�Fotsteke! Keep quiet and don�t move,� the boy hissed voice flat, eyes cold. It was one of the two from the red Golf. The others had already pried open the left rear door of the Mercedes and were rifling through the back seat with methodical efficiency.
�Open the driver�s door,� the boy commanded.
Mashudu hesitated. His right hand hovered inches from the Glock. His mind raced. He could draw. Maybe shoot. But then�
A soft knock on his window,
He turned, heart thudding.
There stood the boy who had crossed the street. His face was unreadable, but his hand spoke volumes�a second Norinco 9mm leveled at Mashudu�s head, steady, unflinching.
The decision was made for him.
He let go of the Glock.
With slow, deliberate movements, he unlatched the door and pushed it open. The boy stepped in, coolly patting him down and fishing the phone from his pocket. The laptop on the front passenger seat was next, hauled out with practiced ease. The Glock under his seat disappeared seconds later.
The entire robbery lasted less than a minute.
Behind him, the driver of the trailing vehicle sat frozen, unwilling to move, unwilling to speak. They had seen it all�but like everyone else on Lillian Ngoyi, they knew the rule: stay quiet. Stay alive.
He sat motionless for a moment, his hands still gripping the steering wheel, trying to process what had just happened. Anger simmered beneath his skin�not at the boys, but at himself. His reflexes had failed him. His instincts, once razor-sharp, had dulled. He was no rookie, no out-of-towner caught off guard by the city's chaos. He knew these streets. He had cut his teeth right here, in this very jungle.
A decade ago, he might have been the one pulling the trigger.