Shiloh (Wishes #6) Page 3

  “Never.” His brown eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled. “I’ll support you all the way.”

  The strength of his answer was hugely reassuring, but he wasn’t my biggest obstacle. His wife probably had a Crockpot with my name on it.

  “Do you think Lynette will come around to the idea?”

  “Never in a million years,” she interrupted, storming back into the room. “I’m not going to be the one to call your mother and tell her you’ve been murdered by drug dealers.”

  We were getting a little off track. I had no idea why drug dealers had rated a mention, but knew better than to question her. Lynette thumped down in her chair, tightly folding her arms across her chest while she scowled at me.

  “Don’t you worry, Shiloh,” soothed Allan. “I’ll call your mother and tell her you’ve been murdered.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  He grinned. “No problem at all.”

  “You’re both bloody fools.” Lynette thumped both palms on the table and pushed her chair back. “I’m going to make coffee.”

  I was looking forward to the reprieve, but her exit was delayed. Jenson appeared in the doorway looking as guilty as a fat Labrador with a cupcake in his mouth could.

  “Oh, sweet, Jesus,” muttered Lynette, prising his jaw open. She waved what was left of the cupcake at him. “This is the end of the line,” she chided. “It’s doggy boot camp for you, fatso. First thing Monday morning.”

  His brown ears went back, he slowly wagged his tail and his epic look of shame intensified.

  “I think you’ve hurt his feelings,” suggested Allan. “You know he’s sensitive about his weight.”

  Lynette turned back, looking ten times guiltier than the dog. I was doing all I could not to laugh, and a quick glance across the table showed that Allan was close to cracking too.

  “I was harsh, wasn’t I?” She turned back to Jenson and handed him the contraband cake. “I’m sorry, boy. You’re not fat. You’re just a little husky.”

  It was the gentlest tone I’d ever heard her use. It wasn’t the least bit believable, but Jenson seemed to buy it. Cupcake in mouth, he waddled to his basket in the living room.

  “Now,” muttered Lynette, smoothing down her hair as she continued to the kitchen. “About that coffee.”

  As soon as she was gone, the giggle that had almost become painful tumbled out of my mouth.

  “You could take a leaf out of his book,” Allan said, motioning to the dog with an upward nod. “Jenson’s the best undercover operative I’ve ever known. He could steal the crown jewels of England, blame it on the nearest Beefeater and make a clean getaway.”

  I frowned, confused. To me, Jenson’s cupcake heist didn’t exactly scream success. “He got busted.”

  “Being undercover is all about creating illusions,” Allan explained. “You need to pretend and create to get the job done. Do you understand?”

  I nodded but said no.

  “Jenson just played Netty like a fiddle,” he continued. “His mind was on the mission and his eyes were on the prize. He’s a genius.”

  Unconvinced, I turned to study the crooked old dog who was now fast asleep. All that was left of the cupcake was the red paper wrapper on the carpet.

  “Sorry, Sergeant,” I replied. “I just don’t see it.”

  Allan’s wry smile broadened. He stood up and made his way over to the dog’s basket. Jenson tumbled to the side as he lifted the ratty old cushion, but he barely opened his eyes before settling back into position. “Do you see this?”

  I craned my neck, shocked by the sight of at least ten more red cupcake wrappers hiding under the cushion.

  “He played the part and got the job done,” Allan said proudly. “He let Netty think she caught him red handed. She’ll never blame him for the rest of the haul because she thinks he’s too dumb to get away with it. That was part one.”

  I’d never been more desperate to hear a part two in all my life. Mercifully, the intermission was brief. Probably wary of Lynette’s impending arrival, he sat back down and continued.

  “Part two.” Allan held two fingers in the air. “He charmed her with pitiful looks and a wagging tail.” He looked across at Jenson. “He’s a handsome bastard and he knows how to use it to his advantage.”

  A bad case of the giggles overtook me again. “Who’ll take the fall for him?” I asked, barely composing myself.

