Chapter Six

A battered taxi blared its horn as it forced its way in front of them, ignoring the rules of the road and veering over the pavement in the process. Anton Vorster slammed on the brakes.

“Shee-it!” Johnny white-knuckled the door handle in protest.

TIA, buddy, this is Africa. Hell, this wasn’t just Africa. They were heading into Hillbrow, an inner-city neighborhood of Johannesburg riddled with gang activity. Hillbrow was known for high levels of population density, unemployment, poverty, and crime. Max glanced out the back window of the Jetta. It was a Saturday afternoon, and activity littered the streets. Gangs of men huddled on street corners, arrogantly watching over the scurrying locals. Anton pulled up at a light. Street vendors and beggars tapped at the windows, jostling for their attention.

“Fok off!” Anton yelled, waving an aggressive window washer away.

Anton was a neutral contact who would get them in Mandla Nkosi’s door. He worked for Nkosi on occasion, renting out his SF skills. Max was no stranger to working in dangerous cities—places that made Afghanistan look like utopia—and he bore physical souvenirs as proof. Hillbrow felt about the same, that keyed-up heightened awareness. Being surrounded by wolves waiting for any sign of weakness. Towards the end of Apartheid, Hillbrow was named a grey area where people of different ethnicities lived together. However, due to poor planning, its infrastructure could not cope with the rapid population growth. An exodus of middle-class residents in the eighties left in its wake an urban slum. Fast forward to present day, and it was a dangerous cesspool of drugs and poverty.

“Are you sure we can trust this Nkosi guy? He hasn’t exactly taken up residence in the best part of town.”

Anton glanced at Johnny. “Mate, he chooses to live here for that very reason. Nothing goes on without Mandla Nkosi knowing about it. Don’t worry, he has men watching our six on every street corner for the next five blocks.”

“No offense, buddy, the only one watching my six is my teammate.” Max reached over and squeezed Johnny’s shoulder.

“Want me to turn the air up?” Anton fiddled with the vents while swerving around a jaywalker. Jesus, that was close.

“Perkele. Just get us safely in and out of this damn ghetto.”

“Is there a reason we’re doing this on a Saturday?” Johnny asked.

“You sound like a bunch of girls, all pink on the inside. Mandla’s a busy man and this is the only time he’ll see you. Let me guess, Big John, you’re not a fan of crowds?”

“Which operator is a fan, you fucker?”

Anton laughed. He was enjoying this. Max would bet that the tough mother was a regular visitor to this part of town.

Anton Vorster’s hardness resulted from the brutal life he’d lived as a South African Special Forces Soldier—also known as Recce—ruthless warriors who instilled fear in their enemies. For many years, Recce was ranked as the best trained unit worldwide. Now many of the Former SF men found themselves unemployed. Some turned to mercenary work. Max knew of Recce fighting the Boko Haram in Nigeria and had also run into them in Sierra Leone and Iraq. Others had been killed or captured in shadowy corners of the world. The lucky ones like Anton found work with consultancy firms, covertly aiding the government and wealthy clients by protecting their assets. Max didn’t entirely trust Anton—not many men earned that right—but he did respect the hell out of him.

His mind kept drifting back to Abby touching herself in the shower. He’d been with a fair number of women in his time, yet that was the most erotic moment he’d ever experienced. Abby’s throaty moans echoed through his brain. The way she’d shouted his name. Shit. There was no way he’d allow his dick to get his team into trouble and fucking a target would get them into a tank load of it. A target. A terrorist. A traitor.

“Heads up, we’re here.” Anton braked suddenly and swung into a parallel space with little room to spare. They exited the vehicle and immediately stood out like damn glow sticks. Although they dressed to blend in, the three tall warriors screamed operator. Max surveyed the urban chaos; hostile curiosity littered the street. He ignored the stares, scanning for potential threats.

Anton knelt to greet a street child. “Sawubona baba.”

Max recognized the tribal greeting spoken in Zulu. Anton handed the child a package, which Max presumed was food. Judging by the strung-out look in the boy’s eyes, if Anton gave money, he’d spend it on glue or weed.

The child replied, “Yebo, Sawubona.”

The rest of the conversation was lost to Max. The skinny kid was an informant and the exchange probably pertained to the meeting, so Max bit his tongue. Four men sized them up from across the street, gang-affiliated judging from the clothing. Street vendors yelled among each other. A family looking down on their luck scuttled by. A Bob Marley wannabe ambled past strumming at a guitar that had seen better days. Two stocky men chatted in Russian and Max eavesdropped.

“I want my merchandise.”

“You’ll get it.”

“Tell Alexei if I don’t get it tonight, I’ll be mailing pieces of him to his pretty wife.”

