The sound of the diamond-tipped drill biting through the steel door of the panic room was a high-pitched scream that vibrated in the teeth.
Zweli leaned against the terminal desk, clutching a towel to his bleeding shoulder. His face was pale, but his eyes were burning with a desperate calculation. He looked at the ventilation grate high on the back wall. It was small—barely big enough for a man.
He looked at Godfrey Shongwe, who was hugging his knees in the corner, muttering a prayer to ancestors he usually ignored.
“Uncle,” Zweli said, his voice straining with pain. “Get up.”
Godfrey looked up, eyes wet. “Are we dead? Is this the end?”
“Not yet,” Zweli pulled the hard drive from his pocket. The red light was still blinking, a beacon calling every killer in the city to their location. He wrapped the drive in a microfiber cloth and shoved it into Godfrey’s chest.
“You are going into the vent,” Zweli ordered.
“Me?” Godfrey squeaked. “I am a shareholder! I don’t do vents! And it’s dusty! I have allergies!”
“You threw water at a sniper, Uncle. You are already a combatant,” Zweli grabbed a chair and shoved it under the grate. “This vent leads to the service shaft on the north side. It comes out in the laundry room on the 5th floor. Jones is in the lobby. Get this to him.”
“Why me?” Godfrey trembled, holding the drive like it was a bomb. “Why not you? You are the ninja!”
“Because I am the distraction,” Zweli said, picking up a fire extinguisher. “And because if I go in there with my shoulder bleeding, I’ll pass out halfway. You are the only one left.”
Beauty stepped forward. She grabbed Godfrey’s face. “Uncle. Listen to me. That drive is our lives. It is Gogo Jane’s life. If you sell it… if you drop it… don’t come back.”
Godfrey looked at Beauty. He looked at the drive. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t being asked to fetch coffee or sign a fraudulent paper. He was being trusted with the empire.
“I… I will go,” Godfrey whispered. He climbed onto the chair. Zweli boosted him up. Godfrey squeezed his soft, suit-wearing body into the tight metal tunnel.
“Go!” Zweli hissed. He slapped the grate back into place just as the drill punched through the main door lock.
The Panic Room: The Breach
“Get behind the desk, Beauty,” Zweli commanded.
The steel door exploded inward with a concussive blast. Smoke filled the small room.
Three operatives stormed in, weapons raised, laser sights cutting through the haze.
“Hands! Show me your hands!” the lead operative screamed.
Zweli stood in the centre of the room, one hand pressing the bloody towel to his shoulder, the other raised empty.
“Don’t shoot!” Zweli shouted. “I surrender!”
The operatives swept the room. They checked Beauty behind the desk. They checked the corners.
“Clear!” one shouted.
The leader, a man with a scar running through his eyebrow, marched up to Zweli. He jammed the barrel of his rifle into Zweli’s wound.
Zweli grunted, knees buckling, but he didn’t fall.
“Where is it?” the leader barked. “The tracker says it’s in this room.”
“It was,” Zweli gasped. “I flushed it.”
“Flushed it?” The leader glanced at the small chemical toilet in the corner. “Electronics don’t flush, smart guy.”
He checked his wrist-mounted tracker. He frowned. The signal was moving. It was moving away.
“It’s moving north,” the leader said, tapping his comms. “It’s in the walls. Someone else is here.”
He turned his rifle on Beauty. “Who is in the vents?”
“Mickey Mouse,” Beauty spat, her fear replaced by the same defiance she showed in the boardroom.
The leader raised his hand to strike her.
Zweli moved.
Injury or not, he was the Unseen King. He dropped the towel. His hand shot out, grabbing the leader’s wrist, twisting the rifle barrel away from Beauty.
“Ghost Hand Strike,” Zweli roared, driving his palm into the leader’s chin.
The leader’s head snapped back. He fired a burst into the ceiling.
The other two operatives turned. Zweli kicked the heavy steel desk, sliding it across the floor. It slammed into the operatives’ legs, knocking them off balance.
“Run, Beauty!” Zweli shouted.
But there was nowhere to run. They were trapped in a box with trained killers.
The Vents: Godfrey’s Journey
Godfrey was crawling. It was dark, hot, and smelled of stale air and rat droppings. His knees were scraping against the raw metal.
“I hate this family,” Godfrey muttered, wheezing. “I hate cement. I hate hard drives. I should have been an accountant like Jones.”
The hard drive in his pocket felt hot. Or maybe it was just his terror.
He reached a junction. Left or right?
Left goes down, he thought. Down is good.
He shimmied left. Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was loud against the metal.
BZZZZT. BZZZZT.
Godfrey froze. He awkwardly fished the phone out.
Unknown Number.
He shouldn’t answer. He knew he shouldn’t. But Godfrey was Godfrey. He answered.
“H-hello?”
“Mr Shongwe,” a smooth, deep voice spoke. It wasn’t Jones. “This is General Mbatha. I know you are in the ventilation shaft.”
Godfrey stopped breathing. “How?”
“We are tracking the signal, Godfrey. You are carrying a very dangerous item. An item that could hurt your country.”
“I… I am just cleaning!” Godfrey lied poorly.
“Listen to me, Godfrey. Zweli uses you. He humiliates you. He made you a janitor. I can make you a king.”
Godfrey paused. The sweat dripped into his eyes. “A king?”
“Bring the drive to the roof, Godfrey. Not the lobby. The roof. I have a helicopter waiting. There is a briefcase on board with R50 million in cash. And a passport to Switzerland.”
Godfrey stared into the shaft’s darkness. R50 million. He could leave Sandra. He could leave the debts. He could leave the shame.
“The roof?” Godfrey whispered.
