Chapter 17

Park-n-shop Shopping Mall, Meadowridge, Cape Town.

The little coffee shop clung to the side of the Park-n-Shop mall like it knew it didn’t really belong. Small, narrow, and cluttered, it wasn’t built for lingering — just a quick coffee, a muttered thanks, and you’re back out the door. I sat near the window, one eye on the entrance, the other scanning the open field across the street where the old pine trees threw long, twitching shadows under a bright sun. Beyond the field, Meadowridge spread out in soft, green folds, deceptively calm.

Bergvliet High’s red-brick buildings shimmered in the distance, the heat already pulling waves off the tar road that led west to Constantia and east to the Main Road. A southeaster stirred fitfully outside, making the Café’s loose sign above the door creak just enough to set my teeth a little on edge.

Inside, the air was thick — coffee, pastries, the faint ammonia tang of a recent mop-up — and underneath it all, the heavier, harder scent of nerves. Not just mine. I could feel it coming off the walls, off the few other patrons too jittery to be here for just caffeine.

Two tables down, Ashwin Windsor looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, draped sideways on his chair, one hand lazily cradling a takeaway cup. But I knew better. His eyes — dark, sharp — flicked to me once and away again. A signal. He was set.

Across from him sat a woman I didn’t know. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Long black hair, dark eyes that seemed to absorb more than they gave away. She wore a simple long-sleeved top and faded jeans, her sneakers planted flat on the floor. Nothing flashy, nothing careless either. Everything about her said watchful. She wasn’t here for the croissants.

Ash had said he’d watch my back while I met with Jimmy. The woman was extra insurance, whether I liked it or not. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.

I checked my watch: one minute to ten. I flexed my fingers around my coffee cup, the ceramic cold now, rough against my palms. Every few seconds, the door gave a little shudder in its frame with each gust outside, the hinges whining just enough to raise the hairs on my arms.

Jimmy was coming. And whatever he was bringing with him — stories, trouble, something worse — I needed to be ready.

I shifted in my chair, planting my boots a little more firmly on the floor, and kept my eyes on the door.

Five minutes past ten, and I was starting to wonder if Jimmy was going to bail. I shifted in my chair, casting a quick glance outside at the bright winter sun sharpening the edges of the pavement. A southeaster teased the old pines across the field into a gentle sway. Then the door of the coffee shop swung open.

A bald man in his late forties strode inside like he owned the place. Denim jeans, a loose blue shirt, and a pair of sunglasses he didn’t bother removing. His movements were relaxed, almost lazy, but there was a coiled tension in the way his shoulders shifted under the fabric.

He scanned the interior with a slow, deliberate sweep, his gaze lingering a fraction too long on Ash and the dark-haired woman across the room. Then he shrugged — a small, dismissive roll of the shoulders — and came straight toward me.

“Mister Reasor? Roy Reasor?” His voice was a low, rough-edged growl, barely carrying over the clink of cups and the low background hum of conversation.

“That’s me,” I said evenly. “I presume you’re Jimmy?”

“Yeah...” he muttered, casting another quick glance over his shoulder before facing me again. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Be my guest, Jimmy,” I said, gesturing to the chair across from me. “Can I get you a coffee?”

“Thanks,” he replied with a lopsided smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Still too early in the day for something stronger.” He pulled out the chair and dropped into it with his back to Ash and the woman. A mistake, if Jimmy had half the instincts he should have. But I wasn’t about to correct him.

Jimmy slid an A4-sized envelope across the table with two fingers, casual but deliberate. “I hope this is what you wanted.”

I took it without a word, feeling the slight weight of it, unsealed and easy to open. Inside was a bundle of about six pages, each printed on heavy white card edged with a pair of thin red lines.

I flipped the first page open and scanned it. It was what I expected — the original title deed to the Reid’s’ farm.

“It seems to me you delivered the correct document, Jimmy,” I said, letting the compliment land without warmth.

“My advice to Alan was to let the farm — and Doctor Reid — go,” Jimmy said, resting his forearms on the table, his voice just above a whisper. “He was reluctant at first. But he saw the sense after a while...”

“Now why would you do that, Jimmy?” I asked. “Persuade Anderson to drop the deed ... and the doctor?”

Jimmy shrugged again, slower this time. “Let’s just say there are bigger fish to fry than some farm and a stubborn doctor.”

“And you’re not going to share what those bigger fish are, are you?”

“No.”

The air between us cooled a few degrees. I leaned back slightly, studying him.

“Then what does Anderson want from me?”

“He wants you out of his life, and doctor Reid not to testify in court,” Jimmy said flatly. “Even if it means letting go of Doctor Reid and the Star...”

“He’s been treating Doctor Reid disrespectfully,” I replied, my voice steady but sharper now. “Even assaulted her.”

