Chapter 23

The wind from the north had picked up, its cold breath licking through the narrow valley like a living thing, stirring the dry leaves and sending a shiver through the acacia trees. It gained in intensity by the minute, bending the scrub and whistling against the house and outbuilding’s walls in an eerie crescendo. Overhead, the sky had turned an ominous shade of grey, a brooding ceiling that pressed down on Pilgrim’s Nest with an almost tangible weight.

The clouds had thickened and grown, towering above the low hills like an advancing army. Their tops gleamed briefly with a ghostly white light, a stark contrast to the charcoal grey bellies that threatened to spill their fury at any moment. I caught myself watching them, hypnotized by their slow, unstoppable churn, like waves cresting in a stormy sea.

The first crack of lightning tore through the gloom, a jagged lance of fire that cleaved the heavens. The flash was so bright it etched the trees and buildings in stark relief, then plunged everything into deeper shadow. A split second later, the rumble of thunder rolled over us, low and guttural, like the growl of some massive beast hidden in the clouds.

The temperature had dropped noticeably, the air now heavy and damp with the promise of rain. The smell of petrichor, earthy and raw, began to seep into my lungs, carried by the restless wind, the weight of the moment settling over me.

This was no ordinary weather. This was the bushveld brewing one of its legendary tempests, the kind that would rage and howl, scouring the earth clean and leaving chaos in its wake. The already sinking sun had been swallowed by the storm clouds, leaving the landscape cloaked in premature twilight. A flicker of gold broke through for an instant, glinting off the glass windows of the house before the light was snuffed out entirely.

As I sat there on the patio watching the storm gather its strength, I couldn’t help but think about the events of the day — the shooting, the chaos, the decisions that had brought us all to this point. Each memory felt like another piece of lightning: searing and bright, but impossible to hold on to.

Ash and Joe were in full swing with the debrief, each of us nursing mugs of strong coffee, the steam curling up in lazy tendrils to mix with the charged air of the gathering storm. Outside, the wind howled against the house, rattling loose shutters. For now, though, it was nature’s fury that stole the show, an elemental reminder of the volatility of the day.

“Looks like we’re in for some rain,” Nadia observed, her voice calm but tinged with fatigue as she stared out at the darkening horizon.

“We need it,” I replied, setting my mug down. “The veld is bone dry, but the last thing we need is a lightning strike setting off a bushfire.”

“Don’t you have silage stored?” Mai-Loan asked, her tone more curious than concerned.

“I do,” I nodded. “But only enough for the short term. I can’t feed all the animals indefinitely.”

“What is silage?” Ronny, ever the city boy, leaned back in his chair with a puzzled expression.

Before I could answer, Georgie jumped in, her reporter’s instinct for detail shining through, as well as her experience growing up on a farm with animals. “Silage,” she began, “is fodder made from green crops, preserved through fermentation. It’s used to feed cattle, sheep, and other ruminants when grazing isn’t an option. The process varies depending on technology, tradition, and climate.”

“So, in other words,” Ronny said, raising his mug as if to toast her explanation, “it’s food for hard times or bad grazing seasons?”

“Precisely,” Joe Franks interjected, his voice steady but with a clear intent to redirect. “But let’s focus. We’re straying from why we’re here.”

“Right,” I said, cutting through the banter. “Let’s continue. What else do you need, Joe?”

“I’ve got most of what I need,” he replied, scribbling a final note in his pad. “I just need your statements.”

“I can’t say much in my statement,” Darya said, casting a glance at Ash. Her tone was neutral, but her face carried a faint smirk.

“Just say something simple,” Ash suggested with a sly grin. “Something like veni, vidi, vici.”

“I came, I saw, I conquered,” Joe translated, a chuckle rumbling from his chest. “Or in this case, modify it to, ‘I heard the commotion, looked out the window and saw a guy firing a rifle at my friends, grabbed my hunting rifle, and neutralized the threat.’ Plain, simple, and honest. Just defence of unarmed people.”

Darya leaned back, arms crossed. “And I just happened to have a hunting rifle at hand? Won’t they ask me what I’m hunting with a 12.7-millimetre rifle?”

