The baton of the Red Ant Commander arced through the air, a heavy rubber truncheon reinforced with steel. It was aimed directly at Beauty’s head.
In the split second before impact, Beauty didn’t flinch. She held her phone steady, broadcasting the violence to the world.
Zweli moved. His muscles coiled to unleash a strike that would shatter the Commander’s arm. But he stopped. He saw a shadow move faster than him.
Voster “The Bulldozer” Nzimande lunged from the side. He didn’t attack. He shielded. He threw his large, overall-clad body between Beauty and the weapon.
THWACK.
The baton struck Voster’s temple with a sickening sound of splitting skin.
Voster groaned, his knees buckling. He collapsed onto the pavement at Beauty’s feet, blood immediately pooling on the concrete.
“Voster!” Beauty screamed, dropping to her knees, the phone still streaming from her hand.
The Red Ant Commander froze. He realised too late that he hadn’t hit the “uppity woman”. He had struck a man who wasn’t fighting back—a man who had just saved her.
On the screen of Beauty’s phone, the comments exploded. @Jozi_Native: Did you see that?? They just cracked his skull! @Pretoria_News: Is that Voster? The taxi boss? Protecting a woman? @EFF_Ground: STATE VIOLENCE! GENERAL MBATHA MUST FALL!
Beauty turned the camera to her own face, tears mixing with the dust.
“You see this?” she shouted into the phone. “This man is a construction worker! He stepped in front of a weapon meant for me! General Mbatha is killing us for building a hospital corridor!”
Across the street, General Mbatha lowered his binoculars. His phone was already ringing. It was the Minister of Police.
“General, pull them back,” the Minister’s voice was icy. “Twitter is trending #MbathaMustFall. You are making martyrs out of gangsters. Abort.”
Mbatha cursed. “Retreat!” he barked into his radio. “Get the Ants out of there!”
The Red Ants lowered their shields and began to back away, confused. Voster’s men roared, surging forward to attack, but Zweli stepped in front of them, raising his hands.
“No!” Zweli commanded. “Let them run! If we fight now, we lose the moral high ground. Voster won this for us. Don’t waste his blood!”
The taxi drivers stopped, seething, watching the Red Ants pile back into their trucks and speed away in shame.
The Site Infirmary: 17:00
Voster sat on a gurney, a large bandage wrapped around his head. He looked groggy but smug.
“Did you see the views?” Voster asked, scrolling through Beauty’s phone. “Two hundred thousand. I am famous.”
“You are reckless,” Beauty said, wiping his hand with a wet cloth. “You could have died, Voster.”
“I calculated the trajectory,” Voster grinned, wincing. “Besides, if I let them hit the Boss Lady, who pays my salary?”
Beauty smiled sadly. “You’re a good man, Voster. Underneath all that leather.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” Voster warned. “It ruins my reputation.”
Zweli stood by the door, watching them. He felt a pang of something strange. Jealousy? No. Respect. The thug he had threatened to bury under a driveway had just taken a bullet for his wife.
“General Mbatha won’t stop,” Zweli said. “He lost the physical battle. He lost the PR battle. That means he has only one weapon left.”
“What weapon?” Beauty asked.
“The money.”
The Penthouse: 07:00 AM (The Next Morning)
The morning brought a new kind of silence. No sirens. No trucks.
Just a notification on Beauty’s phone.
She was sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping coffee, when she opened her banking app to authorise the weekly payroll.
ERROR: ACCOUNT FROZEN. CODE 99: PRESERVATION ORDER – PROCEEDS OF CRIME ACT.
“Zweli,” Beauty whispered.
Zweli walked over from the stove where he was making oats. “What is it?”
“The accounts,” she showed him the screen. “Shongwe Enterprises. Emoyeni Capital. Even my personal savings. They are all frozen.”
Zweli pulled out his own phone. He checked his offshore accounts.
ACCESS DENIED.
“Comfort,” Zweli dialled immediately. “Status.”
