Chapter 16

Skukuza. Ranger station. Gustav’s office

I leaned over Gustav’s desk, the faint smell of old paper, dust, and something far less pleasant hanging in the air. The photographs were spread out in a careless fan, as if even Gustav—who had seen his fair share of brutality—hadn’t quite wanted to handle them for longer than necessary.

I forced myself to look closer.

The running shoes hit me first. Bright once, probably expensive, the kind of pair someone buys with intention—maybe for a new start, maybe for a journey. Now they were stiff, darkened with dried blood, the fabric warped and torn. What remained inside them made my stomach tighten—fragments of bone, sinew ... what used to be legs. Human legs.

Next to them lay scraps of clothing. Or what used to be clothing. Sun-bleached, ripped into uneven strips, edges gnawed and frayed. The bush had done its work. Nature didn’t care who you were before you became part of it again.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.

“Is this all that was left of the poor guy?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

Gustav didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back slightly, folding his arms, his expression settling into that professional calm investigators wear like armour.
“We believe after the lions were finished, hyenas, jackals and vultures got the rest.”

I nodded slowly, my eyes still fixed on the photographs, trying to reconstruct what must have happened out there. The chaos of it. The inevitability.
“So no identifiable head?”

“No,” he said. “Nothing we can use. But the Mozambican Police will turn over whatever remains there are to the SAPS for forensic analysis.”

That pulled me out of the images, back into something I understood—process, jurisdiction, structure. Things that made sense in a world that suddenly felt very raw.

“How deep into Mozambican territory was this?”

“About one to two kilometres,” Gustav replied. “But they decided that seeing the merchandise was South African property, they’ll let the SAPS take the lead on the investigation and collaborate from their side.”

I exhaled slowly and nodded.

“Good call,” I said.

Gustav tilted his head slightly, watching me. “Adrian, the original theft was committed in South Africa, therefore the investigation will be that of the SAPS. The ‘arrest’, if we can even call it that, was in Mozambican territory, but since it’s linked to the theft case, SAPS will lead and report findings back to the Mozambican authorities.”

“It makes sense under international law and cross-border collaboration,” I replied automatically. It was almost comforting, slipping into that mindset—rules, agreements, jurisdictional logic. A system that tried, at least, to impose order on chaos.

Gustav smirked at me then, the heaviness in the room lifting just a fraction.
“You will know,” he said. “I still can’t get my head around the fact that you’re a lawyer...”

I let out a soft chuckle, finally stepping back from the desk. “I needed to study something. The SANDF was footing the funds, so I studied law. The plan was aviation law, actually. But when I got out of the SAAF...” I shrugged. “Life had other, more lucrative ideas.”

“And you formed a law firm?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not exactly. It was my uncle’s firm on my mother’s side. He had no kids. When he passed, he left it to me.” I paused for a moment, thinking of the man. “I sort of ... stepped into it.”

Gustav grinned, that familiar mischief creeping into his eyes. A welcome change from the grim reality on his desk.

“You know,” he said, “I once dealt with a law firm called Lewis, Lewis and Lewis Incorporated.”

I groaned softly. I could already tell where this was going.

“So I phoned and asked to speak to Mister Lewis,” he continued. “They told me Mister Lewis was unavailable—he was in court. So I asked for the other Mister Lewis. Same story. In court. Not available for four hours.”

He paused, clearly enjoying himself.

“So then I asked to speak to the last Mister Lewis...” He leaned forward slightly, delivering the punchline with a straight face.

“And the guy on the phone said, ‘It’s me speaking.’How can I help you?’”

I stared at him for a second, then shook my head, a reluctant grin breaking through despite everything.

“GUSTAV! That’s the most lame lawyer joke on the planet!”

He shrugged, completely unapologetic.

“But I got you, didn’t I?”

I huffed out a breath, half a laugh, half disbelief, glancing once more at the photographs before turning away.

Yeah ... he got me.

