Let the River Run
Copyright© 2026 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 12
Adrian’s bungalow, Skukuza Ranger Station Camp.
After Kait asked me her question of where we go from here, I was not so sure of the next step to take.
The silence in the room could be cut with a knife. Kait sat at the desk with her head resting on her hands under her chin. That honey blond hair fell like a flaxen waterfall over her shoulders and the morning blue eyes took on a deeper blue.
The silence was broken by my sigh. “I have no idea how to proceed.”
“We’ve got two distinct problems here that are intertwined. First, we must find out what happened to Michael and then proceed to the ‘who’ was involved.” She said at length.
“We can’t solve this on our own! We need backup,” I said softly, as if it was a thought that I verbalised.
“Who?” Kait asked. “And can we trust him?”
“Yes, we can trust him,” I replied and added. “I think I need to make a phone call.”
“Must I go to my bungalow?”
“No, you are part and parcel of this,” I replied and took out my cell phone, then scrolled my contact list until I found the number and pressed dial.
It rang a few times, and I was about to hang up when:
“Adrian! How are you mate?”
“Great thanks. And yourself? Still farming?”
“Between the court, the farm and flying – Yeah! Life is good.”
“And your canola blossom?”
“Driving me nuts!” He chuckled. “But good nuts...”
“Yeah, the one blossom that snugged in under your radar,” I chuckled.
“So, what are you up to, Adrian?”
“Flying on contract for SANparks out here in the Kruger.”
“Don’t tell me you are flying those beat-up old Squirrels of theirs!”
“Nah ... My own triple two. But tell me are you busy or can we have a chat about something we stumbled onto?”
“Shoot! I am lazing at the pool. It’s damn-well thirty-nine here in Cape Town.”
“First, Arno, do you recall Kaitlyn Fourie, the Game Drive Live presenter?” I asked and Kait smiled.
“I hear you SANparks guys pulled her and her camera man out of the flooded river. That Kaitlyn?”
“Yeah, and it was me with the help of a crew that pulled her out.”
Arno laughed. “Nice, old chap!”
“Well, the two of us hooked up. I am putting you on speaker as she is here right next to me.”
“No shit!”
“Stop swearing! She’s listening!”
“Oh, sorry. My apologies, Miss Fourie.”
“Never mind,” Kait chuckled. “I use an extended version of the sailor’s handbook for descriptive adjectives myself.”
“Great! Nice meeting you Miss Fourie. I’m Arno De Lange.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mister De Lange...” Kait replied.
“Arno, we sort of stumbled onto a cold case.”
“Details?”
“You remember that hoo-haai in the news about a journalist that went missing at Pafuri about ten, eleven years ago? One Michael Owen Delport?”
“Yeah, that rings a bell ... More like thirteen years ago. What about him?”
“We found an ammo box containing some of his personal effects...”
“Good, but you know what to do...” Arno began, then switched his tone. “You did not call me to share the info that you found his personal stuff. There is something else, ain’t there?”
“Yes...” I replied.
“From your tone it seems like it is not good...”
“No, it’s not good. So far, the evidence points to the fact that he happened to come into possession of information that involves ISIS and Ansar al-Sunna and he was subsequently taken out...”
There was a silence on the line.
“Arno, are you there...”
“Yes ... yes, I am. Adrian, let me put you in contact with someone that can help.”
“Who is that someone? I don’t want to involve the local police or for that matter the provincial police...”
“I know. You don’t know who all is involved. Give me half an hour and I will call you back.”
“Okay. And, Arno, thanks, mate.”
“Pleasure ... Bye for now.” And Arno disconnected.
“Okay, now level with me,” Kait said. “Who is this Arno de Lange, and who does he know that can help?”
“Advocate Arno De Lange SC. A fellow attorney at law. A very, very competent guy ... And also a commercial ATP certified pilot that flies big birds.”
“And he has an open line to the Pentagon, the CIA, MI6 and Mossad?”
“He knows people, that knows people, that can help...” I replied and took her hand and squeezed it.
