The penthouse living room was a wreck of shattered glass, bullet holes, and drywall dust. But in the centre of the chaos, Godfrey Shongwe sat on the one remaining pristine armchair, sipping a glass of an expensive cognac.
He wore a borrowed robe, his legs crossed, looking for all the world like a conquering emperor rather than a man who had just crawled through a ventilation shaft.
“Director of Strategic Partnerships,” Godfrey declared, savouring the title like the cognac. “And a corner office. With a view of the Menlyn Maine square. Not the parking lot side.”
Zweli stood by the window, his shoulder bandaged and throbbing. He held the USB stick Godfrey had pulled from his sock. It was small, plastic, and contained enough information to bring down the government.
“You saved us, Uncle,” Zweli admitted, a grudging respect in his voice. “The General thinks the data is destroyed. He called off the siege. We have breathing room.”
“Breathing room provided by me,” Godfrey pointed out, swirling his drink. “So, do we have a deal? The office? The suit allowance? And… let’s say… a company car? I’m thinking a Mercedes C-Class. Nothing too flashy.”
Beauty walked over to Godfrey. She took the glass from his hand and set it down hard on the table.
“You also almost sold us out for a helicopter ride, Uncle,” she said sharply. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you on the radio.”
Godfrey looked hurt. “I was improvising! It was a double-cross! A triple-cross! I am a spymaster, Beauty. You wouldn’t understand the layers.”
Zweli looked at the USB, then at Godfrey. He realised that Godfrey was no longer just a nuisance; he was a player. And a player without discipline was a grenade without a pin.
“You get the office,” Zweli said. “You get the car. But you also get a handler.”
“A what?”
“A babysitter,” Zweli said. “Ghost will be assigned to your detail. He goes where you go. He drives the car. He guards the office. If you so much as sneeze in the direction of a rival, he puts you back in the ventilation shaft. Do you accept?”
Godfrey paled at the thought of the scary tactical officer watching his every move, but the allure of the corner office was too strong.
“Deal,” Godfrey grinned. “When do I start?”
Shongwe Enterprises HQ: 09:00 AM (The Next Day)
The transition was jarring. Shongwe Enterprises, now flush with Emoyeni cash, had moved from their cramped site office to a glossy floor in the Menlyn corporate park.
Godfrey strutted into his new office. It was glass-walled, spacious, and smelled of new carpet. He sat in the ergonomic leather chair and spun around once.
“King Godfrey,” he whispered to himself.
Ghost, the silent, hulking tactical operative, stood by the door, arms crossed. He stared at Godfrey through dark sunglasses.
“Can you… stand outside?” Godfrey asked nervously.
“No,” Ghost rumbled.
Godfrey sighed and opened his laptop. He had no actual work to do. Zweli had given him a title but no responsibilities. He decided to Google “how to look busy.”
Meanwhile, in the CEO’s office down the hall, the atmosphere was tense.
Zweli and Beauty sat with Comfort Sindane. The USB stick was plugged into an air-gapped laptop—disconnected from the internet to prevent tracking.
“The files are intact,” Comfort said, scrolling through the data. “Jones’s original ledger. Bank account numbers, offshore shell companies, communication logs between The Architect and Minister Zuma… and higher.”
“How high?” Beauty asked.
Comfort clicked a folder named PROJECT OLYMPUS.
“General Mbatha,” Comfort read. “And… the Deputy President.”
The room went cold.
“If we release this,” Zweli said, “it’s civil war. They won’t just arrest us; they will burn the country down to protect themselves.”
“So we hold it,” Beauty said. “Mutually Assured Destruction. As long as they think it’s destroyed, they won’t attack us. If they find out we have it, they strike.”
“Correct,” Zweli nodded. “We need to maintain the illusion that Godfrey threw the real drive.”
The General’s Office: Pretoria Military Base
General Mbatha sat in a dim office, watching the drone footage of Godfrey throwing the hard drive off the roof. He replayed it for the tenth time.
“It smashed,” his aide said. “Forensics recovered the pieces. The platter was shattered. Data unrecoverable.”
Mbatha rubbed his chin. “It seems too… convenient. Godfrey Shongwe is a coward. Cowards don’t destroy leverage; they sell it.”
“Perhaps he panicked?”
“Perhaps,” Mbatha mused. “Or perhaps he is smarter than he looks.”
He picked up a secure phone. “Connect me to the Banking Surveillance Unit. Flag Godfrey Shongwe’s accounts. If he spends one rand more than his salary, I want to know.”
Menlyn Mall: Lunchtime
Godfrey managed to slip away from Ghost for a “bathroom break”, which turned into an unauthorised excursion to the mall food court. He felt invincible. He had a corporate credit card now.
He walked past a high-end electronics store. In the window, a massive 85-inch 8K TV was playing a soccer match.
