The sound of duct tape tearing was loud in the silent living room. Zweli carefully taped a thick sheet of cardboard over the shattered window of the Shongwe house. The brick and the bullet attached to it sat on the coffee table like a poisonous toad.
Beauty sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the bullet. “They know where we live, Zweli. The Construction Mafia doesn’t play. They killed the project manager in Mamelodi last month just for refusing to hire their ‘security’ guards.”
Zweli finished taping the window. He walked over to her and knelt. “They are bullies, Beauty. Bullies only understand one language. We will not let them take this opportunity from you.”
“I should resign,” she whispered, tears forming again. “Is R50 million worth a bullet in the head?”
Zweli took her hands. His grip was warm and solid. “You won’t get a bullet. I promise you. Tomorrow, you go to that site, and you take command. I will be your shadow.”
Beauty looked at him. She wanted to believe him. Yesterday, he stopped a knife with his bare hands. Tonight, he was just her husband again, the man who taped windows and cooked stew. But the memory of his eyes in that hospital waiting room—cold, ancient, dangerous—lingered.
“Okay,” she breathed. “But we can’t take the Polo. If they follow us…”
“Leave that to me,” Zweli smiled.
The Next Morning: 07:00 AM
Beauty stepped out of the house, dressed in her PPE—hard hat, safety boots, and a reflective vest over her blouse. She looked like a commander ready for war, even if her hands were shaking slightly.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
Parked in the driveway, right behind the battered Polo, was a beast. It was a charcoal-grey Range Rover Sentinel. It looked like a standard luxury SUV, but the tyres were run-flats, the glass was thick enough to stop an AK-47 round, and the chassis was reinforced against explosives.
“What… whose car is this?” Beauty gasped.
Zweli walked out of the garage, twirling a set of keys. “Candice Madden sent it over early this morning. She said Emoyeni Group insurance policy requires all Project Leads on ‘Red Zone’ sites to travel in company-issued security vehicles.”
Beauty ran her hand along the cool metal. “This car costs more than this entire neighbourhood.”
“It’s a loaner,” Zweli lied effortlessly. In reality, he had texted Comfort at 2:00 AM: Buy the safest car available in Gauteng. Deliver it by dawn. Brand it as Emoyeni assets.
“Come,” Zweli opened the passenger door. “I’m driving. You are the boss; you sit in the back and make calls.”
Menlyn Node Construction Site: 08:30 AM
The construction site was a chaotic expanse of red earth, cranes, and steel skeletons. But today, no machines were moving.
At the main gate, a blockade had been formed. Three minibus taxis were parked sideways, blocking the entrance. A group of about twenty men stood around a burning drum, holding sjamboks (heavy whips) and knobkerries.
They were the “Business Forum”—the polite name for the extortion syndicates that plagued every major construction project in the country.
Zweli slowed the Range Rover as they approached.
“Oh God,” Beauty whispered from the back seat. “That’s Bra Voster. The one in the leather jacket. He controls the entire Pretoria East racket.”
“Stay in the car,” Zweli said. “Lock the doors. Do not open them for anyone but me.”
“Zweli, no! Don’t go out there!”
Zweli ignored her. He put the car in park, stepped out, and calmly buttoned his faded denim jacket. He walked toward the group of armed men. He didn’t walk like a victim. He walked like a landlord inspecting a property.
Bra Voster, a giant of a man with a gold tooth and a belly that strained his shirt, stepped forward. He laughed when he saw Zweli.
“Heh! Who is this? The tea boy?” Voster shouted. His men laughed. “We want the owner! We want Shongwe!”
“Mrs Masilela is the Project Lead,” Zweli said, his voice carrying clearly over the noise. “I am her husband. Move the taxis. We have work to do.”
Voster spat on the ground, missing Zweli’s shoe by an inch. “Listen here, boy. Nobody works until the Forum eats. 30% of the contract value. In cash. Or else…” He slapped a heavy sjambok against his palm. “…accidents happen. Cranes fall. People break legs.”
Zweli looked at the sjambok, then up at Voster. “I’m asking you nicely. Once.”
Voster’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the look in this “tea boy’s” eyes. It was too calm. To save face, Voster lunged forward, swinging the whip aimed at Zweli’s face.
Inside the car, Beauty screamed.
Zweli didn’t dodge. He simply raised his left hand and caught the sjambok mid-swing. The crack was loud, but Zweli’s hand didn’t even flinch. He gripped the leather tip.
Voster pulled, trying to yank it back. It wouldn’t move. It was like the whip was stuck in concrete.
“You have a choice,” Zweli said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. “You can leave now, and keep your legs. Or you can stay, and I will use you to pave the driveway.”
“Get him!” Voster screamed, letting go of the whip.
Three thugs rushed Zweli.
Zweli sighed. Too many witnesses to use true martial arts, he thought. I have to make it look like a brawl.
He side-stepped the first attacker, sticking out a foot. The man tripped, face-planting into the red dirt. The second man swung a wooden club. Zweli ducked, grabbed the man’s belt, and used the attacker’s own momentum to “toss” him into the third guy. They collided with a sickening crunch of heads.
It looked clumsy—a desperate scramble—but to a trained eye, it was surgical efficiency.
