Sanity is a relative thing. Did you have to be sane to realise that everyone else was crazy? Or did you have to be insane in the first place? Or was insanity the human race’s default setting, in which case if you actually were sane, you would be viewed as being crazy?
Einstein said there’s a fine line between genius and insanity. Connor was clever enough to know he wasn’t a genius.
That was probably just as well, he thought, as he sped the bike through the Johannesburg twilight. He had sat and rested at the theatre for a few hours, mulling over the contents of the letter and the clipping, chewing on petrol station biltong. Rest, relax, prepare. Midnight was a tight deadline but he was buggered if he was going to ride across town in broad daylight. The setting sun cast long shadows as Connor considered the letter and what it meant.
Insanity. Risking his life for an unknown woman.
Insanity. Going to a bar where there was no alcohol left and an unknown number of guards from an unknown organization guarding the unknown woman.
Insanity. Taking the woman the forty minutes to Lanseria airport. That would be a long time on the road with a rescued hostage. Assuming it was the police holding her. Maybe it was the resistance. Then he’d be working for the police again. What if it was a third party? South American drug lords might be fun for a change of pace.
He turned the bike from Cotswold Drive into Jan Smuts, staying off the main roads as much as possible. No police, no drones. Maybe his luck was on the turn.
He parked the bike behind a burnt-out car a block away from his destination. Not visible from the road. The noise of the engine would alert them, whoever they were, to his presence. And that would ruin the surprise. Connor did like surprises, but only if he was the one doing the surprising.
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