“That’s a fair question,” Mai-Loan quipped, grinning. “I told you to swap the .338 Norma Magnum barrel back into the rifle.”

“Now you’re making it sound like I ignored instructions,” Darya shot back, her smile sharp.

“Well,” Nadia chimed in, barely hiding her laughter, “sounds like you owe us two hundred push-ups for insubordination.”

“Oh, brother,” Ash groaned, rolling his eyes. “Wee-men, and soldiers at that.”

“What difference does it make?” I interjected, shaking my head. “Point five oh or .338 Norma Magnum — the guy didn’t stand a chance either way.”

“True,” Joe admitted, a hint of amusement in his voice. “But the mess on that hill? It looks like she has hit him with a cruise missile!”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m just glad Darya had that rifle handy, though my eardrums might never forgive her.”

Darya offered a quick, unapologetic smile. “Sorry, Alex, Georgie. Next time, I’ll use a suppressor.”

“Sure you will,” Georgie said dryly, though her expression softened. We all knew things could’ve gone much worse without Darya’s quick reaction.

Joe stood, stretching his legs with a sigh. “Well, that wraps it up on my end. Let’s move on to better things.”

Ash pushed back his chair, glancing out the window at the encroaching storm. “We should get going before that hits.”

“You could stay,” I offered. “The storm will last about an hour and a half. We can move the bird into the feed barn.”

Joe shook his head, resolute. “Can’t do it, Alex. Too much to do. Andreotti’s in custody, and Borrelli’s ... negotiating entry to the Pearly Gates. Not that I imagine he’ll have much luck.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the day settling over us like the storm clouds outside. Lightning flared again, illuminating the Airbus H-145 parked on the front lawn, a stark silhouette against the roiling sky. The helicopter looked out of place, a sleek machine of precision and purpose amidst the rugged bushveld — a reminder of the razor-thin line between chaos and control.

The days slipped by, each one dragging Andreotti’s name deeper into the mire. The bad news came in Ash’s usual clipped tone: Andreotti had been granted bail. In his words, “He will run...” — a prophecy that seemed accurate enough to be printed on parchment and framed. Sure enough, a few days after his release, the slippery devil failed to show up at the Boksburg SAPS station for his mandatory 1:00 PM check-in.

Part of his bail conditions was signing the register daily, a routine designed to keep a leash on him. But on the day he didn’t pitch, the leash proved to be made of frayed string. A visit to his last known address in Boksburg confirmed the obvious: Andreotti had vanished. His personal effects – laptop, charger, mobile Wi-Fi dongle – were gone. No surprise there. The man wasn’t about to risk sticking around to play house in suburban Boksburg when escape routes beckoned.

“But how?” I asked Ash over the phone, pacing the farmhouse kitchen like a restless caged animal. “Surely, they confiscated his passport?”

“He has several,” Ash said, his voice calm with a hint of weariness. “Identities too. He could’ve slipped through Vioolsdrif into Namibia or gone up through Zeerust to Botswana.”

“Dammit,” I muttered, scrubbing a hand through my hair.

“Nevertheless,” Ash continued, not fazed by my frustration, “I think it’s time for the Angels and one thorn to vacate your farm. I don’t suspect any foul play from Andreotti for the time being, but caution never hurts.”

“Where in the world is Carmen Sandiego?” I sighed, dropping into a kitchen chair.

“You played that game too?” Ash asked, his tone brightening.

“Until it frustrated the hell out of me,” I admitted.

“If I remember right,” Ash said, and I could hear the grin in his voice, “they gave that game away for free when you bought the new CD-ROM and sound card combo for your PC. Cutting-edge tech back then. Now you’ve given away your age, Alex.”

“It was just twenty-odd years ago! I’m still a young man,” I protested.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ash said, his chuckle like gravel in a coffee grinder. “Says the dude cradle-snatching a young girl.”

“Georgie is twenty-two,” I shot back, already regretting the defence.

“What was little Ally’s formula?” Ash teased. “Your age minus ten? Or the 50% plus seven rule, either way that makes Georgie two years younger than your parameters for dating.”

“Says the man with a wife twenty years his junior,” I countered, and leaning back.