Leaving Gustav still wearing that infuriating smirk, I turned my back on him and headed for my so-called headquarters — a modest bungalow that doubled as my office. Out here, lines blurred easily. Home, work, survival ... all the same thing under a corrugated roof.

Kait had already left with Steve and a handful of the guys, heading out toward Crocodile Bridge Rest Camp. The bridge over the Crocodile River had taken a beating from the floods, and Steve wanted eyes on it — experienced eyes. Kait’s eyes to sustain and collaborate his own findings.

She hadn’t been keen at first. I could see it in the way she hesitated, the way she weighed something unspoken. But then she changed her mind. Funny thing, the human mind — not much use if it can’t turn on itself when it needs to.

Crocodile Bridge ... small, quiet, almost forgotten compared to places like Skukuza Rest Camp. It sat right on the edge of the world, pressed up against the Crocodile River, the southern boundary of Kruger National Park. Thirteen kilometres from Komatipoort. A stone’s throw from Mozambique. Seventy-odd kilometres from Skukuza, depending on how often the bush decided to slow you down — which it usually did.

Out there, the wild didn’t just exist. It watched.

First priority: coffee.

I brewed a strong pot, the rich, bitter smell filling the bungalow, cutting through the dust and the faint scent of sunbaked wood. When it was ready, I took my mug outside onto the small patio and dropped into one of the weathered deck chairs. Four of them stood there like silent sentries, rarely all occupied at once.

I tore into a strip of kudu biltong, chewing slowly, letting the salt and spice settle in.

The bush was quiet. Not silent — never silent — but alive in that low, constant way. Wind brushing through dry grass. Distant bird calls. The kind of quiet that lets your mind wander where it shouldn’t.

I flipped open my logbook, scanning figures, trying to make sense of billable hours for the charter. Numbers. Safe, predictable things.

Then my phone rang.

The sound cut through everything like a blade.

I stared at it for a second before answering.

“Adrian speaking...”

“Hello Adrian, Mai-Loan here ... are you busy, or can I talk?”

Her voice was calm. Too calm.

“Just having coffee. Go ahead.”

“Good. I want to bring you up to speed on the missing person project.”

I leaned forward slightly, the chair creaking under me.

“Find anything on Owen?”

“Not on Owen himself,” she said. “But on that Sergei Reznikov character.”

That got my attention.

“Oh?”

“He’s like the Scarlet Pimpernel. Always there, never seen. Slips in and out of the shadows.”

I said nothing. Let her talk.

“Roxy traced a series of financial transactions from the accounts you found in Owen’s journal,” she continued. “Money moving out—and then into another account.”

“How does that tie to Reznikov?”

“The funds were deposited into a company called ‘Transworld Imports Exports,’ based in Maputo. CEO: João Carlos Chissano.”

I frowned, staring out into the bush but seeing none of it.

“Okay...”

“The accounts have been confirmed,” she went on, her tone tightening just enough. “They’re linked to ISIS and Ansar al-Sunna.”

That landed hard.

“So either they’re moving shipments through Transworld...” I said slowly.

“Or receiving them,” she cut in.

I exhaled.

“Arms?”

A brief pause.

“You’re clever, Adrian.”

Not clever. Just experienced enough to recognise the smell of blood in the water.

“Chissano was picked up on CCTV,” she added. “Leaving a bank in Maputo.”

“And you confirmed his identity?”

There was a moment of silence on the line. Just long enough.

Then she dropped it.

“Adrian ... João Carlos Chissano and Sergei Reznikov are one and the same person.”

For a second, everything stopped. The air. The sound. The world. It felt like a cold hand closed around my heart and squeezed. Then it started again—faster this time.

Finally. A real lead. A face to the ghost.

I leaned back slowly, gripping the mug a little tighter than I realised, eyes fixed on nothing.

Sergei Vladimir Reznikov. The Wolf. A thin smile crept across my face.

That’s a man I’d like to meet. Preferably ... Over the barrel of a gun.

My gun.

I sat on the patio long after Mai-Loan ended the call, the silence settling over me like dust.

Her words didn’t fade—they echoed. They stayed.