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No one could know where he was going�or why. A single whisper of this meeting, and his career wouldn�t just end; it would detonate. Sitting down with the head of the most feared syndicate on the continent was the kind of secret that buried men, not scandals. But tonight, the secret was intact. No one knew he was here. Not in Johannesburg. Not in South Africa. Not in Hillbrow. Without a hitch, Mashudu brought the car to the gates of 93 Abel Street. The headlights swept across wrought iron, catching the bold numerals carved into steel like a warning: 93 Abel Street. Even before the beams settled, the gate began to move�slow, deliberate, the metal sighing as it slid aside. Banda was expecting them. Mashudu had called ahead, his voice clipped and precise. There would be no waiting, no questions. Not here. Lesley Black had barely stepped out of the President�s office when the promise echoed in his mind: Commerce and Industry would be his. Madam Grace Manda had given her word, and in their world, that was as good as law�at least for now. The announcement wasn�t official yet, but that hardly mattered. His money had oiled the gears of her re-election, and this was the return on investment they had agreed upon. The deal didn�t end there. Another ministry was part of the bargain�Internal Affairs, the one that commanded every badge, every gun, every lever of domestic power. That seat was reserved for Yusuf Khan. To the party and the President, Yusuf was an ally of Lesley, a loyal foot soldier in the grand machinery of politics. In truth, he was something far more dangerous: a lieutenant in Carlos Ramirez�s empire, a man Lesley himself had brought into the fold. He checked his watch. 15:21. Late. The flight was at eighteen hundred hours, and by his math, he had thirty-nine minutes�thirty-nine, not forty�to be on that plane. He glanced at the dial again, as though a second look might coax mercy from the clock. For a moment, he hesitated, weighing options, chasing miracles in his head. Then resolve settled like stone: no detours, no distractions�straight to the airport. He thumbed his phone, voice clipped, commanding: �Meet me at the airport. Bring someone to drive the Velar back.� The Range Rover couldn�t be left behind. Appearances mattered. This flight wasn�t just important. It was the axis on which everything turned. Missing it wasn�t an inconvenience�it was unthinkable.
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