I let the words hang there. Jimmy gave no visible reaction, but I saw it — a tiny muscle twitch at the corner of his jaw.

“I still intend to make him pay for the trauma he caused her,” I continued.

“Why don’t you just drop it?” Jimmy said, almost pleading. “Take Doctor Reid away from all this crap and disappear.”

I chuckled softly, shaking my head.

“Jimmy, you seem like an intelligent man. Tangling with scum like Anderson and Nadir Khassoun will only bring you hardship and problems.”

The moment I said Khassoun’s name, Jimmy’s face lost colour, his hands stiffening slightly on the table.

“What ... what do you know about Nadir Khassoun?” he asked, voice gone dry.

“That he’s a lowlife scoundrel financing cowards,” I said, my words cold as iron. “Cowards who attacked innocent kids at a music festival. Who raped, murdered, and paraded their victims’ nude bodies like trophies, firing AKs into the air like heroes.”

Jimmy’s sunglasses hid his eyes, but I saw the way he stiffened.

“You’re talking about the Hamas attack,” he said, narrowing his eyes behind the lenses.

“I am.”

“They needed to drive a point across, Make Israel realise the wrong they were doing to the Palestinian people.” he said, too quickly.

“Heroes attack the enemy. Then why did they not attack a military institution? Something that can shoot back. Why attack defenceless innocent youths at a music festival?” I shot back. “Heroes don’t butcher and rape civilians. They don’t hide behind women and children, using hospitals and schools as shields. What does the Koran say about that, Jimmy? About women’s modesty? About the sanctity of life? What about sex only inside a marriage, and what does the Koran say about rape?”

I leaned forward slightly. “Don’t lecture me on holy war when you excuse the worst kinds of filth. Hamas is just a lowlife armed gang that try to prove their manhood by raping women and children. It’s not any more about liberation from Israel. It’s a criminal action to gain wealth and power by treading on innocent lives.”

“That’s just what the media says,” Jimmy muttered, but the conviction was draining from his voice. “Even the South African government says Hamas is justified.”

“I’ve seen the videos,” I said, my voice low and sure. “Filmed by Hamas themselves. Open your eyes, Jimmy. Stop believing the poor choir boy stories. They’re butchers, plain and simple. Just like the choir boys that now governs this country of yours.”

Jimmy swallowed once, hard.

“Are you not sympathetic toward the plight of the Palestinians? They are being oppressed by the Israeli regime.”

“I am sympathetic to their cause, but only as long as they stop sanctioning and harbouring Hamas. If they don’t stop or condemn Hamas’s actions — they’re complicit, and just as guilty of atrocities to mankind.”

Jimmy’s face darkened.

“And you say that while your own government is full of terrorists?”

“You mean the USA government?”

“No. Your government,” he spat. “Your South African ANC government.”

I let a slow smile curve my mouth. “They’re not my government. I’m an American citizen.”

That caught him off guard. His mouth opened, closed again.

“Damn,” he muttered, looking away. “Then you support Israel?”

“I support the victim against the aggressor,” I said simply. “The victim being Israel, Ukraine, or a single professor bullied by cowards like Alan Anderson.”

Jimmy leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping even lower.

“I saw how you protected Doctor Reid. You’re a dangerous man, Mister Reasor. Very dangerous.”

I smiled without humour. “Then don’t cross me, Jimmy. We journalists are dangerous.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No. A friendly warning. You’re not my enemy. Yet.”

We sat in heavy silence for a long beat. Then I leaned in, voice soft.

“You want to show me your gratitude, Jimmy? Tell me where I can find Nadir Khassoun. I need to ‘interview’ him.”

Jimmy stared at me like he was weighing his entire future.

“Is that what it’ll take?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Another long pause. I could almost hear the gears grinding behind those sunglasses. Finally, he nodded. “Okay, Reasor. Give me a few days.”

“You have four days,” I said, standing up. “You know where to reach me. You have my number.”

I tucked the envelope with Fiona’s parents’ farm deed under my arm.

“And Jimmy,” I added, meeting his gaze squarely, “forget about Shadow. Shadow’s history. Maybe shark bait by in a while. Who knows...”

At the name of the assassin he contracted, Jimmy went visibly paler. His fingers twitched. His coffee sat untouched on the table.

“Four days, Jimmy,” I said again, and turned my back on him.

Without looking back, I stepped out into the sharp, brilliant sunlight. The breeze carried the faint scent of pine from across the field, and the whole world felt wide open under the crisp, cloudless, deep blue, winter sky.

A beautiful winters’ day — full of promise.

