Chapter 13

Pilgrim’s Nest, on the hill to the north of the farm.

Once inside, we all sank into the plush old leather couches in the lounge, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of a table lamps that cast long shadows on the walls. Laura, ever the hostess, offered coffee, and it was met with enthusiastic agreement all around. She and Olivia disappeared into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot, leaving us in the room with the quiet creaking of old furniture and the subtle ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.

I leaned back, trying to shake off the tension that had settled between my shoulders. The situation was serious, but despite that, I couldn’t help but feel like something wasn’t adding up. Zara being connected to Sloan’s shady presence on the farm seemed unlikely, but before I could dwell on it, Joe Franks cut through my thoughts.

“So, that Sloan character really was sniffing around for the pink-haired girl. Where is she now, by the way?” he asked, his voice gruff but curious.

I shifted in my seat, clearing my throat. “The moment we got wind that someone was watching us from the hill, I had Leon and Mai-Loan take Zara and Ally out of here,” I explained.

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Without the guys on the hill noticing? How did you manage that?” His tone had a touch of scepticism, but I could tell he was impressed.

I smirked. “Simple. Leon pulled his SUV into the garage and shut the door. From the hill, you can’t see the back of the garage. There’s a second roll-up door back there. We sneaked the girls out through the side door, and Leon took them through the back road, which is covered by trees. No way anyone could have spotted them.”

Joe whistled low. “Ingenious. So, where are they now?”

“Leon’s place in Wonderboom-South,” I answered, crossing my arms, and leaning back.

Joe nodded, clearly satisfied. “Good. Well, let me fill you in. Ash told me that Zara was with Spanner and Sloan when Sloan lost it on Spanner over Brian Selby’s death. Apparently, Zara was scared enough to come to Leon with the information. She was smart to do that.”

Leah, who had been quietly listening, chimed in, her tone wry. “Guess she’s not as much of an airhead as she looks.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the room, but it was short-lived. Joe continued, his brow furrowing. “We’ve also got a positive ID on Sloan going after her when he was supposedly deterred by a dog.”

“Yeah, I heard something about that,” I said, nodding.

Joe sighed, rubbing his face. “Now we just need to figure out who Sloan’s working for. That’s the key.”

Before I could respond, Olivia appeared at the doorway, balancing a tray loaded with steaming coffee mugs. “I could beat it out of him!” she declared, her eyes glinting mischievously.

Joe chuckled, shaking his head. “No need for that just yet, my dear Angel.”

It was clear he knew all about the Angels, how they fit into this tangled web of connections and covert operations. The room seemed lighter with Olivia’s presence, even as Laura followed behind her, carrying a single mug and handing it to Joe.

“Here you go, Brig. Just like you like it,” Laura said with a smile, calling Joe by the sort of endearment that all Non-Commissioned Officers and Officers call a well-liked Brigadier.

“Thank you, darling,” Joe said, his tone almost affectionate. “I still miss your coffee from back at the office.”

Laura grinned, a mischievous glint in her eye. “If that’s your way of hinting at re-enlisting me, don’t bother. I’m enjoying life as an assistant Angel way too much. More fun, less paperwork.”

Her comment broke the tension, and we all laughed. The Angels, with their unconventional methods, had a way of keeping things both dangerous and absurdly entertaining.

I suddenly realised how interwoven Brigadier Joe Franks and the Foundation for Law and Order was. They were like that brother of yours that’s in jail – you know about him, but don’t speak of him. Plausible deniability, that’s the term. Although they all worked towards a common goal, the Angels did things a little wee bit unconventionally. But we won’t go there. Let sleeping dogs lie. Or don’t poke the bear!

Joe sipped his coffee thoughtfully as Olivia placed her tray down and said, “I could always have our vet, Lisa, inject him with a little sodium thiopental. A tiny dose never hurt anyone.”

“That’s a thought,” Joe mused, “but it wouldn’t hold up in court.”

Olivia wasn’t giving up that easily. “Maybe not, but we could use what he tells us to guide our investigation,” she suggested, her tone almost playful.

