Chapter 22

Vince Borrelli stepped out of the rented sedan, his worn leather shoes crunching against the loose gravel on the side of the road. He moved quickly but deliberately, hugging the shadows cast by a line of tall pine trees. The scent of sap and damp earth lingered in the hot morning air, masking the faint tang of exhaust gas from his car. Slung over his shoulder, his battered leather satchel bounced lightly with each step. He adjusted the strap before reaching inside to retrieve a pair of well-used field glasses. His breath misted as he raised them to his eyes.

Ahead, the roadblock came into sharp focus through the binoculars’ lenses. A cluster of South African Police vehicles, their blue and white paint jobs reflecting the late-afternoon sun, formed a semicircle around a large truck. Orange and yellow traffic cones, like sentinels in formation, lined the centre of the road. Dominating the scene was a single, oversized orange traffic cone, tall and imposing, marking the designated stopping point.

A squad of about twelve officers milled around, some gesturing animatedly while others remained stoic, their postures rigid. The din of voices reached Borrelli, muffled but distinct in the stillness of the forested surroundings. His gaze sharpened as he spotted a familiar figure: Andreotti. The man’s expensive suit was creased, his slicked-back hair now dishevelled. A police officer, a stout man with a thick moustache, handed Andreotti a folio-sized document. Andreotti’s reaction was instant: confusion giving way to indignation. But before he could speak, the officer gripped his shoulder, spun him around, and expertly secured handcuffs around his wrists.

Borrelli smirked, lowering the binoculars for a moment. “You finally slipped, Andreotti,” he muttered under his breath. Yet, something gnawed at him — a sense that this was bigger than a simple arrest.

He raised the binoculars again and scanned the scene more thoroughly. His eyes landed on a helicopter, partially obscured by a grove of trees in a clearing off to the side. The blue and white Airbus H-145, sleek and undeniably private, stood apart from the official vehicles. It wasn’t marked with the insignia of the South African Police Service Air Wing. This was something else entirely.

Two men stood near the aircraft. They were dressed in nondescript but tailored suits, their postures exuding quiet authority. They didn’t move much, merely observing the scene like overseers ensuring their instructions were carried out. One of the roadblock officers broke away from the main group, approached the pair, and offered a crisp salute. A brief, subdued conversation followed before the officer saluted again and returned to his post.

Borrelli’s mind raced. Who are these guys? Their presence was out of place. They weren’t local cops. His gut told him they were something more. The methodical, almost surgical precision of this operation screamed of higher-level orchestration.

And there it was — that familiar itch at the back of his mind. The meticulous planning, the sense of control ... it had Alexander Kirsten Meyer written all over it, as if the man had personally signed his name across the entire setup. Borrelli’s jaw tightened, the leather strap of his satchel creaking under the sudden pressure of his grip.

He lowered the binoculars, the world snapping back to its normal proportions. Frustration simmered beneath his calm exterior. He cursed silently for not bringing his camera with the 600-millimetre zoom lens. A missed opportunity. He hated missed opportunities.

For a moment, he stood motionless, the shadows of the pines creeping closer as the sun slipped higher in the morning sky. The heat began to rise as the light morning breeze died down. Borrelli took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

The decision crystallized in his mind, cold and unyielding. Meyer had become a liability — a threat to his plans. The man was too good, too precise, and too dangerous to be left unchecked. Borrelli had tolerated Meyer’s interference for too long.

“The time has come,” he murmured to himself, his voice low but resolute. His gaze drifted back to the helicopter, now bathed in flickering sunlight through the tree canopy. Eliminating Meyer wouldn’t be easy. Men like that never went down without a fight. But Borrelli thrived on challenges, and this one promised to be the most satisfying yet.

He turned on his heel, slipping back into the shadows. His next move would be careful, calculated. Just like Meyer, he thought with a grim smile. Only this time, the hunter would become the hunted.

Under the canopy of pine trees lining the dusty edge of the N17 highway, Ashwin Windsor stood silently next to Brigadier Joe Franks. The shadows dappled across their figures, the shifting leaves above offering fleeting patches of sunlight. The faint scent of dry grass mingled with the cool earthiness of the shade, a sharp contrast to the heat shimmering off the asphalt just meters away. A light breeze stirred the branches, rustling the leaves like whispers in the quiet.

