�Captain� I�m afraid you�ll have to stick around, until we figure out how to keep you alive.�
Then, without another word, he stepped into the dark, the door closing behind him like a final sentence.
The drive had been silent, but it weighed heavy�each passing kilometer thick with thought. Mabena�s hands stayed steady on the wheel, but his mind kept circling the same abyss: the possibility of the heaviest scandal of Cebile Ramatla�s administration. Outside, the city slept in its innocence, oblivious to the storm gathering in the dark.
Ten minutes into the new day, Brigadier Mabena finally lowered himself into the leather embrace of a chair across from General Kunene. The suite smelled of wealth�polished wood, sharp cologne, and power too old to be questioned. A glass coffee table gleamed between them, its surface already set with an open laptop, waiting like an executioner�s block.
Without ceremony, Mabena slid a hand into his pocket and drew out the flash drive. It caught the light, a small thing carrying ruin. He placed it on the glass with quiet finality.
�Here we go, Sir,� he said, voice stripped of everything but duty, as he sank into the couch�s depth like a man lowering himself into deep water.
For hours, the suite became a war room. The glow of the laptop painted their faces in cold light as page after page unspooled�emails, shell companies, numbers that bled into names. The silence was broken only by the quiet click of keys and the low hum of air-conditioning, a mechanical heartbeat in the stillness.
At last, General Kunene leaned back into the leather, the chair sighing under his weight. He exhaled slowly, a measured breath that carried the heaviness of what they�d just uncovered. His eyes stayed on the ceiling for a beat, like a man searching for clean sky in a storm.
�We bring in the Committee Chairperson,� he said finally, his voice low, precise. �Him only�.�
The words hung in the air like a verdict. He straightened slightly, gaze sharpening.
�We don�t know how long this trail runs�or how deep it goes.