“Oh, boy! Here comes the A-Team led by Colonel John ‘Hannibal’ Smith! As long as they leave that loony Murdock back at home...” Kait chuckled, then added: “What’s an ATP certified pilot?”
“An Airline Transport Pilot that flies local and international routes. He currently flies a Boeing 747-800 freighter, cargo to most overseas and local destinations.”
“International? Yes, he should know how to get to the A-team...” Giggle.
Twenty minutes crawled by.
The kind of twenty minutes that doesn’t pass so much as settle around you. Heavy. Sticky.
I found myself staring at nothing in particular, feeling that familiar pull toward the bottle. A whisky would’ve taken the edge off—just enough to smooth out the noise in my head. But this wasn’t the time for that. Not with what we had sitting on the desk.
Kait was still paging through the notebook, slower now. More deliberate. Every few pages she’d stop, lean in slightly, and read a passage twice—like she was trying to hear something between the lines. The latex gloves crinkled softly every time she turned a page.
Then my phone rang.
The screen stayed dark, but the vibration rattled across the desk, nudging a loose pen into a slow roll. The sound felt louder than it should’ve been.
I looked down at it.
Something in my chest shifted—slow, heavy, like a warning turning over.
“Is that him?” Kait asked, glancing up. The faint smile she’d been wearing slipped when she saw my face. “Is that the Advocate?”
“No,” I said quietly.
I didn’t recognise the number. Not saved. Not familiar. But it wasn’t blocked either. A South African mobile prefix—local—but the rest of it meant nothing to me.
That somehow made it worse.
I picked up the phone, my thumb hovering over the green icon. For a second, I didn’t move. My eyes drifted—Kait’s gloved hands ... the open notebook ... the CZ 75 lying on the blotter like a silent witness.
We were exposed.
Mid-investigation. No plan. No control.
And someone had just knocked.
I answered, lifting the phone to my ear, but I said nothing. Let them speak first. Always.
Three seconds passed.
In that silence, I heard it—faint, but unmistakable. Wind. Not the muffled kind through a window ... open wind. Wide space. Bushveld.
Whoever was on the other side wasn’t inside.
“Adrian?”
The voice was female. Low. Husky. Like it had travelled a long way through dry air before reaching me. There was something strained in it—not weak ... just weathered.
“Yeah...” I replied, keeping my tone neutral. “It’s me.”
“Adrian, you don’t know me,” she said, “but we have a mutual friend.”
A pause. Not hesitation—placement.
“Arno De Lange...”
She let the name hang there.
Not dropped. Placed.
Deliberately.
I felt something tighten behind my ribs.
“And if we do?” I asked.
A faint shift on the line. Maybe wind. Maybe movement.
“Then,” she said softly, “if I understand Arno correctly ... you have a problem.”
Another pause.
“And we are in a position to help.”
We.
I didn’t like that.
“Who are you?” I asked.
There was the slightest delay—just enough to feel intentional.
“I am Amirah Rahal.”
The name landed oddly. Foreign, but not unfamiliar. It carried weight ... like it belonged somewhere I hadn’t been yet.
“I would like to meet you,” she continued, “and your female friend.”
My eyes flicked to Kait. She was watching me now. Not reading anymore.
“Where are you?” I asked.
A soft sound came through the line. Not quite a laugh. More like breath brushing past a thought.
“Adrian...” she said, her voice lowering just a fraction, “I am everywhere.”
I frowned. “You sound secretive.”
“And you sound cautious,” she replied. “That’s good. It means you’ve lived long enough to learn.”
There it was again—that edge. Not threatening. Not friendly either. Just ... aware.
“That’s how I survive, Adrian,” she added quietly. “By being cautious and trusting only myself and my team.”
A faint gust of wind rushed past her end of the line, louder this time. Open ground. No cover.
“Now,” she continued, as if the moment hadn’t happened, “how about we meet? Tonight ... or tomorrow, if you prefer caution over curiosity.”
“Are you near here?” I asked.
“I am currently in Northwest Province.”
That caught me off guard. “That’s a few hours’ drive.”
“I won’t be driving.”
A pause.
“I’ll be flying.”