“It’s a blanket freeze, Sir,” Comfort’s voice was tight. “The General filed an affidavit claiming that Shongwe Enterprises is laundering money for the Boko Haram gang. Because you hired Voster and his men, he’s classified the entire payroll as ‘Terrorism Financing’. Every asset linked to your ID, Beauty’s ID, and even the Emoyeni subsidies is locked down pending investigation.”
“How long is the investigation?”
“Indefinitely. Until we prove the funds aren’t going to criminal activities. In court, that could take six months.”
Zweli hung up. He looked at Beauty.
“We have no money,” Beauty said, panic rising. “Zweli… today is Friday. It’s payday.”
“I know.”
“Voster’s men… they aren’t corporate employees. They don’t understand ‘banking errors’. If they don’t get paid at 5 PM today, they will burn the site down. They will think we tricked them.”
Zweli looked out the window at the construction site below. He could see the workers gathering, expecting their envelopes. They had fought the Red Ants for this money. If the money didn’t come, the alliance would shatter, and Voster would turn from martyr back to monster.
“We need R2 million,” Zweli calculated. “In cash. By 5 PM.”
“We can’t get it from the bank,” Beauty said. “We can’t get it from your father—his transfers will be blocked too.”
“We need a private lender,” Zweli said. “Someone with liquidity who operates outside the banking system.”
“A loan shark?” Beauty asked. “Zweli, no. That’s how my father got into this mess.”
“Not a shark,” Zweli said, his jaw tightening. “A whale.”
He walked to the window. He knew one person in Pretoria who kept millions in a safe, who hated the General, and who had offered him the world.
“No,” Beauty said, following his gaze. She knew exactly who he was thinking of. “Absolutely not.”
“We have no choice, Beauty.”
“Josephine de Klerk?” Beauty shouted. “You want to borrow money from the woman who tried to steal you? The woman who humiliated me in my own house?”
“She has the cash, Beauty. Her father is a diamond dealer. They keep reserves.”
“I would rather let the building burn,” Beauty said, crossing her arms.
“Would you rather let Voster’s men attack us?” Zweli asked gently. “They are volatile, Beauty. If we don’t pay them, they will come for you. After they saved you, that betrayal will turn them into animals.”
Beauty stared at him. She hated it. She hated that he was right.
“Fine,” she hissed. “But I go with you. And I do the talking. If she touches you, Zweli… if she even looks at you like a snack… I am cancelling the deal.”
Waterkloof Ridge: The De Klerk Mansion – 12:00 PM
The De Klerk mansion was a palace of white marble and glass, perched high on the hill.
Josephine de Klerk was waiting for them by the pool, wearing a flowing kaftan and large sunglasses. She didn’t look surprised to see them.
“The King and Queen of construction,” Josephine smiled, sipping a mimosa. “I heard about the nasty business with the accounts. The General plays dirty, doesn’t he?”
“We need R2 million. Cash,” Beauty said, standing stiffly by the pool chair. “Short-term loan. 20% interest. Repayable in 30 days.”
Josephine laughed. “Strictly business, Mrs Masilela? How boring.”
She stood up and walked over to Zweli. She circled him, smelling his cologne.
“I have the money in the safe,” Josephine said. “Cash is trash, as my father says. I can give it to you.”
“What are the terms?” Zweli asked, looking straight ahead, avoiding her gaze.
“20% interest is fine,” Josephine waved a hand. “But I want collateral.”
“We have the building,” Beauty said. “We can sign a lien.”
“I don’t want a building,” Josephine smirked. “I want an experience.”
She looked at Zweli.
“My father is hosting a high-stakes poker game tonight. Here. Some very… influential men. International investors. I need a bodyguard. Someone who looks good in a tuxedo, but can break a wrist if someone cheats.”
She traced a finger down Zweli’s lapel.
“You be my personal protection for the night, Zweli. You stand by my chair. You pour my wine. You intimidate my rivals. Do that… and you leave with the briefcase of cash at midnight.”
Beauty stepped forward, furious. “He is not a servant! He is a CEO!”
“Tonight, his accounts say he is a pauper,” Josephine countered coldly. “And his workers are waiting. Do we have a deal, Zweli? Or do I pour another mimosa and watch your skyscraper burn on the news?”
1 Trackback / Pingback