evidence. He tried one exploit after another, chasing ghosts through firewalls, every failure tightening the wire of tension strung across the room.
Patience frayed. For Captain Kgole, it was the tyranny of the unknown gnawing at his gut�the question of whether his instincts would bear fruit or bury him. For Mabena, it was something colder: the fear of exposure, the weight of what would happen if this dragged on and leaked. He wasn�t here for hope. He was here for control.
Then it came�clean and quiet, like the click of a detonator.
We�re in,� Shadows said, voice flat but carrying a charge that stilled the room.
The Mambas drew closer, their breath one collective hold. The desktop bloomed into chaos�files strewn like shrapnel�yet one folder held its ground: PRETORIA, carved in stark, almost innocent letters.
Lindani�s voice slid low, taut with urgency. �Open it.�
Click.
A labyrinth unfolded�subfolders stamped with dates, names, and quiet menace. Contracts, Encrypted emails, Bank statements, together, they told a story written in rot: the relentless corruption of Minister Ted McBride
Thembelani Dhladhla let out a low whistle. �This isn�t skeletons in a closet. This is a graveyard.�
Mabena�s eyes hardened to steel. �Follow the money.�
Shadows dove deeper unspooling the blood trail of currency through offshore accounts and hollow-shell corporations. One set of initials surfaced again and again, like a corpse refusing burial: CR.
Lindani�s jaw clenched. �McBride�s moving money through CR. Quiet, invisible.�
Themba�s mind ran the math of disaster. �We need proof�iron-clad. One wrong move and they erase it all.�
Mabena�s voice came cold, final: �Shadows, dig until your fingers bleed. Find me the link that buries him.