Club�located just a few blocks away, at the intersection of Claim Street and Lillian Ngoyi.
By 5:30 p.m., it was clear the laptop issue wouldn�t be resolved that day. Alomwe Computer Shop was due to close at six, and the so-called delivery from the Apple supplier�a crucial piece of the cover story�wasn�t going to happen. There was no delivery on the way. In truth, no order had ever been placed. The operative assigned to handle it had gone through the motions�clicked around, filled in forms�but had stopped short of submitting anything.
None of that mattered now. The Mambas had what they came for: time and familiarity. After nearly a full day of passive observation, they�d mapped the rhythms of the street and the behavioral patterns of its residents. More importantly, they�d figured out how to remain relevant within the delicate ecosystem of Lillian Ngoyi Street without arousing suspicion.
The next phase required proximity. Direct access, someone had to get inside Sahara Night Club, which was scheduled to open at 6:00 p.m. Of the five-person Mambas crew, only Lindani drank alcohol�and at twenty-seven, he was the youngest, with the kind of energy and look that wouldn't raise eyebrows among the nightclub�s usual crowd.
As Brigadier Siyabonga Mabena, Thabo Mokoena, and Thembelani Dhladhla prepared to retreat for the evening, Lindani and the team�s only female operative, Mantwa Kagotso, transitioned into their second identities. They would enter Sahara Night Club not as investigators, but as a couple out on the town�just another pair of lovers chasing rhythm and release in the neon-lit underworld of Johannesburg�s nightlife.
The atmosphere inside Sahara Night Club was a live wire�thick with bass, neon, and the restless energy of a crowd that had come to forget itself. For Lindani, stepping into such a place was a rarity. Since joining the Mambas, his world had been stripped of the casual indulgences most people took for granted. Members of the unit didn�t linger in venues like this, where the air was dense with cigarette smoke and the patrons were everyday Johannesburg locals. Their work usually took them to polished, high-end establishments�haunts of the city�s power brokers, where champagne flowed like tap water and deals worth millions were sealed with handshakes in private booths.
To make any headway in the investigation, they needed to get close to Adedeji. But they�d only been on Johannesburg�s streets for less than twenty-four hours, and in the underworld, new faces were like unexploded ordnance�handled with caution. Any attempt at direct contact with Adedeji had to be calculated, deliberate. Charging in blind would be reckless.