“Ah, come now,” Ash said, his laughter warming up the line. “We’re just teasing, aren’t we?”

I grinned despite myself, imagining the man’s ruddy face glowing as red as his infamous Weber grill. “Blushing through the phone, Ash? Should I get a fire extinguisher?”

“I must go,” he said, trying to sound serious but failing miserably. “I just wanted to brief you on Andreotti.”

“Yeah, thanks for that info,” I said, my tone sobering. “But until we confirm he’s left the country, I’m taking precautions.”

“You do that. Never be too at ease.”

“Sage advice. I’ll embroider it on a pillow.”

Ash chuckled. “Okay, Alex. See you around. Angie’s planning a visit to the Black Widow, so I might tag along and mooch a slab of beef over a fire from you.”

“You do that,” I said, grinning. “I’ll set up barriers so the redheads don’t get too near each other.”

“Bye, Alex!” Ash laughed and disconnected.

I stared at the phone for a moment before setting it down on the counter. The sun cast long, golden beams across the kitchen floor, illuminating the dust motes drifting lazily in the still air. Somewhere outside, a tractor hummed in the distance. Andreotti might be gone, but my gut told me this wasn’t the end of the story.

Time to double-check the locks and keep the kettle ready for anyone looking to share a laugh over the fire. And maybe, just maybe, check on the barriers. Redheads were a fiery lot, inclined to mischief, after all.

And if Ash and Angie will be here, the Don and Dave clan will surely follow, bringing Nadia and Tracy also to the party – four redheads together – eish!

Walking out from the kitchen into the lounge, I paused when I saw Georgie curled up on the couch. Her bare feet were tucked under her, the pale soles peeking out as she pressed her knees to her chest. She held her phone tightly, her knuckles whitening against the smooth surface. The soft light from the window highlighted the streaks of tears on her cheeks, and her gaze was distant, fixed somewhere beyond the horizon outside.

“Hey, Sweetie Pie! What’s up?” I asked gently, crossing the room. Her silence tugged at something deep in me. I dropped beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close.

Her head turned slightly toward me, her expression crumpled as she whispered, “It’s John.”

“What about John?”

“The SABC didn’t renew his contract.” Her voice quivered, and she sniffled before continuing, “He’s leaving...”

The words hit with an unexpected weight. I tightened my arm around her as she nestled into my side, her small frame trembling slightly. “Wow,” I muttered. “That leaves you without a cameraman.”

“And a friend,” she added softly, her voice breaking. “And a daddy away from home. John always looked out for me, you know? He guided me when I started in the industry. He was like my safety net.”

I rubbed her arm gently, trying to soothe her. “I’m sorry, Sweetie. Did he say why they didn’t renew it?”

Her face crumpled further, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “They said he’s too old. Can you believe it? Too old! They want someone young and ‘dynamic’.” She practically spat the word, her tone sharp with frustration. “As if anyone could have more experience or passion than John.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, shaking my head. “What’s he planning to do now?”

“He’s taking a few days off to clear his head. He said something about heading to the Cape — ‘heartaches are healed by the sea,’ he told me. He’ll figure out his next step there.”

“Well, if anyone can bounce back, it’s John. Skilled cameramen like him are rare. He’ll find something—probably something even better.”

Georgie let out a long sigh, her breath warm against my shirt. “I know you’re right, but where does that leave me? Stuck with some kid who doesn’t know the sharp end from the blunt end of a camera? One that has only three brain cells and uses two of them to breathe with?”

“Must party, must drink, and must breed ... Three brain cells.” I ventured, hesitated, then asked, “Do you really need this job at the SABC?”

She didn’t answer immediately, but when she did, her voice was firm. “No ... not really.”

“Then call your boss,” I said, leaning back and tilting my head to look down at her. “Tell him that if you can’t have John backing you up, he can take your job and shove it.”

Her lips curved ever so slightly, and for the first time, I saw a glimmer of light in her eyes. “That’s what I feel like doing,” she said, her voice a touch steadier. “I just needed to hear someone else say it.”

“Or,” I added with a smirk, “you could take this new kid, raise him on your hand, and turn him into the next John. Teach him to do things your way.”

