silence spoke louder than any excuse. He knew he had crossed a line, and he knew what that meant.
His last trace was a message to the station commander�General Jacobus Strydom, �Kobus� to those who dared familiarity. In the early hours of Wednesday morning, Mazibuko had called in sick. After that, nothing, No calls, No replies, just a void where a man used to be.
McBride had stopped trying. He didn�t have the luxury of waiting. The meeting with Carlos was set, and he would have to walk into it blind�without the update on the laptop and the iPhone, the very pieces of evidence Ramirez would expect accounted for.
And that was the problem. Carlos was a man who demanded precision. Every detail, every breath in his empire mattered to him. He didn�t just want control; he lived it. Men called him hands-on, but that was an understatement. He was the tide that pulled every ship in his world.
So when Carlos asked�and McBride knew he would�what would he say? That he didn�t know? That some provincial cop had vanished along with the loose ends? The thought alone was enough to send a cold weight sliding down his spine.
When a man owed an explanation, time became a predator. Nine o�clock was closing in with the kind of speed that left no room to breathe.
The venue didn�t help either. Hillbrow... Even the name carried weight�grit wrapped in neon. McBride had never set foot here. His dealings with Lesley Black had always played out in places where champagne flowed and curtains muffled the world: five-star suites, private villas, polished boardrooms. Tonight was different. Tonight felt like stepping off a map.
He wasn�t taking chances. He had asked Mashudu to drive�a man who knew these streets, who could navigate this concrete jungle without blinking. But Mashudu carried his own storm. Two nights ago, he�d lost the laptop and the iPhone�the very things Carlos would demand an account for. McBride hadn�t said it out loud, but the weight of that loss was in the car, heavier than both of them.
Unlike Carlos, McBride moved without an entourage. He needed no procession, no show of force�just Mashudu at the wheel, a man who knew these streets like the lines on his own palm. With him, McBride felt safe enough. More than that, he needed discretion.