As Captain Kgole eased out of Johannesburg Central�s gates, a flicker of movement snagged his attention. One of the junior officers�someone tight with Lieutenant Mazibuko�was slipping behind the wheel of Mazibuko�s official car, a white 2019 Toyota Corolla.
That was� odd. Mazibuko never let anyone touch his steering wheel. The man was notoriously superstitious; convinced that too many hands on the wheel poisoned a car�s luck�left behind traces of bad energy that clung like smoke.
So why was Constable Molefe driving now?
Kgole didn�t let the question show on his face. He had expected something like this. It was the reason he�d sent Kagiso ahead with the laptop and iPhone to Cori Coffee Bar.
He loosened his grip on the wheel, settled into his seat, and played it cool�eyes forward, expression blank. No sudden moves. No sign he�d noticed anything out of place.
Then, without hurry, he eased onto Lillian Ngoyi Street, curving toward Polly Street. All the while, his gaze ghosted to the mirrors, tracking the white Corolla gliding along with quiet confidence.
Molefe drove like a man certain of his invisibility.
Molefe wasn�t built for the field. Surveillance..? That wasn�t in his vocabulary. He was a desk man through and through�more clerk than cop, a uniformed errand boy whose badge owed more to old MK Council connections than to merit. Around the station, he was the guy sent fetching coffee and filing reports, a glorified messenger in blue. But everyone knew his real job: Mazibuko�s eyes and ears in every corridor, every office every careless conversation.
Captain Kgole nosed the car into a gap at Polly and Jeppe, killed the engine, and let the silence settle. He stayed there for a beat, watching Molefe circle like a lost tourist, hunting for a spot with all the grace of a man out of his depth. A smile tugged at Kgole�s mouth�thin, humorless. Amateur,
He slipped a hand into his jacket, drew out his phone, and thumbed Kagiso�s number without taking his eyes off the street. The line clicked almost instantly.