She huffed, the sound halfway between a laugh and an exasperated sigh. “Do you always have to find the pros and cons of every bad situation?”

“A half empty glass is always half full...” I replied with a grin, giving her shoulders a playful squeeze.

She tilted her head up at me, her teary eyes now glinting with curiosity. “You’re annoying, you know that?”

“I’m just me” I said, grinning wider.

A genuine giggle bubbled up from her, and she nudged me with her elbow. “Maybe I should also go see if heartaches are healed by the sea...”

“But the rest of that song says: ’Give me two Piña Coladas, one for each hand. Set sail with Captain Morgan — and never leave dry land,’” I quipped, feigning a dramatic tone.

She gasped, laughing despite herself. “Beast!”

“Now I’m a beast?” I teased, feigning offence.

Her laughter spilled out, uninhibited and free, the sound wrapping around us like sunlight breaking through the clouds. She wiped her eyes again, this time not from tears of sadness but from laughter.

At that moment, the heaviness of John’s departure seemed to lift, at least a little. Georgie leaned against me, the warmth of her smile replacing the chill of her earlier despair. And though the weight of her loss wasn’t entirely gone, it felt manageable — like something she could carry, now that she wasn’t carrying it alone.

Two days later, Ash confirmed that a man fitting the description of Andreotti had slipped through the Waverley Border Post into Eswatini. He was certain Andreotti would make his way to Mozambique and then on to South America. For now, it seemed, he wouldn’t pose an immediate problem — not for Zara, not for Georgie, and not for me. But the thought that he might regroup and run his scams again one day wasn’t something we could dismiss entirely.

With the Angels and Ronny scattered back to their own places, the farm returned to its usual, tranquil rhythm. I sat down with my foreman, and after a lengthy discussion we both agreed the farm was running like clockwork. Things were winding down for the end-of-year season, and with only the daily chores of tending to the animals left, even the farmhands could enjoy a bit of a breather and embrace the Christmas spirit.

Georgie had left for her garden apartment in Auckland Park but surprised me the next day when she returned with a suitcase — or two — and a very unimpressed Rusty in a carrier. The orange tabby glared at me through the bars as if I were personally responsible for his displacement. Milita, ever the gracious host, immediately befriended Rusty. The two became inseparable — Rusty trailing after her like a shadow wherever she went, except for when he claimed the bed in Georgie’s room at Pilgrim’s Nest as his new throne.

“I take that as a sign you’re planning a change in your life?” I asked her as she placed the suitcases neatly by the door.

She looked up from the carrier and tilted her head. “What sign?”

“The suitcases ... and Rusty,” I replied with a half-smile, gesturing toward the feline now perched proudly on the kitchen counter.

“You’re planning to go to Upington for that airshow,” she countered. “Someone has to look after the farm.”

“I thought you were tagging along to Upington.”

“You never asked.” She folded her arms and leaned against the kitchen table, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“I figured you’d want to come. Your parents are staying near Upington, after all. Perfect chance to see them...”

She giggled softly, almost shyly, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I just don’t know if I’d survive the long road trip.”

“Who said anything about driving?”

Her head snapped up, and she narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. “How else am I supposed to get there?”

“In the back seat of the Albatros,” I said casually, enjoying the flicker of surprise on her face.

“And poor Ally? She has to stay behind?”

“Ally and Zara will fly up with the display crew in the King Air and the PC-12. You and I, on the other hand, will take the Albatros. Leon’s girlfriend will ride with him.”

Her lips parted as if to argue, but then she closed them again, letting the idea simmer. “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” she said with a sigh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You can be glad you’re not a weather girl on TV.”

“Why?”

“A friend of mine told me he started dating a TV weather girl, because it was nice to have a woman that’s wrong most of the time...”

“Beast!”

“I think you’ll love the trip,” I teased, crossing my arms. “Besides, I owe you a flip in the Albatros.”

She arched a brow, clearly tempted. “I suppose my luggage will go with the crew?”

“Not much room in the Albatros. You can bring a handbag, maybe.”

“Great. I’ll need my war paint and powders.” Giggle.

I chuckled. “I thought you didn’t use war paint and powders.”

