Chapter 29

The return to Cape Town.

Flying back to Wolvenkopft Manor, where the EC-145 roosts in what we affectionately call the “Garden Shed,” went smoothly and without incident. The EC-145 itself is a gleaming white twin-engine helicopter, accented with sleek light blue and dark blue striping that gives her a quietly elegant profile — modern, capable, and just a little understated, like much of what we try to keep at Wolvenkopft.

The “Garden Shed” is, of course, not a shed in any ordinary sense. At first glance, it could be mistaken for a generously sized garden outbuilding — low-profile, timber panelled, and nestled into the landscaped corner of the estate grounds. But on closer inspection, it’s clear this is no storage hut. It’s a purpose-built hangar with reinforced walls, custom hydraulic doors, clean concrete flooring, and immaculate overhead lighting that makes the white and blue of the EC-145 almost glow. Inside, everything is spotless — no oil stains, no cluttered tool racks. Just a sense of quiet readiness. It’s not just where the aircraft is stored; it’s where she rests.

Fiona was securely buckled into the left front seat, headphones on. In the back sat Nadia and Stella, both strapped in and gazing out the windows as we banked south-east.

I had been mildly concerned about our all-up weight for the flight, though it turned out to be well within limits. Stella’s luggage, if you could even call it that, was her compact field maintenance kit.

Thankfully, it was the travel-sized version, not the full modular set-up that includes the auxiliary lithium power bank — those batteries alone would’ve made us recalculate fuel and trim. The compact kit, by contrast, fit neatly into a regulation roller suitcase. That wasn’t just for convenience either; it was part of Stella’s habit of preserving her true identity while travelling.

By using ordinary, civilian-style luggage, she blended in. No high-visibility hard cases, no gear that shouted “technician” or “operative” — just a modest suitcase that could pass unnoticed through a private airport or onto a heli-pad. It was, in many ways, the essence of Stella: precise, deliberate, and unassuming.

We lifted off from the coastal pad just after 10:30 in the morning. Weather was clear, wind light, and the visibility excellent over the bay. It was a short 27-minute hop back to Cape Town, banking inland toward the vineyard-laced hills where Wolvenkopft Manor sits like a forgotten secret, and the Garden Shed waited with its doors open wide.

A new development awaited us as soon as we touched down. The rotors were still winding down when I noticed the welcoming committee assembled just outside the hangar—facing us with the kind of half-casual, half-purposeful stance that usually meant something was up.

As we climbed out of the EC-145, stretching out the stiffness of the short flight, I spotted familiar faces among the small crowd: Angie, Ash, Darya, Mai-Loan, Olivia, and Leah were all there, standing together but with varying degrees of posture—Angie with her usual arms-crossed impatience, Ash trying to look like he wasn’t somewhere between friendly and guarded.

And then there was a man I didn’t recognise pretending to be in charge, and the others.

Mid to late thirties, maybe early forties. Tall, composed, but not in the way operatives carry themselves. This guy had the kind of deliberate stillness I’ve only ever seen in courtrooms or high-stakes negotiations. He wore a tailored charcoal-grey suit despite the mid-morning heat, open collar, no tie. His eyes scanned me—measured, curious, slightly amused. A man used to reading people fast, and knowing when to speak.

He was introduced simply and efficiently, the way important people often are.

“This is Advocate Arno ‘Dusty’ De Lange,” Ash said, “Senior Counsel.”

Arno offered a firm, dry handshake and a polite nod that felt like it had more weight behind it than it looked.

“Roy, Arno will take Fiona through her testimony for tomorrow,” Ash continued, gesturing toward her. “Just to get her comfortable with the flow and iron out the points the prosecution wants solid—anticipate any tricks the defence might throw to shake her confidence.”

His tone was professional, but I could hear the edge under it. Whatever this case was shaping up to be, they weren’t leaving any cracks open. Fiona, standing just behind me, gave a small nod, her jaw set in that calm, quiet strength of hers. She already knew the drill.