Voster pulled a 9mm pistol from his waistband. “Enough!”
The site went deathly silent. Pointing a gun was a different game.
Zweli stood up, dusting off his hands. He looked at the gun barrel. “You pull that trigger,” Zweli said, “and your life ends. Not by me. But look up.”
Voster frowned and looked up.
Hovering silently above the construction site was a black drone. It wasn’t a toy. It was high-grade surveillance tech.
“This is a government-strategic site,” Zweli bluffed (though the drone was actually piloted by Comfort’s team from a van a block away). “That feed is live-streaming to the cloud. You shoot me, the Special Task Force is here in three minutes. You go away for life.”
Voster hesitated. The “Construction Mafia” thrived on fear and gray areas, not on live-streamed murder charges.
“This isn’t over,” Voster snarled, holstering the gun. “We will catch you when the drone isn’t watching. We know where you sleep.”
“Move the taxis,” Zweli commanded.
Voster glared at him, then signalled his men. “Let them in. For today.”
The mob dispersed, moving the vehicles. Zweli walked back to the Range Rover. He opened the back door. Beauty was pale, her hands covering her mouth.
“You… you caught the whip,” she stammered. “And those men… how did you do that?”
“Adrenaline,” Zweli smiled, flexing his hand as if it hurt. “And I played rugby in high school, remember? I just tackled them.”
Beauty looked at him skeptically. The “rugby” excuse was wearing thin. But she was too relieved to argue.
Inside the Site Office: 10:00 AM
Beauty was in her element, directing the foreman and reviewing blueprints. Zweli sat in the corner, pretending to play a game on his phone.
In reality, he was reading a dossier sent by Comfort.
TARGET: Voster “The Bulldozer” Nzimande. AFFILIATION: Pretoria Business Forum. BACKER: Unknown high-level financier. Suspected link to ‘The Viper’.
Zweli frowned. ‘The Viper’ was a name he had seen in his father’s old intelligence files—a rival syndicate leader who had tried to assassinate Jackson Masilela ten years ago. If Voster was connected to The Viper, this wasn’t just about a 30% cut. It was a proxy war.
Suddenly, the office door opened. A man walked in. He was slick, wearing a suit that was too shiny and cologne that was too strong.
“Mrs Masilela!” the man beamed, ignoring Zweli. “I am Themba… uh, no, sorry. I am Mr Khumalo. I represent the Shongwe Family Trust.”
Beauty looked up. “I know who you are. You work for my Uncle Godfrey.”
“Correct,” Khumalo smiled. “Your uncle is very worried about your safety, especially after the incident at the gate this morning. He has graciously offered to take over the site management to protect you. He has already spoken to Bra Voster. They have an… agreement.”
Zweli stood up slowly. So that’s it, he thought. Godfrey hired Voster to scare Beauty off, so he could swoop in as the saviour.
“Get out,” Beauty said, her voice shaking with rage. “Tell my uncle I am not quitting.”
“Now, now,” Khumalo smirked, stepping closer to her desk. “Don’t be emotional. Think of your husband. He got lucky today. But luck runs out. Sign the transfer papers, Beauty. Go back to baking cookies.”
He reached out to touch her shoulder.
Zweli was there in a blur. He didn’t strike Khumalo. He simply placed a hand on Khumalo’s shoulder. He applied the Grip of the Stone Crab—a technique from the alchemy book that pinched the nerve cluster between the neck and shoulder.
Khumalo’s eyes bugged out. His knees buckled. He fell to the floor, paralysed by a wave of agony that felt like fire running down his spine. He couldn’t scream; he could only wheeze.
“My wife said get out,” Zweli whispered pleasantly. “Or do you need me to help you walk?”
Zweli released the grip. Khumalo gasped, clutching his shoulder, looking at Zweli with sheer terror. “You… you crippled me!”
“Just a cramp,” Zweli said. “Stress does that.”
Khumalo scrambled out of the office on hands and knees, fleeing like a rat.
Beauty stared at Zweli. The air in the room was heavy.
“Zweli,” she said softly. “You need to tell me the truth. Who taught you that? That wasn’t rugby.”
Zweli looked at his wife. The lies were meant to protect her, but they were also building a wall between them.
Before he could answer, his phone rang. It was an unsaved number. He answered on speaker.
“Masilela,” a distorted voice spoke. It wasn’t Voster. It was deeper, colder. “You embarrassed my employee, Voster. You hurt my messenger, Khumalo. You are becoming a nuisance.”
“Who is this?” Zweli asked.
“You can call me The Viper. I don’t want 30% anymore. I want the whole contract. And since you like playing hero… let’s see how you handle this.”
“Handle what?”
“I just severed the brake lines on that fancy Range Rover of yours. And I believe your mother-in-law, Zinhle, just took it to go shopping while you were inside. She has the spare key, doesn’t she?”
Zweli’s blood ran cold. He looked out the window. The spot where the Range Rover had been parked was empty. Zinhle, in her arrogance, must have taken a taxi to the site and ‘borrowed’ the car to show off at the mall.
“She is on the N1 highway,” The Viper laughed. “Approaching the Rigel off-ramp. Downhill. Good luck.”
The line went dead.
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