  Allan leaned down and whispered, “Well, between you and me, he’s never had much time for the cats.”

  My eyes widened. “Cats eat cake?”

  Allan straightened up in his chair. “It doesn’t matter either way,” he replied. “Jenson did his homework. Those cats are done for.” He swiped his hand across his neck in a cutthroat motion. “Stitched them up good and proper.”

  “Perhaps I should ask him for some tips,” I joked.

  “The formula is simple.” Allan spoke quietly and seriously, sucking every ounce of humour out of the conversation. “Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it, Shiloh,” he instructed. “If you can manage that, you might just make it through.”

  ***

  Three days after agreeing to take Dan up on his job offer, I was gearing up to kiss life in Lawler goodbye. A temporary posting to the city was the official explanation for my quick exit, which meant my position at the Lawler station would be held until I returned.

  “If you don’t get murdered,” grumbled Lynette when I told her.

  Ignoring her gripe for obvious reasons, I pulled her into a tight hug. “I’m going to miss you, Netty.”

  However disgruntled she might’ve been, she held me tightly. “Protect your soul at all costs, my girl.” Her Irish brogue made it sound like an especially important command. “It’s the only truth you’ll have for a while.”

  Leaving the Kellys behind was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do. A drawn-out goodbye would’ve been impossible to endure so I was glad it happened quickly.

  All boxes were checked. My bags were packed, my furniture was in storage and, for now, I’d let my adoptive family go.

  Shiloh Brannan was officially off the grid.

  ***

  Agent Grace wasn’t the friendliest man I’d ever met, but I soon realised that his gruff demeanour during our first meeting was actually his sweet tone. My last day in the country was spent holed up in his office while he drilled me with information. There was no need for me to read the contents of the two files he’d thumped on the desk in front of me. He did it for me – several times over.

  “How did you find out so much information?” I asked curiously.

  He hesitated, perhaps unwilling to answer. “We have another operative in Kaimte,” he finally replied. “All your contact with us will happen through him.”

  “So how do I find him?”

  Dan shook his head. “You don’t. He’ll find you when the time is right.”

  The cloak and dagger frustrated me no end. Every last detail of the operation was on a need-to-know basis. The AFP needed to know everything, but apparently I didn’t.

  “Awesome,” I muttered. “I look forward to meeting him.”

  “These are the only two men you need to focus on.” He pressed a hand on each folder. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re not lightweights, Shiloh,” he reminded me for the millionth time.

  “Okay.”

  My one-word answers pissed him off. Dan exhaled a long breath and leaned so far back in his chair that I worried it might tip over. “Don’t underestimate them.”

  That was never going to happen. The bulging files in front of me held a wealth of information, and it wasn’t the stuff of fairy tales. I’d finally recognised that the strange sensation buzzing through my body was fear. I just wasn’t prepared to show it to Agent Grace.

  “I can do this,” I said confidently. “One of these men has a diamond fetish, and I’m going to find out who it is.”

  Surprisin
gly, Dan laughed, a deep chuckle I’d never heard from him before. “I hope you do.”

  “Who’s your money on?” I leaned forward and slapped my hand down on the file to my left. “Tweedledum?” My other hand hit the file on the right. “Or Tweedledee?”

  He barely paused for thought. “Tweedledum,” he replied, motioning to the file with a nod. “I just need you to get me the proof.”

  ***

  Two hours before I was due to leave for the airport, a highly-strung blonde woman stormed Dan’s office. I probably should’ve questioned why she was dragging my luggage behind her, but I was too focused on her shoes. I’d never seen anyone team a pair of white sneakers with a tight black pencil skirt and blazer before – even in Lawler. It was such an odd match that I questioned her about it.

  The woman looked down at her feet. “I cover more ground in these,” she explained. “Heels slow me down.”

  Still perplexed, I nodded.

  “I’ve been through your luggage,” she added, pulling my suitcase forward. “It’s good to go.”