Ahead of them, a scene of controlled chaos played out. Several uniformed officers moved purposefully around a large truck, its tarpaulin sides flapping in the wind, revealing glimpses of a suspicious cargo. Andreotti, the notorious smuggler, stood handcuffed next to a police vehicle, his face a mask of defiance. Beside him, the truck driver — pale and visibly shaken — was also being led away.

Ash turned to Joe, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the area. “What now?” he asked, his voice low but firm.

Joe didn’t respond immediately. His gaze shifted beyond the immediate scene, settling on a sleek, dark-coloured sedan partially obscured under a cluster of blue-gum trees about 150 meters away. The vehicle’s engine idled quietly, a faint hum that barely disturbed the stillness.

“Did you see that car stop under the trees about a hundred and fifty meters away?” Joe finally asked, nodding subtly in its direction.

“I did...” Ash replied, his tone cautious.

“I bet you a fifty that that was the security detail for this cargo,” Joe continued, his lips curling into a knowing smirk.

Ash followed Joe’s gaze, noting the subtle glint of sunlight reflecting off the car’s windshield. “He’s still there. Shall we go look-see?”

“They’ll run the moment they see us move in their direction. No, rather leave it for now,” Joe advised, his voice measured. “They’ll scatter to the four winds, but we’ll get them anyway before long.”

“Well,” Ash said, crossing his arms, “I’m going to wait until this scene is cleared up and Andreotti is safely behind bars.”

“Yes. No need to rush,” Joe agreed. His eyes flicked back to the scene, watching as officers methodically catalogued evidence. “But I suggest you don’t move the Angels and the Rangers from Pilgrim’s Nest until we have all of Andreotti’s scum.”

“I wasn’t going to move them until after Andreotti’s completely secured,” Ash assured him.

“Good.” Joe’s voice softened slightly. “By the way, you have an appointment with a judge day after tomorrow.”

Ash arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

Joe chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that broke the tension. “Something to do with a sixteen-year-old runaway that needs to be adopted by a single male person.”

“Oh, that!” Ash rubbed the back of his neck, a rare flash of sheepishness crossing his face. “It slipped my mind.”

Joe’s chuckle deepened. “I thought you knew everything?”

“I’m not Grumpy Charlie ... He was the MIND,” Ash said, shaking his head.

“Yeah ... I never met the guy. I believe he’s the Dark Angel’s real-life father?” Joe mused, his eyes briefly softening with curiosity.

“That’s what I was led to believe,” Ash replied. “The Dark Angel knows him personally and sometimes had information before I ever knew about it.”

“So, are you going to put in good word for Mister Leon Little with the judge?”

“Yes. That girl deserves a family, and Leon and Ally will be good for her.”

Silence settled between them again, thick with unspoken thoughts. Their eyes remained fixed on the unfolding scene, each lost in his own contemplation. Beyond the immediate activity, the landscape stretched out in a patchwork of golden grass and scrub, the distant hills a hazy blue against the mid-morning sky. The road ahead was long and straight. It shimmered in the heat, a mirage-like ribbon cutting through the rugged terrain.

Pilgrim’s Nest, about the same time.

Bruce, Georgie, and I settled into the patio’s cushioned wicker chairs, the mid-morning sun casting a golden glow over the sprawling farmland. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the crisp, clean air, and the faint hum of bees flitting around the lavender bushes added to the lazy, tranquil atmosphere. Militia, ever the gracious hostess, appeared with a tray laden with steaming mugs and a generous plate of home-baked cookies. The rich aroma of vanilla and cinnamon wafted up as she placed it on the table.

I took a slow sip of the coffee, savouring its bold, nutty flavour before turning to Bruce. Before we’d come out here, I’d given him a quick but firm briefing: No talking shop with Georgie while we’re on the farm. The surrounding secrecy of her dual identity as Mockingbird was ironclad. No one here, not even our closest friends, knew about the hidden sound studio or her alter ego. Bruce raised an eyebrow at my warning but didn’t question it. He understood the stakes and nodded in agreement.

Georgie, sitting to my left, looked completely at ease, her eyes sparkling as she cradled her mug of coffee while munching on a cookie. She leaned back in her chair, visibly relaxed, content to let the moment unfold without drawing any unnecessary attention to herself.

The rest of the gang began trickling back from their various activities. Nadia arrived first, plopping into a seat with her usual flair, her red hair catching the sunlight like a living flame. Mai-Loan followed, her eyes cautious as they flicked toward Bruce. She didn’t say a word but gave him a once-over that spoke volumes. Ever perceptive, she was clearly sizing him up. Darya however, was conspicuously absent, a detail that didn’t escape me. I had a hunch she was lurking somewhere nearby, keeping an eye on things, but I kept that observation to myself. Darya operated best in the shadows.