As planned, I strolled out of the coffee shop, took a lazy left turn, and ducked into a curio shop two doors down. Place smelled like sandalwood and old polish, and it was crammed with carved elephants, beaded wire giraffes, and enough kitsch to bankrupt a bus load of tourists. I pretended to browse, flipping a painted tin lizard over in my hand, but my real attention was on the parking lot through the dusty front window.

Five minutes later, Jimmy showed up, doing his best impression of someone who wasn’t worried about being tailed. He got into a dark-coloured sedan — something so bland it practically had “Nothing to See Here” stamped on the hood — and drove off.

I gave it another five minutes just to be safe, then made my exit, flashing the shop attendant my best “next time, promise” smile. She didn’t look convinced.
Outside, I caught sight of Ash and the dark-haired woman exiting the coffee shop, walking as casual as you please toward Ash’s car. Right on cue.

I peeled off toward the Shell station just down the way. By the time I got there, Ash was already at the pump, a uniformed attendant working the nozzle with military precision.

The dark-haired woman was in the front passenger seat. When I climbed into the back, I nearly landed on another passenger — a dark-haired, mocha-skinned girl with a mischievous glint in her eye, already lounging back like she owned the place.

“Hello, Roy!” Ash greeted with a grin. “Meet two of the Angels. Next to you is Roxy, and up front is Darya. Girls, this is Roy Reasor.”

Both of them smiled like they’d been expecting me all morning and reached out to shake my hand — Darya cool and elegant, Roxy with a quick, street-smart bounce.

“Nice meeting you, Roy,” Darya said, her voice warm but clipped, like she was used to running operations.

“Yeah, me too!” Roxy chimed in. Her voice had that unmistakable ‘over the tracks’ twang — pure Cape Flats — but her clothes said she’d traded up a long time ago.

“Pleasure’s mine,” I said, shooting a grin at Ash. “Jeez, where do you keep finding these beauties? In the secret agent aisle at Woolworths?”

“Wait till you meet the others,” Ash laughed.

I turned to Roxy, curious. “But where were you hiding? I didn’t see you at all.”

She giggled — a sound so light and cheeky it ought to be illegal — and leaned close enough for me to catch a whiff of her fruity perfume.

“You wouldn’t have seen me,” she said sweetly. “I was just outside...” She paused, then added, loud enough for everyone to hear: “Busy sticking a tracking device on old Jimmy’s car.”

Ash slapped the steering wheel and laughed. “See, Roy? We’ve got our shit wired tight.”

I shook my head, smiling. “You’re making me feel like a complete amateur here.”

Ash just winked and said, “Let’s get moving. Time to go see what kind of earth-shattering mayhem the two professors cooked up.”

“Cookies!” Darya said with a laugh. “Angie’s teaching Fiona how to bake chocolate chip cookies.”

Roxy snorted. “Yeah, how much trouble could they possibly get into?”

Ash gunned the engine lightly. “Well,” he said, eyes glinting, “we just have to go and see for ourselves.”

I leaned back against the seat, feeling the day tilt back in our favour for once. A full tank of petrol, a car full of troublemakers, and somewhere ahead, the faint smell of cookies and fresh disaster.

Life was good.

We pulled up to Wolvenkopft, and it didn’t take a detective to figure out things had gone sideways. Smoke was drifting lazily out of one of the kitchen windows, curling into the air like a white flag of surrender, tinged faintly with the acrid smell of something burnt beyond saving. Somewhere deep inside the house, the shriek of a smoke detector was going off in panicked bursts, as if it had witnessed the end of days and was trying to warn anyone still foolish enough to enter.

The back kitchen door stood ajar, swaying slightly on its hinges with every sluggish gust of wind, and from where we sat, we could just make out faint shadows moving frantically inside — blurred shapes against the flickering of smoke bellowing out. The whole scene had the eerie feel of a battle already lost, the aftermath hanging thick in the mid-morning heat.

I exchanged a look with Ash, who just sighed and muttered, “Well, at least the house is still standing.”

Inside looked like the aftermath of a controlled demolition, only less controlled. The kitchen counters were covered in blackened cookie remains, and the smell of scorched sugar hit me like a punch.

Fiona and Angie stood frozen in the middle of it all, each holding a fire extinguisher, wide-eyed like two scientists who just realised they’d accidentally invented mustard gas. Their hair was wild and static-charged, sticking out in all directions like they’d been struck by lightning, and their eyebrows were slightly singed, giving them an unfortunate expression of permanent surprise. Both of them were coated almost head-to-toe in a heavy dusting of flour, splattered with streaks of cake batter and bright smears of frosting in random places — across their cheeks, in their hair, even dripping off the ends of their sleeves. They looked like startled, slightly crispy garden fairies who had wandered into the middle of an exploding bakery and barely lived to tell the tale.

The baking trays on the counter were blackened into something that looked more like archaeological relics than cookies, and the oven door hung open, weeping smoke.