I jumped in, tossing in my two cents. “And find proof to back it up later?”

Joe pointed at me, nodding approvingly. “Exactly. I like the way you think, Alex.”

The room buzzed with a mixture of camaraderie and underlying tension, the kind that came with late-night debriefings. It was clear that Joe Franks wasn’t just any law man, he was the bridge between the rigid lines of law and order and the Angels’ more ... creative ways of getting things done.

As the night wore on, we hashed out the details, piecing together what we knew and what we suspected. By the time Joe and his team finally left, we had a clearer picture of what we were dealing with, even though the official charges against Sloan were still limited to trespassing. Joe assured us he’d find ways to keep Sloan and his goons busy behind bars for at least forty-eight hours.

It was only when the moon had inched its way westward that we finally called it a night. The old farmhouse, with its creaky floors and high ceilings, was big enough to accommodate all of us. I dragged myself up to my room, every bone in my body aching from the long day.

As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out cold. The last thing I heard was the distant hoot of an owl, and then — nothing. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, it was morning.

Auckland Park, Johannesburg. An apartment across from the SABC.

The early morning light crept softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the tilled floor of Georgie’s apartment. Outside on the peaceful street trees rustled gently in the cool breeze, their leaves catching the light as if waking along with the rest of Johannesburg. Birds chirped in the branches above, adding a soft soundtrack to the otherwise peaceful morning. She stretched, rolling over in bed, feeling the cool morning breeze sneak in through the open window. The smell of jasmine from the garden mixed with the distant scent of coffee drifting from nearby homes, and Georgie smiled, soaking it in.

In Georgie’s small garden apartment, the quiet was broken only by the gentle purring of her ginger cat, Sir Purrcival Whiskerflame, though she affectionately called him “Rusty.”

Rusty had been nestled with her all night, curled into a tight little ball at the foot of her bed. As Georgie stirred, stretching lazily in the soft sheets, the ginger fluff ball let out a long, dramatic yawn, his tiny pink tongue poking out as he blinked awake. Rusty stretched his body, paws reaching forward as he arched his back, before padding up toward her, nudging her hand with his head.

“Morning, Rusty,” Georgie murmured, running her fingers through his soft fur as he purred in appreciation, clearly in no hurry to start his day. He blinked up at her with his round green eyes, then flopped down on her chest, as if to say “not yet, it’s too early for both of us”.

But the world outside was already coming to life, the distant hum of city traffic and occasional horn honk seeping through her window. Johannesburg was waking up, and so was she — slowly but surely.

“Alright, alright,” she laughed, nudging Rusty off gently. “Let’s get you some breakfast.” Rusty hopped off the bed with a graceful thud, his tail held high, already making his way toward the kitchen. She pushed back the covers and padded barefoot to the kitchen, her mind lazily drifting to the day ahead.

Georgie followed Rusty, enjoying the familiar morning routine. Rusty was predictable in the best way. He circled her legs, purring insistently as she filled his bowl with his favourite tuna-flavoured kibble.

As he devoured his breakfast with the enthusiasm of a cat who hadn’t been fed in days (even though he definitely had), Georgie leaned against the counter, sipping her morning wake-up cup of coffee and thinking about the day ahead.

The SABC would be its usual mix of newsroom chaos, but she didn’t mind it; she thrived on that energy. Still, the real highlight on her mind was her 2 p.m. appointment with Alex. She leaned against the counter, sipping the cup of coffee she just brewed, trying to ignore the slight excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

Georgie let out a soft laugh, shaking her head at herself. Alex was intriguing – serious, but with a spark of humour underneath. She was curious, not just about him but about how they would get along.

“What to wear?” she mused aloud, glancing toward her wardrobe, with Rusty mewing contentedly at her feet. It wasn’t a date ... but it also kind of was, wasn’t it? She didn’t want to overthink it. Something casual but flattering, she decided, eyeing a simple yet chic blouse she hadn’t worn in a while. Paired with those skinny jeans that fit her just right, she’d strike the perfect balance between looking professional and effortlessly charming. It wouldn’t hurt to look nice.