Nadia, ever the extrovert, was the one to break the silence.

“You look awfully familiar, Bruce. Did we meet before?”

Bruce, to his credit, took the question in stride. He chuckled, flashing one of those effortlessly charming smiles that had probably melted hearts across continents.

“Not that I can think of. I would have remembered such a beautiful face and red hair.”

Nadia narrowed her eyes, clearly not convinced. She dipped a cookie into her coffee, the corner of her mouth twitching in thought.

“Hmm ... but I’m sure I’ve seen you before...”

I couldn’t help but laugh at her determined expression.

“Bruce, kill her curiosity before she explodes,” I teased.

Bruce leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Okay, Nadia, you know me better as Devon Joss...”

Her reaction was instant and explosive.

“WHAT! The singer? Why so quiet? I’ve not heard a new song by you in ages! Have you retired?”

Bruce laughed again, this time with a touch of self-deprecation.

“No, I’m just very busy producing and getting the artists on my books a full schedule. But there might be something on the cards one of these days.”

Nadia’s eyes widened with excitement.

“A new song!”

“Maybe a full album on Spotify, ” Bruce hinted, taking a measured sip of his coffee.

Georgie, who had been quietly observing, finally chimed in, her voice light and casual.

“These days, artists make more money on Spotify and those platforms than releasing CDs.”

Mai-Loan, ever the pragmatist, nodded.

“It costs money to produce CDs. If they sell a CD for 120 bucks, they get around 50 bucks after all the costs and overheads are deducted...”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed.

“A girl with a business mind, I see,” he said, tipping his mug toward her in acknowledgement.

Georgie leaned forward slightly, a playful glint in her eyes.

“So, where did you two meet?”

I set my mug down, leaning back in my chair.

“Oh, Bruce chartered my King Air for a tour once. I flew him around for a month, and we became friends,” I explained, keeping the details light.

Ronny, who had been listening quietly, perked up.

“So, where are you off to now? Need a pilot and a plane?”

Bruce shook his head, a rueful smile playing on his lips.

“Europe! I leave tonight for Switzerland.”

“It’s winter there. I hope you packed warm clothes,” Mai-Loan chuckled, ever the voice of practicality.

The conversation flowed easily after that, the kind of relaxed, free-wheeling banter that only comes when people feel truly at ease. Laughter punctuated the air as stories were exchanged, each more outrageous than the last. Through it all, Georgie remained mostly silent, her grin widening now and then as she followed the conversation. She spoke only, when necessary, a quiet observer content to let the moment wash over her.

I knew why she was so reserved but chose to keep my own counsel. Some secrets were best left undisturbed, at least for now. For the moment, the sun was warm, the coffee was strong, and the cookies were delicious. And that was enough.

Bruce left for his hotel that afternoon, his itinerary meticulously planned — an evening Lufthansa flight to Zurich, touching down early the next morning. He’d stay at the Boutique Hotel Waldhaus, a picturesque spot along the Rhine, conveniently close to the St. Jakobshalle, where the Eurovision Contest would unfold.

Georgie’s mood shifted the moment Bruce departed. Relief, albeit tempered, was evident in her posture and voice. Yet, her eyes betrayed the storm within. She’d been grappling with this decision she had to make. Bruce’s offer, or not. For three years, she’d poured herself into Mockingbird, her alter ego. Now, Bruce wanted her to shed the mask and step forward as “Gabby Harper.”

“Gabby Harper” had a polished ring, I had to admit, but Georgie was unconvinced.

I was outside checking on the milk shed when she approached me. Her steps were slow, deliberate, as if she carried the weight of her world on her shoulders.

“Can we talk?” she asked softly.

“Of course. Any time, Sweetie.”

She hesitated before speaking, her arms wrapped around herself protectively. “I need to clear my head.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Bruce,” she said, her tone loaded with frustration and doubt.

“If you don’t want to do it, Gee, then don’t. No one’s forcing you.”

Her lips quirked into a faint, fleeting smile. “I know. But it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“Maybe. But if your heart’s not in it, nothing has to change. You can keep being yourself.”

Her expression clouded as she muttered, almost to herself, “Information Systems 101, Chapter Five: Resistance to Change... ”

I chuckled, intrigued. “I didn’t know you studied Information Systems.”