“Yada yada yada...” Angie broke in, rolling her eyes. “Roy’s passengers are tired and thirsty. Maybe we don’t need to jump straight into courtroom boot-camp five minutes after they landed?”

Ash opened his mouth, probably with some retort, but Angie was faster.

“And before you say anything—yes, I know they didn’t fly in from halfway around the world. But still.”

She gave him the evil eye — the full-force Angie glare, the one that could wilt flowers and freeze a steaming kettle mid-boil. Ash raised his hands in surrender, wisely choosing not to push it further.

“Alright, alright,” he said, stepping back. “Let’s get coffee and cookies, then. Hospitality before deposition. Got it. And Roy, this time I made sure we have actual cookies. Good ones.”

“No fire in the kitchen?” I asked, grinning back, already guessing the answer.

“No fire in the kitchen!” he said with mock indignation. “I even bought pre-baked. Individually wrapped. Flame-proof. Childproof. Angie and Fiona-proof.”

That got a small laugh from the group, even from Dusty De Lange, who allowed himself a smile. Fiona, still quiet, caught my eye and mouthed thank you. I gave her a nod.

Still, underneath all the joking and light banter, there was a current of tension. Tomorrow was going to be serious. They all knew it — even Angie, despite her sass.

Fiona’s testimony clearly mattered more than I’d been told so far. And with a Senior Counsel like Arno “Dusty” De Lange brought in for prep, I had the uneasy sense that what we were about to walk into was bigger than just a routine court appearance.

But for now, we followed the smell of coffee back toward the manor house, trying to shake off the chill that sometimes follows even a sunny landing.

Later the afternoon at Wolvenkopft.

As the southeaster began its moody spiral up the Constantia Mountain, dragging misty clouds like old secrets over the crest, we gathered in Ash’s study. You know the kind of fog I mean — the kind that rolls down the slope like a boiling cauldron, then just ... disappears halfway down, as if it remembered it left the stove on. Cape Town weather’s got a flair for drama, but that evening, the drama was inside the room.

It was me, Ash, Dusty de Lange — yes, the Dusty De Lange — and Fiona. We were preparing for what might be our most unpredictable trial yet. But then, in walked an unexpected fifth player: Rosie.

Now, if this were a play, this is the part where the audience gasps and someone drops a teacup.

“I thought it good for Rosie to join us,” Ash said, always the calm eye in the storm. “Rosie is also linked to the case. Therefore, Anderson will be in for a double shock. Fiona and Rosie — both alive and well and living in the Cape!”

I blinked. Rosie looked perfectly alive. And formidable. “I’d thought about Rosie’s involvement,” I said, carefully. “But won’t it compromise her current ... career?”

Before Ash could respond, Dusty cut in, raising a brow like a headmaster catching a student about to fib. “We don’t talk about that,” he said, with mock gravitas. “What Anderson believes is that Rosie died in that ventilation shaft on his farm. He has no clue she’s alive, never mind that she might have a shadowy alter ego with a penchant for infiltration.”

“Still,” I pressed, “if we want him to stand trial for the attempted murder of Fiona, Rosie’s going to have to testify. She was contracted to — you know what?”

“Yes, yes,” Dusty waved it off, as if we were discussing a misfiled report and not someone’s failed assassination. “But it’s not strictly necessary. Rosie will testify about the farm — what she saw, what happened to her. How she was assaulted and left in a damn ventilation shaft to die. Fiona will confirm the location, the layout, what she discovered, and corroborate Rosie’s story. That ties it all together with the other nine witnesses. That’s enough to skewer Anderson.”

I frowned. “But aren’t we downplaying the whole attempted murder bit? That seems ... big.”

Dusty leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against a file like it owed him money. “We have other witnesses who saw that attempt first-hand. Fiona didn’t even know someone was trying to kill her. She can’t testify about something she didn’t know was happening. Her testimony about the attempt would be hearsay, and the Court will toss it like week-old sushi. Res Gestae rules, remember?”