  I must’ve looked as annoyed as I felt when I jumped to my feet because Dan moved quickly to explain. “We’ve taken out anything that might be detrimental to your cover.”

  My angry stance crumbled as my shoulders dropped. Even I had to concede that their scrutiny made sense. “Fine,” I muttered.

  Dan reached into his desk drawer, grabbed a large envelope and upended the contents onto his desk. One by one, he pointed out each item. “Phone, passport, credit cards.”

  I snatched the passport up and studied the details closely. The picture I’d posed for the day before wasn’t any kinder than my real passport photo, but the name made me smile. Choosing a bogus surname had been the only part of the process that I’d had any say in.

  “It has to be something simple,” Dan instructed. “Something you’ll remember.”

  I volunteered an answer at warp speed. “Jenson,” I replied.

  Agent Grace signed off on it without question. If he had asked the origin, I probably would’ve lied. Taking the name of a fat brown Labrador probably wasn’t the done thing.

  Ne’er-do-well

  MITCHELL

  The call of the sea had always been deafening, which is why Kaimte was the perfect place for me.

  Perfect surf conditions conjured up by the South Atlantic Ocean is the drawcard for diehard beach lovers. Cheap rent and the low cost of living was a plus too, but village life isn’t for everyone. Most people can’t survive long without the mod cons of supermarkets, tarmac roads and a constant internet connection, but it was an adventure I’d been living for nearly seven years.

  Being a beach bum had its obvious perks, but it was hardly productive. I spent the first few years doing the bare minimum to scrape by, working the odd labouring job during the day and bartending at night.

  The bar owner at the time was a salty old bloke called Nelson. He had a filthy mouth and a low tolerance for fools. I’d seen him turf blokes out the door for looking at him the wrong way, which is no mean feat when you’re seventy-six and crippled by arthritis.

  As rough and tough as Nelson was, poor health eventually beat him. After thirty years of pouring warm beers, he was forced to return to his hometown of Durban – but not before tying up a few loose ends.

  “I’ll sell you this joint, Aussie,” he offered out of the blue. “Ten thousand dollars and it’s yours.”

  It sounded like a bargain, but wasn’t. The Crown and Pav Bar wasn’t exactly upmarket – two shipping containers welded together on the beach hardly screamed class. But there was an upside. It was the only pub in town, and everyone drank there.

  Eking out enough of a living to pay rent and buy food is fine when you’re twenty, but there comes a point when it transitions to being pathetic and lazy. For that reason alone, I agreed to buy it on the spot.

  Predictably, I didn’t have ten grand. At the time, I didn’t have ten cents. Pushing pride aside, I phoned my father and asked him for a loan. He obliged, but not before sinking the boot in. “Hopefully it’ll make a man out of my ne’er-do-well son.”

  My dad no longer has any financial interest in the Crown and Pav. After three years of hard slog, I managed to pay him back every cent that I owed him, plus interest. The ne’er-do-well had finally come good.

  Cardboard Village

  SHILOH

  I stepped off the small charter plane and pulled in a long breath of pure desert heat. Lawler was isolated, but it had nothing on Kaimte. Lawler had roads and buildings and people. From what I could tell, all Kaimte had was sand, low-lying scrub and flies.

  What the hell had I gotten myself into?

  I stood on the edge of the dirt runway and watched the small Cessna take off, feeling utter relief when it was gone. Nerves had first kicked in when I boarded the plane in Cape Town. Being vigilant was not to my advantage. I would’ve fared much better had I not noticed that my seat wasn’t actually bolted to the floor, and the constant flickering of the overhead reading light had me convinced that fire was about to break out in the cabin at any moment. The three-hour flight felt like ten, and I wasn’t feeling any safer now that I was on the ground.

  At least I wasn’t alone.

  I turned to see a man running toward me frantically waving a stack of papers. “Mrs Shiloh! Mrs Shiloh!”

  I took a step back as he ground to a halt in front of me.

  “I have your visa,” he explained. “You need to come with me.”

