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Title: Content: The parking lot allowed access from both Main Street and Marshall Street�the latter running parallel, a single block south of Carlton Centre. Each street served as an entry and exit point, but the approaches carried their own quirks. Of them all, the Kruis Street exit was the most unforgiving: a narrow, elevated incline that funneled cars into a tight squeeze with no margin for error. Twenty seconds of tension from base to street level, no room for overtaking, no chance for evasive maneuvers if a vehicle stalled mid-climb. Only engines with real muscle cleared it without breaking a sweat, anything less risked embarrassment�or worse. For that reason, most drivers avoided Kruis altogether, sticking to the safer, flatter exits on Main or Marshall. But today, Kruis was exactly what Themba wanted. The moment he ended the call with Brigadier Mabena, he made it straight for Carlton Centre to scout the terrain, eyes tuned for vulnerabilities and escape vectors. It didn�t take long. One lap in, he had his plan�a clean, quiet extraction built on timing and confusion. He needed four cars. Four ghosts with nothing in common�save for the roles they�d play. The last in line would be the ugliest of the lot: a battered, smoke-belching relic built for failure. It would be the sacrificial pawn, the stall on the incline that no one could ignore. Each vehicle would arrive alone, at staggered intervals, drivers blending into the ebb of ordinary traffic. Once inside, they�d settle into position�close enough for precision, distant enough for deniability. When Kgole showed up, he�d be ushered into a clean ride with tinted glass�something that whispered anonymity. The moment that car rolled for Kruis, the smoky relic would cut ahead, lurching into the climb as if gravity itself was too much. The tinted car would fall in tight behind it, boxed in by the third vehicle sliding into formation, a steel curtain on wheels. The fourth car would anchor the line, creating a buffer�a deliberate clog in the artery to keep prying eyes and trailing vehicles at a safe, sterile distance. What unfolded beyond Kruis would be controlled chaos, a disappearing act written in exhaust and asphalt. Themba arrived first, as always�sliding in through the Marshall Street entrance. His hired silver-grey BMW eased past the boom gate, unhurried, blending into the ripple of sedans circling for space. He parked two rows from the incline, the engine murmuring as he scanned the lot through polarized lenses, every line, every angle, Measured, Stored. Page Number: Update Page