As she finished her coffee, she heard the distant sounds of traffic picking up, Johannesburg’s familiar rhythm coming to life. A taxi honked in the distance, a few early risers making their way to work, and the far-off wail of a siren echoed through the city’s streets. The world beyond her apartment was starting to stir, but for now, Georgie was still in her little bubble of calm.

Rusty, now finished with his breakfast, sauntered back over and leapt onto the couch, curling up in a sunbeam, clearly settling in for his post-breakfast nap.

“Enjoy your morning, Sir Rusty,” she said with a smile, giving him one last pat before her shower.

As she prepared for the day, the far-off sounds of the city continued to filter in through the open window, mingling with the purrs from her contented companion. Life was stirring outside, but for now everything was still calm in her little world.

With a sigh of contentment, she headed for the shower, thoughts of Alex flitting in and out of her mind as the warm water hit her skin. Today would be interesting, and as much as she wasn’t in a rush, a little part of her couldn’t wait for 2 p.m. to arrive.

Pilgrim’s Nest, North of Pretoria, Mid-morning.

It was a scorcher of a day, no two ways about it. The early morning coolness, that fleeting bit of reprieve, had given way to a heat that felt like it was trying to bake the earth from the inside out. To the south and south-west, I noticed thunderclouds starting to gather. They had that classic look: popcorn-like tops, all fluffy and white against the pale blue sky, but I knew better. Soon they’d balloon into monsters, spreading across the city and beyond, probably as far north as Bela-Bela and out west to Rustenburg. Anyone who’s lived here long enough knows what is coming when clouds like that start piling up. The humidity is already lurking somewhere in the high eighties. You can practically feel it sticking to your skin, thick as syrup.

By ten o’clock, the cicadas — those invisible little menaces — had kicked into gear with their brain-piercing, never-ending symphony. Not a breath of wind in sight, and no breeze to save us either. I knew it was coming, though — the breeze always shows up, teasing you just before the storm crashes in with a microburst of high wind from the south or south-east. A quick slap to the face before the real show starts rain drops the size of marbles and, if the universe is feeling particularly cheeky, a nice shower of pea-sized hailstones to go with it.

I told the farmhands to make sure the horses, cattle, chickens, and geese were all tucked away before the sky turned dark. The last thing I needed was a stampede or a flock of frantic geese honking their heads off as the storm hit.

Meanwhile, I had my own task at hand — the suburb of Montana, and the Kolonnade Mall was calling, and so was the grocery list. With Zara and half the Angels crashing at Pilgrim’s Nest, the pantry had taken a serious beating. It was like trying to feed a small army, and I was losing.

Brigadier Franks thought it was a wise idea to have Zara stay with us, and while I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the prospect of playing host, the alternative was far worse. The only other option was to send her to a shelter for under-age witnesses, and frankly, I wouldn’t trust those places with a stray cat, let alone a girl like Zara. Too many horror stories about “safe places” turning into anything but.

So here I was, saddled with Zara, Ally, and half of the Angels, Nadia, Mai-Loan, Darya, and Ronny. Laura, thankfully, had gone back home, probably with a sigh of relief that she didn’t have to deal with the chaos. At least I had Ronny, my sole male ally in a sea of women. Although to be honest, Ronny wasn’t exactly the type to balance out the estrogen in the room. The man was more interested in Darya and was always around her.

I glanced at my watch. Two o’clock was creeping up, and I had a meeting scheduled with Miss Harper over at Wonderboom Airport. Whatever she had to tell me must be important — too important for a simple phone call, apparently. That had me intrigued. If it’s that urgent, why make the drive from Jo’burg to here? Then again, maybe it was her way of keeping things professional. Reporters always like to meet face-to-face when they’re trying to wrangle information out of you.

I left the farm with a couple of disappointed faces watching me pull out. Ally and Zara had tried their best to convince me to let them come along, but I wasn’t about to let them tag along for what I called “a business meeting.” Truthfully, I just wanted some peace and quiet before the thunderstorm of teenage energy hit again. I promised them that if they behaved and didn’t burn the place down, I’d take them shopping and maybe to a movie the next day. Then I was reminded by Ally with a smirk that all the cinemas at Kolonnade Mall had shut down.