  His voice held zero authority, and so did his presence. He couldn’t have been more than five feet tall with a boyish face that perfectly matched his slight stature. My eyes drifted to the company emblem on the pocket of his khaki shirt. He was a Jorge Creek Diamond Mine employee.

  “My name is Baako.” His white smile was especially brilliant against the contrast of his dark skin. “Whatever you need, I will get.”

  “The company sent you?” I asked.

  Baako made a grab for my suitcase. “Yes. I am the meet and greet man.”

  His job title was exactly as it implied. All I had to do while Baako quibbled with the customs officer over the validity of my paperwork was breathe, which wasn’t easy. The heat in the windowless room was stifling, and the slow rotation of the ceiling fan didn’t help one iota. By the time I got out of there, I was close to throwing up.

  Baako looked worried. “Your car.” He pointed to a white Toyota Prado parked on the verge. “Your boss will take you to your house. It will be cool in the car.”

  The car was much cooler, but so was the atmosphere. The man in the driver’s seat made no attempt to greet me as I got in. If anything, he looked inconvenienced by my arrival.

  Baako loaded my luggage and handed me his card. “You can call me,” he offered. “Whatever, whenever.”

  My so-called boss didn’t give me a chance to thank him. Without warning, he sped off leaving the poor bloke eating dust. My hands gripped the sides of my seat as we barrelled along the dirt road, but I refused to speak until he did.

  “You won’t last a week here,” he finally predicted.

  He was decidedly English, but the sexy accent did him no favours. His reflective aviator sunglasses and the Bluetooth earpiece stuck to his ear weren’t advantageous either. He was a dick and looked the part.

  “I’m looking forward to proving you wrong,” I replied strongly.

  He glanced across at me, almost cracking a smile. “I’m Glen Harris.”

  “Shiloh Jenson.”

  “I’m head of security,” he explained.

  I knew exactly who he was. He was Tweedledee.

  Glen’s position within the company made him an obvious person of interest. Few people on site had as much access as him, but suspicion wasn’t enough. The AFP needed proof, and it was my job to get it.

  “You report to me, and only me,” he added.

  “Aye, aye, captain.”

  Nothing about Glen Harris intimidated me. I was well aware of my role. Little did he kn
ow, I reported to someone far higher up the ladder than him.

  ***

  Glen wasn’t exactly helpful. After casually informing me that he hadn’t bothered organising any company accommodation for me, he dropped me off on the outskirts of town at a place he referred to as the cardboard village.

  “Most expats live here,” he said through the gap in the window. “Talk to a man called Leroy. He might be able to rent you something.”

  Knowing he was about to speed away at any second, I took a step back.

  “I’ll pick you up here on Monday morning.” The car was rolling forward as he spoke. “Five o’clock. If you’re late, I’m not waiting.”

  ***

  Dragging a thirty-kilo suitcase along the beach is no mean feat but I somehow managed, passing the entire row of shacks before finally stumbling upon Leroy. The grey-haired old man was sitting on the veranda of the only house that looked habitable. “What do you want?” he roared.

  “I’m looking for Leroy.”

  He smashed his cane down on the deck. “You’ve found him. Now what do you want?”

  I purposefully kept the conversation short, which seemed to work in my favour. After minimal explanation, Leroy agreed to rent me one of the abominable shacks. “I’ve only got one available.”

  “I only need one,” I replied.

  “Just came vacant,” he continued. “The last tenant took off in a hurry. Left all his belongings behind.”

  I was nodding before he even finished speaking. “I’ll take it.”

  For some reason, Leroy threw his head back and laughed – a derisive cackle that made me nervous. “I need the first month in advance.”

  “Fine.”

  I would’ve agreed to anything at that point. I’d had less than two hours sleep in as many days. All I wanted was a shower and a decent bed. The irony was, I knew I wasn’t going to get it.

  I waited on the sand while Leroy fetched the keys, and then followed him at a snail’s pace as he headed down the beach to shack number fifty-nine – an impossible address considering there were only fourteen shacks.