‘I deserve that,’ Godfrey thought. ‘For my bravery.‘
He walked in.
“I want that one,” Godfrey told the sales assistant, pointing to the R60,000 screen. “And deliver it to my new office. Shongwe Enterprises.”
He whipped out the company card.
The assistant swiped it. APPROVED.
Godfrey grinned. He was living the dream.
As he walked out, his phone buzzed. An unknown number.
“Enjoying the TV, Mr Shongwe?”
Godfrey froze. It was the General.
“How… how do you know?” Godfrey stammered, looking around the mall.
“I told you, we are watching,” the General said. “You spent R60,000. On a janitor’s salary? I don’t think so.”
“I got a promotion!” Godfrey squeaked.
“Did you?” The General’s voice dropped to a purr. “Or did you get a payout? For keeping a copy?”
Godfrey stopped breathing. He hadn’t told anyone about the copy. Wait. The General was fishing.
“I… I destroyed it!” Godfrey insisted. “I swear!”
“Then prove it,” The General said. “Come to the parking lot. Level P3. Grey Sedan. Alone. If you bring your bodyguard, you die.”
Godfrey hung up. He looked toward the exit where Ghost was waiting. He looked toward the elevators to the parking lot.
If he went to Ghost, he admitted he was compromised. If he went to the General, he might die.
But Godfrey had a secret. He hadn’t just copied the files to the USB he gave Zweli.
He patted his breast pocket. He had kept one file. Just one. A little insurance policy he hadn’t told anyone about. He didn’t know what was in it, but the filename was “JONES_INSURANCE.mp4”.
Maybe I can sell just one file, Godfrey thought. Just to get them off my back.
He walked toward the elevators.
Shongwe Enterprises: 14:00
Zweli was reviewing security protocols when Ghost walked in. Alone.
“Where is he?” Zweli asked, standing up.
“He slipped me,” Ghost said, looking furious with himself. “Went out the back of the bathroom. I tracked his phone to the mall, but the signal just died. He’s gone dark.”
“He’s meeting someone,” Zweli said, grabbing his jacket. “Comfort, track the company credit card. Where was it last used?”
“Electronics store. Five minutes ago.”
“He’s shopping,” Beauty sighed. “He’s just being an idiot.”
“No,” Zweli said. “The General would be watching the finances. If Godfrey spent money, the General knows. He’ll make contact.”
Zweli ran for the door. “Comfort, get the van! We’re going to the mall!”
Parking Level P3
The grey sedan was waiting in the shadows. Godfrey approached it slowly, sweating profusely.
The window rolled down. The General wasn’t there. Just a driver and a man in the back seat holding a laptop.
“Get in,” the man said.
Godfrey got in.
“Where is the copy?” the man asked.
“I… I gave it to Zweli,” Godfrey blurted out. “He has the USB!”
The man smiled. “Thank you. That’s all we needed to confirm. The data still exists.”
He pulled out a silenced pistol. “Now, you are a loose end.”
Godfrey shrieked. “Wait! I have something else! I kept one file! A video! I didn’t give it to Zweli!”
The man paused. “Show me.”
Godfrey pulled out a third USB stick (he had bought a multi-pack). He plugged it into the man’s laptop.
The file “JONES_INSURANCE.mp4” popped up.
The man clicked play.
The video opened. It was grainy footage from twenty years ago. It showed a younger Jones Shongwe sitting in an office. But he wasn’t alone. Sitting across from him, looking young and terrified, was Zinhle Shongwe.
And standing behind them, hand on Zinhle’s shoulder, was General Mbatha.
In the video, the General spoke: “Sign the papers, Zinhle. Sign over the land rights to your mother’s ancestral farm. Or Jones goes to prison for embezzlement.”
Zinhle was crying as she signed.
Godfrey stared at the screen. The land rights? The farm? That was the land the Voortrekker Monument stood on? No… that was the land where the Menlyn construction site was now.
The General hadn’t just wanted the cement or the data. He had stolen the land from Zinhle twenty years ago using blackmail, and now Shongwe Enterprises was building on land the General technically “owned” through fraud.
“My sister…” Godfrey whispered. “She knew? She gave it away?”
“She saved her husband,” the assassin said. “And now, you know too much.”
He raised the gun.
SCREECH.
A black Mercedes V-Class drifted around the corner, tyres smoking. It slammed into the side of the grey sedan, pinning the driver’s door shut.
Zweli jumped out, wearing his suit and sunglasses. He didn’t look like a chauffeur. He looked like death.
He shattered the rear window with his elbow and dragged the assassin out before he could fire.
“Godfrey! Run!” Zweli shouted.
Godfrey scrambled out of the car, clutching his USB stick.
Zweli engaged the assassin in close quarters—a flurry of blocks and strikes. But the assassin was good. Military trained. He pulled a knife.
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