Of course you will, I thought.
“And I may bring ... one or two of my evil minions along.” In the background I heard a giggle from another female. Playful. Light.
The way she said it—light, almost playful—but there was something underneath it. Something that didn’t quite joke.
“Okay...” I said slowly. “Kait and I will wait. We’ll be in the restaurant at the airport.”
I checked the time. 12:20.
She didn’t have to, or already did check the time.
“It’s 12:20,” she said. “If I take off at 14:00, I can be at Skukuza by 15:00. Allowing for winds aloft ... let’s say 15:00. We meet at 15:15.”
Precise.
Controlled.
Like she’d already planned this before calling.
“Perfect,” I said. Then, before I could stop myself: “What exactly are you flying?”
There was that almost-laugh again. “A platypus,” she said.
I blinked. “A what?”
“A Pilatus PC-12.”
A beat. Then; “I understand you have reason to be cautious. We are really here to help. Goodbye, Adrian.”
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone slowly, staring at the screen long after it had gone dark again.
The room felt different now. Not quieter. Just ... occupied.
I looked at Kait.
She was staring at me, one eyebrow slightly raised, the notebook forgotten in her hands. The puzzled expression on her face said it all—she’d heard enough of my side of the conversation to know something had just shifted, but not enough to understand how much.
I let out a slow breath and reached for my phone again.
There was only one person who might make sense of this.
I dialled Arno’s number. It rang twice—clean, efficient—and then clicked alive.
“I take it Mai-Loan called you.”
I blinked. “Mai-Loan?” I said, caught off guard. “It was a woman named Amirah Rahal...”
A soft chuckle came through the line. Not amused—more like he’d been expecting this exact reaction.
“Amirah, Chao-Xing ... whatever she felt like using today,” he said. “If she went with an alias, it means she’s being cautious.”
That didn’t reassure me.
“Who is she?” I asked, lowering my voice slightly without really knowing why.
There was a pause on the line. Not long—but long enough to feel deliberate.
“Mai-Loan?” he said finally. “She’s what some people call the Dark Angel.”
That name didn’t sit well.
“The boss-lady of the Avenging Angels,” he continued. “And Adrian...”—his tone shifted, just a fraction—”you want her on your side.”
I leaned back slightly, eyes drifting to the passport still lying on Gustav’s desk.
“This is turning into a nightmare,” I muttered. “And I’ve got a feeling I’m not going to wake up in time.”
“You have nothing to fear,” Arno said, too quickly. “She operates under contract for the FLO.”
“The FLO?”
“Foundation for Law and Order. Think of them as a private investigation and security outfit ... just with sharper teeth.”
I ran a hand over my face. “You called her Mai-Loan. She introduced herself as Amirah Rahal. Sounded Middle Eastern.”
“It is,” he said. “That’s her Iraqi alias. She’s used it before. Convincing enough to pass in the right circles.”
“And the rest?” I asked.
A faint exhale came through the line.
“She can pass for Chinese too. Uses the name Chao-Xing when it suits her. But if you want the truth...” he paused, then added, “she was born in Vietnam. Vietnamese mother. American father.”
I let that settle.
A woman with that many identities didn’t just live in the shadows—she belonged there.
“Does she have the skills we need?” I asked. “To figure out what happened to Michael Owen Delport ... and how he ties into Ansar al-Sunna?”
Arno didn’t hesitate this time.
“Adrian,” he said, “I’d bet the FLO has a file on Ansar al-Sunna thicker than a boat shed is wide. If there’s a connection, they’ll find it.”
I glanced at Kait again. She was still watching me, now fully focused, reading my face instead of the notebook.
“That helps,” I said slowly. “But isn’t this ... overkill?”
A soft laugh came through.
“You said you wanted answers,” Arno replied. “Give Mai-Loan a scent, and she’ll track it through a storm. She’s the kind of person who can find one real ice cube in a freezer full of fakes.”
That image stuck with me.
Cold. Precise. Relentless.
“Alright,” I said. “Thanks for the heads-up. And for everything so far.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” he replied lightly. “You can always repay me.”
