Willem du Plessis carried intimidation the way others carried a coat�effortlessly, without thought. Broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, and carved from a discipline most men only read about, he was the kind of figure who made silence feel like an order. His presence spoke louder than words: no nonsense, no negotiation.
Those with shadows in their past gave him a wide berth. Something in his gaze�cool, dissecting�made the crooked believe he could see their sins like fingerprints on glass. They weren�t wrong. Willem didn�t miss much.
He wasn�t just a man; he was an institution of fear and precision. Which is why, when the Parliamentary Committee needed someone to shepherd the Mambas, to turn an ordinary police Unit into a disciplined strike team, there had only ever been one name on the list.
And Willem wore it like armor.
Willem lived on duty. There was no �after hours� in his world�only the next call, the next decision. He understood the weight of his position; urgency didn�t wait for office hours, and neither did he. The day he was appointed Chairperson of the Committee, he knew something fundamental had changed. Sleep became a negotiation, and Willem was losing. Since then, he had slept like a soldier: one ear to the door, ready to move at a moment�s notice.
That was exactly what happened in the early hours of Wednesday when his phone buzzed at 03:45. Willem blinked at the screen on the nightstand: General Kunene.
He snatched it up, voice gravelly with sleep.
�Morning, General.�
�Apologies for the hour, Honorable, but this cannot wait,� Kunene said, his tone tight.
�I understand. Go ahead.�
�I need to see you: In person.�
Willem swung his legs out of bed. �I�m in Pretoria,� he said, pausing for emphasis. �Castello di Monte.