The New Base
The abandoned Ntuli property sat on the edge of the city — hidden behind overgrown trees and a tall, rusted gate that hadn't been opened in years.
Dombi stood in front of it, her hands trembling slightly.
"This belonged to your father?" Kabelo asked beside her.
She nodded.
"He used it for old projects… research, mostly. After he died, Mandla shut it down and told everyone it wasn't safe."
Kabelo raised an eyebrow.
"And they believed him?"
"He made sure they did."
The gate creaked loudly as they pushed it open. Dust floated in the warm air as they stepped inside.
The building was a wide, single-story structure — once modern, now forgotten. Tall windows covered in grime, vines curling around the edges, and silence so deep it echoed.
But inside…
Inside was potential.
Not fancy. Not polished. But exactly what they needed.
A place where Mandla's eyes couldn't reach.
The Setup Begins
Dombi walked deeper into the building.
The big room at the center still had old tables, shelves, even some faded blueprints. Her father's handwriting was faint on the whiteboard:
"Transparency protects everyone."
Her chest tightened — grief mixing with strength.
Kabelo dropped his bag on the floor and clapped his hands once.
"Alright," he said. "Let's turn this museum into a war room."
They dusted off the tables.
Opened windows.
Found working plugs.
Connected Kabelo's old laptop and scanner.
Set up Dombi's father's leftover equipment — surprisingly still functional.
The place slowly transformed:
Maps pinned to the wall
Files spread across tables
Ntuli Group floor plans laid out
A corkboard labeled "MANDLA NETWORK"
Red strings connecting names, dates, payments
Dombi stepped back and breathed in.
"This feels real now."
"It is real," Kabelo replied.
The Team Takes Shape
Late morning turned into afternoon.
Kabelo finished setting up the surveillance receivers.
Dombi organized documents and highlighted every pattern she could see. Share transfers. Signatures that didn't match. A trail of fake invoices. Payments to government officials disguised as "consulting fees."
"Look at this," she said, pointing to a set of dates.
"These are the same days Mandla traveled for 'business.' But the bank transfers happened at night. Someone else handled it."
Kabelo nodded slowly.
"The mole."
Another piece clicked into place.
Dombi pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote in bold:
TARGET: THE MOLE
Position: Senior Office Assistant
Access level: High
Schedule: Unpredictable
Weakness: Overconfidence
Kabelo smirked.
"You're thinking like your father," he said quietly.
She paused.
"I'm thinking like someone who's tired of being lied to."
Preparing the Infiltration Tools
They began laying out what they needed for the break-in:
Mini recorders
A tiny magnetic camera
A tracking device
USB blockers
Kabelo's modified security override fob
Dombi picked up one of the recorders.
"Are you sure this will catch everything?" she asked.
"It caught the man who killed my father," Kabelo said. "It'll catch Mandla."
Silence settled between them — heavy, respectful.
Then Dombi nodded once.
"Good."
The First Strike of Truth
As the sun began to lower, Dombi and Kabelo sat in front of the corkboard.
"We need one more thing," Kabelo said. "Someone inside the building who notices the mole's movements."
"A watcher?"
"Yes. Someone who doesn't know our full plan — only what to observe."
Dombi thought hard.
Names flashed through her memory.
Faces.
Conversations.
Then she remembered someone.
Quiet.
Routine.
Always ignored by Mandla's people.
"I know who," she said.
Kabelo looked at her curiously.
"She works nights. She sees everything but speaks to no one. Mandla doesn't even know her name."
Kabelo smiled slowly.
"Perfect."
Dombi added a new line on the planning sheet:
INTERNAL OBSERVER: To be approached tomorrow night.
Everything was coming together.
Piece by piece. Thread by thread.
At the Same Time — Mandla's Office
A different world.
Polished floors.
Glass walls.
Power humming like electricity.
Mandla stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his tie. Behind him, two board members argued about press statements.
"—She's missing!"
"—Mandla, this is getting dangerous!"
"—If she comes forward—!"
Mandla lifted a hand.
Silence.
His voice was smooth. Controlled.
"She won't come forward," he said.
"Because she won't survive long enough."
The board members exchanged nervous glances.
One spoke weakly, "Sir… the press conference is in 48 hours. If this goes wrong—"
"It won't," Mandla interrupted calmly.
"I built this empire. I control the narrative. In two days, the world will believe I'm the rightful leader of Ntuli Group."
He turned from the mirror.
"And no little girl is going to ruin that."
Behi
nd him, his secretary entered the office.
"Sir, we received intel. Someone accessed the old Ntuli property today."
Mandla's jaw tightened.
"Who?"
"We don't know yet."
Mandla's eyes darkened.
"Find out."