“You noticed,” she said, feigning indignation. “See? You do listen to me.”

“I listen to you,” I replied, stepping closer. “I love you, you know.”

Her teasing demeanour softened, and she let out a breath as she melted into my arms, her head resting against my chest.

“I love you too,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but here I am...”

I kissed the top of her head, lingering in the moment, but she tilted her face up to mine, her eyes alight with a playful challenge.

“No,” she whispered, her lips curving into a smile. “Do it properly.”

Her words were an invitation, and I didn’t hesitate. I tilted her chin gently, meeting her lips with mine. The kiss was slow at first, almost tentative, but it quickly deepened, her hands finding their way to the back of my neck as I pulled her closer.

Time seemed to dissolve as we lost ourselves in each other. Her warmth, her softness, her scent — it was all-consuming. When we finally broke apart, breathless and dazed, her cheeks were flushed, her lips curved into a radiant smile.

“Well,” she said, her voice slightly husky, “I guess I could survive a flip in the Albatros with you after all.”

I grinned, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “I’ll make sure it’s a ride you’ll never forget.”

Wonderboom Airport, Pretoria, Gauteng. Runway 29.

Getting a flight suit and G-suit for Georgie turned out to be more of an adventure than I initially expected. The Aeronautical Militare shop at the Mall of Africa — a sleek, modern shopping complex in Waterfall City, Midrand — was a paradise for aviation enthusiasts and professionals alike. Walking into the store felt like stepping onto an airbase, with neatly arranged shelves brimming with every imaginable piece of aviation gear. Mannequins in flight suits stood proudly near the entrance, as if ready to scramble into the skies at a moment’s notice.

It took a while to find the perfect fit for Georgie. The attendant, a sharp-eyed, older gentleman with a military bearing, seemed to take it as a personal mission to ensure every strap, zipper, and seam was just right.

“Comfort and functionality go hand in hand, young lady,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. He even adjusted the straps himself, nodding approvingly as Georgie tested her range of motion with a few mock manoeuvres.

When all was said and done, the bill hit me hard: eleven thousand six hundred Rand for the flight suit and G-suit combo. I winced, but only on the inside — after all, Georgie’s radiant smile made it worth every cent. She beamed like a kid on Christmas morning, her red hair catching the overhead lights as she admired her reflection in the store’s full-length mirror.

Of course, we couldn’t stop there. A pilot needs the full kit, right? The helmet was a sleek, carbon-fibre beauty, and the gloves, flight socks, and boots were all top-notch. They added a few more bucks to the tab, but Georgie’s excitement was contagious.

“How do I look?” she asked, striking a pose like she was ready to step onto the flight line.

“You look like you belong in the cockpit,” I replied, chuckling. “Just try not to break the sound barrier on your first run.”

We walked out of the store with several glossy shopping bags and one very happy junior journalist. For me, it wasn’t just about the gear — it was about seeing Georgie’s confidence soar, knowing she’d look and feel the part when the time came to take to the skies.

We got to Wonderboom an hour earlier than the scheduled time. The reason for that was to get Georgie familiarised with the Aero Vodochody L-39ZO, especially the back seat cockpit.

I spent some time on the aircraft like I did before when I showed it to her some time ago. This time however I did it in detail. I concentrated on the instrument layout, the communication system, and the emergency panel. Then came the canopy operation and ground exit during normal procedures.

Finally, we got to the ejection seat.

“The L-39 is equipped with ejection seats for emergencies,” I explained. “Your ejection handle is here — between your legs — and here, on the sides. Pull either to activate the ejection sequence.”

I demonstrated the proper position.

“Back pressed firmly against the seat, legs together, feet on the footrests. I’ll call out three times: ‘EJECT, EJECT, EJECT.’ The back seat fires first, then the front. Don’t hesitate once you hear the command. First, the canopy will jettison. Then the seat will fire, and your parachute will deploy automatically after clearing the aircraft. Got it?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah ... You’ll call three times. I press my back against the seat, feet on the footrests, and pull this handle, right?” She pointed to the yellow-and-black striped lever.

“Exactly. If you can’t pull it for any reason, just shout. I’ll know you’re ready, and I’ll eject you myself. You’ll go first, and I’ll follow.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why do I go first?”