“Streaming’s the in thing,” I muttered to myself, shaking my head. “No more popcorn and sodas when you take a girl out for a night on the town. What’s the world coming to?”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was getting old. Back in my day, taking a girl to the movies was the go-to date plan. Now? It’s Netflix on the couch and an argument about whose password still works. No romance left in the world, I swear.

With that, I rolled down the road, aiming for Wonderboom and Montana. First Montana and grocery shopping, and then Wonderboom Airport. But my mind was already wandering. What was Miss Harper so worked up about that she couldn’t just spill it over the phone? I had a feeling today’s meeting would be interesting, to say the least.

Brakpan, on the East Rand, Johannesburg, South Africa.

The room in the house across from Brakpan airport felt suffocating with tension. It hung in the air like a foul, oppressive cloud, thick enough to choke on. Two men sat across from each other, each absorbed in their own silent deliberations. This wasn’t just a setback; it was a catastrophe. How had this gone so wrong? The question gnawed at Luciano Andreotti. His thoughts raced to the disastrous events that had unfolded, centring around Sloan and his three mates being overpowered by a team that should’ve been an easy mark.

Female security guards. That was the real shocker. It didn’t make sense to Luciano. The women had hit Sloan and his crew like a storm, outclassing them with precision, but the details were hazy.

“You’re telling me Sloan said they got done in by three women?” Luciano finally broke the silence, his voice low, gruff, but carrying the weight of suspicion. His gaze narrowed at the man sitting across from him, a tall, skinny figure with a gaunt face that always looked a little too pale.

The skinny man nodded. “Yeah, three women ... and one guy. That’s what he told me when he made his ’one phone call per day allowed’.”

Luciano raised an eyebrow, the disbelief evident on his face. “Women?” he scoffed, but his mind was already working, turning over the possibilities. “And Sloan’s sure about that? They all had foreign accents?”

The tall man nodded again, as if every confirmation weighed on him. “Sloan’s got no reason to lie. One woman sounded German, another American, and the third ... he couldn’t quite place her, but he thinks she might be from the Middle East.”

Luciano leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he processed this information. “Three different nationalities,” he muttered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “That don’t happen by coincidence. And the man?”

“Sloan said he sounded local, South African. But get this, he spoke to the one woman in some foreign language. It wasn’t Arabic, but Sloan thinks it’s something Middle Eastern or south Asian.”

Luciano’s eyes flashed with suspicion. “And Sloan couldn’t have mistaken it? It all sounds a little too clean, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t think so. He’s pretty sure about it. But here’s the kicker. You won’t like this.” The skinny man hesitated, then continued. “The boss man, the one running this whole operation, Sloan recognized him.”

Luciano sat up, his interest piqued. “Recognized him? Who is this boss man?”

The skinny man licked his lips nervously. “Alex Meyer. Pilot with the Red Dragons Aerobatic Jet team.”

Luciano’s fingers clenched the armrests of his chair. “Alex Meyer...” he repeated slowly. “So, this guy ... he knew Sloan was looking for that painted cat bitch?”

The man nodded. “That’s what Sloan says. He didn’t see Zara, though. Either they’ve hidden her ... or moved her. But she was on the farm earlier in the day. He saw her.”

Luciano’s eyes darkened. “She could’ve talked,” he growled, the words coming out slow and measured, like venom dripping from his lips. “Why else would they be so alert? They knew Sloan was hunting her before he even got to Rustenburg.”

The skinny man nodded, nervously shifting in his chair. “Yeah, by the time Sloan made a move, they’d already moved her and set up an ambush. They had a security guy and a dog waiting on him like it was clockwork.”

Luciano cursed under his breath, eyes darting toward the window. Outside, the garden was calm, a stark contrast to the chaos brewing inside his mind. “Dammit!” He slammed his fist down on the table, sending a glass teetering. “And now, our position might be compromised.”