggling at the unusual sight of a one-car accident on a suburban verge.
The gunman could return at any moment. She was sure she could hear the distant blurt of his engine. If he did, they would have nowhere to go. They were sitting targets, as would be any well-meaning people who stopped to help. Already, Jade could see two concerned-looking motorists had pulled over onto the opposite verge.
Looking ahead, she saw the taxi that had been following them had stopped to let out a passenger.
“Quick!” Waving at the taxi driver, she set off at a run.
She jumped over the buckled sign—glancing down, Jade saw they had just entered the suburb of Birdhaven—and down onto the paved pedestrian walkway. Pamela flailed behind her, battling to keep up in her unsuitable footwear. She stumbled as her high heel twisted sideways on the bricks, and almost fell. Jade grabbed her hand and yanked her along without slowing down, and it occurred to her that from now on she should insist that clients with errant husbands wear sensible shoes at all times.
“Here.” They reached the taxi. “Get in.”
“Inside this?” Pamela stopped in her tracks, staring at the battered white minibus.
“Yes. Hurry.” Jade pushed her through the open door with more force than she’d intended.
The tinted windows made the taxi’s interior look gloomy. It was hot and airless, and reeked of diesel and tightly packed humanity. As they scrambled in, fourteen chattering people fell silent and fourteen pairs of eyes watched them. A portly black man moved out of his seat in the first row and squeezed in next to the woman in a domestic worker’s outfit behind him so that they could sit together. His chivalry was lost on Pamela, who promptly collapsed onto the cracked leather seat and closed her eyes.
The taxi lurched forward. Still nobody spoke. Jade realised she was still holding her Glock. She holstered it and tugged her wallet from her pocket. Then she sat down next to Pamela.
Was it her imagination, or was there a collective sigh of relief?
She had no idea how much a taxi-ride cost, or even where they were going, but she handed the driver a twenty-rand note and was passed a couple of silver coins in return.
“Thank you for helping us back there,” she said.
The driver shrugged, as if trying to knock gun-wielding maniacs off their motorbikes was all in a day’s work for him.
Slowly, muted conversation resumed.
Jade turned to look through the rear window, but it was painted over with an advertisement for Lucky Star sardines and was impossible to see through. The taxi had two wing mirrors, both loosely attached and one badly cracked. They wobbled disconcertingly as the driver wove between the lanes of traffic, but all she could see through the unsteady
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