“Yes. Turn around. Climb up. Be the hero of your own story.”
The Panic Room: The Standoff
Zweli was on his knees. The fight had been short. He was wounded, outnumbered, and unarmed. The two operatives held him down while the leader recovered from the chin strike.
The leader wiped blood from his mouth. He looked furious.
“The signal has stopped moving,” the leader said, checking his tracker. “It’s stationary. Vertical shaft 4. He’s deciding.”
He looked at Zweli. “Your runner is debating, Mr Masilela. Let’s help him decide.”
The leader pulled out a radio. “General? Patch me through to the runner’s phone.”
A moment later, Godfrey’s voice echoed from the leader’s speakerphone.
“Hello? General?”
“Godfrey!” Zweli shouted at the radio. “Don’t listen to them! It’s a trap!”
“Silence him!” the leader ordered. One of the operatives kicked Zweli in the ribs. Zweli gasped, curling up.
“Godfrey,” the leader said into the radio. “This is the Commander on the ground. I have your niece here. And her husband. If you don’t bring that drive to the roof in two minutes… I will start removing their fingers. Starting with Beauty’s ring finger.”
“No!” Beauty cried.
In the vent, Godfrey heard the scream. He heard the kick.
He looked up toward the roof. The promise of millions. The escape. He looked down toward the lobby. The danger. The family that mocked him.
“I… I am coming,” Godfrey said into the phone.
“To the roof?” the General asked.
“Yes,” Godfrey said, his voice trembling. “To the roof.”
The leader smiled. He holstered his pistol. “Smart man. Keep them here. I’m going to meet our new business partner.”
He walked out.
Zweli looked at Beauty. His heart was broken. Godfrey had flipped. The plan had failed.
“He sold us,” Beauty whispered, tears streaming down her face. “He actually sold us.”
The Roof: 5 Minutes Later
The wind was howling on the helipad of the Menlyn Maine tower. A sleek government helicopter was idling, rotors spinning.
A man in a military uniform—General Mbatha—stood by the open door, holding a silver briefcase.
The access door to the roof creaked open.
Godfrey Shongwe stumbled out. He was covered in grey dust, looking like a ghost. He held the hard drive in his hand.
“Excellent, Mr Shongwe,” The General smiled, shouting over the rotors. “Bring it here! Your freedom is waiting!”
Godfrey walked forward. He looked at the briefcase. He looked at the General.
“Is it real?” Godfrey shouted. “The money?”
The General opened the case. Stacks of South African Rands. “Real and untraceable. Give me the drive.”
Godfrey reached out. The General reached out.
Godfrey looked at the helicopter. He looked at the edge of the building.
“You know,” Godfrey said, his voice strangely calm. “Zweli made me a janitor. It was humiliating.”
“Yes, yes, terrible,” The General impatiently beckoned. “The drive.”
“But,” Godfrey continued, pulling the drive back slightly. “He also paid for my mother’s heart surgery. And he saved me from the burning truck.”
The General’s smile faltered. “Godfrey. Give me the drive.”
Godfrey looked at the General.
“My name is Godfrey Shongwe,” he said. “And I am a shareholder.”
Godfrey spun around. He didn’t hand over the drive. He ran toward the edge of the building.
“Stop him!” The General screamed.
Godfrey reached the parapet. He didn’t jump. He reared back and threw the hard drive as hard as he could—not onto the roof, but over the edge.
The hard drive sailed out into the void, plummeting 20 stories down toward the busy square below.
“NO!” The General roared.
Godfrey turned back to the General, chest heaving. “Oops,” he grinned. “Butterfingers.”
The Square Below
Jones Shongwe was pacing the lobby entrance, terrified.
Suddenly, something smashed onto the pavement ten meters away.
CRACK.
Plastic and metal shattered.
Jones ran over. He saw the pieces of the hard drive scattered on the concrete. The red light flickered and died.
The tracker was destroyed. The data was destroyed.
The leverage was gone. But so was the target.
The Panic Room
The operatives’ radios crackled.
“Target destroyed! The drive is gone! Abort! Abort!”
The operatives looked at each other. Without the drive, there was no mission. And with the police sirens now wailing in the distance (Comfort had finally engaged the official channels), staying was suicide.
“We’re leaving,” the operative said, backing out.
They fled.
Zweli dragged himself up. He hugged Beauty.
“He did it,” Zweli wheezed, laughing painfully. “The crazy old fool actually did it.”
“He destroyed the evidence,” Beauty said, shock setting in. “Zweli… without that drive, we have no protection against the politicians. They will come for us.”
“No,” Zweli said, looking at the empty doorway. “They came for the proof. Now the proof is gone. It’s a stalemate. We are safe for tonight.”
The Twist
Godfrey sat on the roof, handcuffed by the General’s men before they fled. He was alone, bruised, but alive.
He looked at the night sky. He felt… light.
The roof door opened again. Comfort Sindane walked out, followed by Titan security. They cut Godfrey’s cuffs.
“Mr Shongwe,” Comfort said, looking impressed. “That was… unexpected.”
“I am a man of surprises,” Godfrey said, dusting himself off. “Did Jones get it?”
“Get what?” Comfort asked. “The drive is smashed. You destroyed it.”
Godfrey smiled. He reached into his sock.
He pulled out a USB stick.
“I watched a spy movie once,” Godfrey said smugly. “While I was in the vent, I plugged the drive into my phone with an adapter I keep for movies. I copied the files. The drive I threw? It was just the shell. The data is right here.”
He handed the USB to Comfort.
“Tell Zweli the price just went up,” Godfrey said, adjusting his ruined tie. “I want a corner office. And a new suit.”
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