“That’s how it’s designed,” I said with a shrug and a grin. “Mind over matter — you don’t mind, and I don’t matter. Plus, the back-seater is more valuable than the pilot.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t joke about this. This is serious stuff.”

I nodded, sobering up. “You’re right. It is. But the chances of needing it are slim. Just focus on remembering the steps, and we’ll be fine. I am just showing you this so that in the event I get incapacitated up front, you could activate the ejection sequence and eject us both.”

“Okay, I think I got it.”

Then it was time.

We were parked at the threshold of Runway 29, the jets lined up like an orderly parade with a hint of anticipation in the air. Leon sat up front with his latest girlfriend, the two of them looking relaxed and ready for the ride ahead. Behind them, Georgie and I shared the cockpit of ZU-MIG, while Louis, the ever-reliable member of the team, was at the controls of the third jet, his red-headed back seater Bobbie grinning like she was born for this moment.

“Zulu Uniform Mike India Hotel, you are cleared for takeoff. Taxi onto the active. Winds calm at two knots,” the calm, professional voice of the Wonderboom ATC operator filled the cockpit. Leon gave a thumbs-up and eased his jet forward onto the runway. The roar of his engine rose above the idling hum of our own, and I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement — this was where the fun began.

I glanced in the rearview mirror to check on Georgie. Her eyes were wide, her lips pressed into a thin line, and her hands were gripping the harness like her life depended on it.

“Relax, Gee,” I said, keeping my tone light and soothing. “We’ll be up and flying in no time. Trust me.”

“Easy for you to say!” she shot back, her voice slightly shaky. “This is a first for me!”

Out on the runway, Leon’s jet began its takeoff roll. The L-39 picked up speed smoothly, the sound of its engine swelling as it raced down the tarmac. About three-quarters of the way down, the nose lifted and the jet rotated gracefully into the air, climbing away with a steady flat trajectory to build up speed.

“Zulu Uniform Mike India Golf, you are cleared for takeoff. Taxi onto the active. Winds calm at two knots,” the ATC operator’s voice came through again, this time for us. I nudged the throttle forward and eased ZU-MIG onto the runway.

“Final checks,” I told Georgie as I scanned the instruments one last time. Everything looked good—no warnings, no anomalies. “Okay, all is well. Here we go.”

I glanced back at her. She had her eyes squeezed shut now, her hands still clutching the harness.

“Open your eyes, Sweetie, or you’ll miss your first takeoff in a jet fighter,” I teased.

Reluctantly, she opened one eye, then the other, her expression somewhere between sheer terror and reluctant excitement. I grinned and released the brakes, pushing the throttle forward. ZU-MIG responded immediately, the engine roaring as we began our roll.

The jet gathered speed quickly, the vibrations through the cockpit increasing as the tarmac blurred beneath us. Two thousand feet down the runway, I could feel her wanting to fly. At 130 KIAS, I gently pulled back on the stick, and the nose wheel lifted smoothly off the ground. Moments later, ZU-MIG was airborne, the sensation of the wheels leaving the tarmac was a thrill that never got old.

I kept us low initially, building speed as we climbed out. The engine purred, the controls responding like an extension of my own hands. Over the comms, I heard Louis receiving his takeoff clearance, his voice calm and steady as always.

A slight right input on the stick brought ZU-MIG onto the prearranged heading — 295 degrees magnetic. Ahead, Lambert Field in the North West Province awaited us, where Don and Dave would join the formation with their Buccaneer and Impala for the rest of the journey to Upington.

“Red Flight, climb and maintain seven thousand six hundred. Maintain current heading as per flight plan. Make speed two hundred KIAS,” Wonderboom ATC instructed.

“Climb and maintain seven thousand six hundred. Speed 200, heading 295 magnetic. Red Flight,” Leon repeated back with his usual precision.

“Red Flight leader, read back correct. You are leaving my airspace. Contact Waterkloof ATC on 124.1. Good day, Red Flight.”

“Going 124.1. Good day, Madam,” Leon replied smoothly, his voice carrying a hint of charm as he terminated the communication.