“It was a filler subject,” she admitted with a shy grin. “But at least I learned some programming basics.”

“So, you know the statement; ‘IF THEN ELSE,’ huh?”

Her brow lifted, and she played along. “IF I go to Eurovision, THEN Mockingbird dies. ELSE, everything stays the same ... same boring job at the SABC, same lousy boss ... Mockingbird lives on.”

“Or,” I countered, “IF you go to Eurovision, THEN no more boring SABC job, no more lousy boss, no more getting shuffled around for stories to help the SABC sell news ... AND Mockingbird can still live on.”

“You are bringing in a AND logical gate variable ... Explain that?”

“As Gabby Harper, Mockingbird will still live on, now with a face and a name,” I said gently, stepping closer. I placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling the tension coursing through her.

Her eyes softened as she leaned into me, letting out a shaky breath. “I’m scared...”

“Scared of what? The media? Paparazzi? Fans swarming you?”

She shook her head. “I’m not as fearless as people think. I’m really just ... shy.”

I cupped her face, forcing her to meet my eyes. “That’s not the Georgie I know. You can still be Mockingbird. We just ditch the mask. Honestly, it barely hid your identity anyway. I figured it out the first time I saw you perform. Sooner or later, others will too. People will start connecting Georginia Harper, the red-haired, blue-eyed reporter, to Mockingbird.”

Her brows knitted in thought. “You really think so?”

“I do. And when that happens, we’ll still be right where we are. Together. You and me, Gee.” I replied and took a deep breath, then added: “I love you, Georginia Gabriella Harper. That’s not changing. I want you by my side forever, though I might have to loan you to the world now and then — to be Gabby Harper, or Mockingbird, whichever you choose. So, Mockingbird in a tree won’t you follow me. I still wanna hear that Mockingbird singing a song, as I ride along, down on the Rio Grande”.

Her breath hitched, and the walls she’d built around herself started to crumble. She rose on tiptoes, slipping her arms around my neck. The kiss that followed was tentative at first, but her lips grew surer, softer yet deeper, as if pouring all her fears, love, and hopes into that one act.

I held her close, anchoring her trembling frame against mine, savouring the taste of her and the vulnerability she’d laid bare. Through the kiss, she murmured against my lips, her voice thick with emotion:

“I love you too, you big old doofus.”

Her words, muffled yet sincere, brought a smile to my face even as the kiss lingered. At that moment, the weight of her decision seemed lighter, her heart steadier. And for once, I could feel the storm inside her settling, replaced by the quiet reassurance of love.

Then she released me, stepped away a step and looked at me with a naughty devil dancing in her eyes. “So, are you going to do the yodel part of that song too?”

“What yodel part?”

“Mockingbird in a tree is a yodel song...” She smirked.

“Haa deee odle odle yodel laddy dee...” I replied. Georgie burst out laughing.

“Rather leave that to me. You can’t yodel to save your life! But I still love you...”

Together we walked back to the main house. Georgie practically skipping like a teenager beside me holding on to my hand and swinging it between us. Her teasing did not stop as she lapsed into a little silly song:

“High on a hill was a lonely goatherd
Lay ee odl, lay ee odl, lay hee hoo
Loud was the voice of the lonely goatherd
Lay ee odl, lay ee odl-oo”

“Folks in a town that was quite remote heard
Lay ee odl, lay ee odl, lay hee hoo
Lusty and clear from the goatherd’s throat heard
Lay ee odl, lay ee odl-oo”

Odl lay ee
(Odl lay ee)
Odl lay hee hee
(Odl lay hee hee)
Odl lay ee
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay”

“One little girl in a pale pink coat heard
Lay ee odl, lay ee odl, lay hoo hoo
She yodeled back to the lonely goatherd
Lay ee odl, lay ee odl-oo”

“Soon her mama with a gleaming gloat heard
Lay ee odl, lay ee odl lay, hmm hmm
What a duet for a girl and goatherd
Lay ee odl, lay ee odl-oo”

“Happy are they lay dee olay dee lee o
Lay ee odl, lay ee odl lay
Soon the duet will become a trio
Lay ee odl, lay ee odl-oo”

“Odl lay ee, old lay ee
Odl lay hee hee, odl lay ee
Odl lay odl lay, odl lay odl lee, odl lay odl lee
Odl lay odl, lay odl lay
Hoo.”

I was contemplating the “Soon the duet will become a trio,” part ... But said nothing, just smiled.