“Oh yeah?” I said. “How?”
“Handle that ALGOA contract between Walmart in the US and Shoprite/Checkers locally.”
I snorted. “That’s easy. I’ll just have a contract hitman take out the idiot who started this trade war because a bunch of politically connected currently disadvantaged crybabies leaned on him.”
“Careful,” Arno said with a chuckle. “You’re part of the ‘currently disadvantaged’ crowd, remember?”
“Yeah, I’m not black enough.” I muttered. “And one of these days the right people might wake up in that fine country and actually do something about it.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe he gets dropped like a hot potato when he’s no longer useful.”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” I said. Then, shifting gears: “Anyway ... enjoy the pool and your canola blossom.”
“Will do. Stay alive, Adrian.”
“Working on it.”
The line clicked dead.
I lowered the phone slowly, letting the silence settle again. It felt different now—denser, like the room had absorbed everything that had just been said.
I turned to Kait.
“We’ve got a meeting,” I said. “15:15. Restaurant.”
She tilted her head slightly. “With...?”
“Amirah Rahal,” I said. “Also known as Mai-Loan. Also known as someone you don’t want to underestimate.”
That didn’t help her expression.
“Wear your short mini skirt.”
She blinked. “I don’t own a short mini skirt.”
“Then we need to fix that,” I said, pushing myself up from the chair.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you taking me shopping?”
“With your own gold card.”
She folded her arms. “Beast.”
I allowed myself a faint smile.
If Arno was right ... we were about to meet something ... or someone far more dangerous than anything we’d found in that box.
Kait and I were seated in the restaurant at Skukuza by 14:30, tucked into a small table near the window that overlooked the runway and apron, tucked in side by side. It was one of those spots you’d only really appreciate if you had a thing for aircraft—or for watching people arrive with stories they hadn’t told yet.
The place was half full. A mix of tourists in khaki and sun hats, a few pilots in uniform grabbing late lunches, and the low hum of quiet conversation blending with the clink of cutlery and glassware. The air-conditioning worked overtime, pushing back against the Lowveld heat pressing in from outside. You could almost see the boundary—cool, controlled air inside ... and beyond the glass, Africa in full blaze.
Outside, the day had opened up completely. Not a cloud in sight. The sky stretched out in that endless, washed blue that only comes after the morning haze burns off. Heatwaves shimmered off the runway, bending the horizon slightly, making distant objects ripple like reflections on water.
Every now and then, the dry scent of sunbaked tar and dust slipped in through the automatic doors as people came and went. It carried with it that unmistakable bushveld smell—warm grass, dry earth, and something faintly wild underneath it all.
Kait leaned back in her chair, one arm resting on the table, her Coke sweating slowly in the glass. A slice of lemon floated lazily at the top, catching the light.
“Drinking coffee in this heat?” she said, eyeing my mug with a grin.
I wrapped my hands around the cup, letting the warmth settle in. “It’s air-conditioned in here,” I said. “And besides, warm coffee heats your body up—tricks it into thinking it’s cooler outside.”
She gave me a look, half amused, half accusing. “There you go. Exactly what my dad says. Same argument. Same tone. No wonder you two get along so well.”
I chuckled. “Smart man.”
She rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed.
For a moment, things felt ... normal. Almost.
But it didn’t last.
My eyes drifted back to the runway. I checked my watch. 14:53.
Right on cue.
At first it was just a shape against the sky—a clean, deliberate movement cutting through the heat haze. Then the details sharpened as it descended.
An all-white Pilatus PC-12.
No markings. No colour. Just a smooth, almost sterile arctic-white finish that reflected the sunlight in a way that made it stand out even more by trying not to.
It came in low and steady, no drama, no unnecessary correction. Whoever was flying it knew exactly what they were doing.
“Here we go,” I muttered.
The aircraft crossed the threshold and touched down with surgical precision. For a split second, the tyres hovered—then met the tar with a soft chirp. A faint puff of blue smoke curled up from the main undercarriage, dissipating almost instantly in the slip stream.
A second later, the nose wheel settled, and the engine note shifted.
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