The Russian mob operated openly in South Africa; it had been that way for over two decades. Hearing them loudly going about their business demonstrated the Wild West mentality that was the embodiment of Johannesburg.

Max forcibly blocked out the felonious conversation and focused his attention back on the four thugs now crossing the street. Johnny casually repositioned himself, preparing for potential hostility. Anton straightened. Max felt for his piece. Instead, Anton nodded at the gang leader and ushered Max and Johnny towards the nearest alley. The gangsters followed from behind, watching their backs. Max released a breath. Gee, thanks for the heads-up.

“Friends of yours?” Max asked under his breath.

Anton smiled. “Something like that.”

“You slick bastard. What did the kid say?”

Anton led them to an old apartment block probably built in the 1920s. The once beautiful facade was crumbling, and the alley stank of piss and rotting waste. Three steps led up to a side door.

“He gave me the all clear.” Anton punched in a code, and the door swung open. His four “friends” casually took positions facing the street. Johnny and Max followed Anton into a dark passage. Seventies wallpaper peeled off the walls, and the carpeted stairs were caked in filth. The term slum lord palace came to mind. Hitting a second metal door, they emerged into an antiquated lobby encased in cheap wooden furnishings and old metal turnstiles. A fucking huge gatekeeper guarded the elevators. Armed to the hilt, he could barely stand upright with all that freaking hardware. Beady eyes challenged them to make a move.

Johnny sniggered, and Anton elbowed him. “Jackson, my good man.”

A deep growl emerged. “Fuck you, Vorster. What do you want?”

Anton spoke out the side of his mouth. “I kicked his ass in the ring last week, guess he’s still a little sensitive.”

Stepping up to the goliath, Anton parried and punched. “Gotta move fast, my big friend, otherwise, you’ll lose out on the moola!”

“Screw you, I’ll rip your white-boy head off if you keep that up.”

Jackson suddenly grinned, and his surly demeanor evaporated. He grabbed Anton’s shirt and attempted a headlock maneuver. Anton countered the move, jabbing and dancing to the side.

“I’d love to kick your ass all day, but Mandla is expecting us.”

“Whatever, asshole. Get your skinny ass up there before I snot slap you.”

He nodded at Max as they wound their way through a turnstile and boarded the oldest elevator in Africa. Once the doors finally slid shut, it shuddered upwards. Cables groaned and Johnny gripped the handrail.

“He’s Mandla Nkosi’s security detail? Seriously.”

Anton shot Max a sideways look. “Jackson and Mandla grew up together. They’re from the same tribe. Mandla saved his friend from drowning when they were kids. So, Jackson has it in his head that he needs to return the favor.” Anton chuckled. “Jackson appointed himself as Mandla’s bodyguard, and Mandla just accommodates his wishes. It’s easier that way. But to answer your question, nope. Mandla has a separate detail.”

The elevator convulsed once before stopping. The doors creaked open, and Anton wasn’t kidding. Five men moved towards them as two others hung back. They moved with practiced ease, indicating excellent training. All their handguns were at the ready. The room was staggeringly elegant, nothing like the slum conditions below. The muted walls and comfortable furniture scattered throughout the foyer complemented the fresh aroma of lemon and rosemary.

The lead guard stepped forward. “Vorster.”

“Jones.” Anton nodded. “We have an appointment.”

“I know. We’ll need to frisk your new colleagues. Weapons?”

“Yes.”

“Hand them over.”

Johnny smiled dangerously. “Not gonna happen, bro.”

Jones glared at Johnny, and Max reinforced his buddy’s statement.

“We don’t know you. No offense but if the shit hits the mercenary fan…”

That pissed Jones off. “We are not mercenaries. Vorster, talk to your Yankee friends.”

“Mate, you know I never give up my piece. Check with your boss.”

One of the men tapped his earpiece and rattled something off in Zulu as a standoff ensued, all Stonehenge-like.

“Stand down, boys.” Mandla Nkosi stepped around his security team and grasped Anton’s hand warmly. The man had an immediate presence.

“Comrade. It’s good to see you again.”

“Hey, brother,” Anton replied.

Dressed casually in black slacks and a crisp white shirt, Mandla exuded confidence. The white shirt contrasted with his ebony skin. His lean form radiated strength. As Max shook Mandla’s hand, polished and refined were words that came to mind, but both meant shit in this world. Mandla would be a useful asset or thorn in his side. If Mandla got between him and Khalid, he was as good as dead.

“Keep your weapons, Anton has vouched for you, but my men will still perform a search.”

They checked clothing and shoes—both physically and with scanners—looking for listening devices. After a thorough pat down, the men pulled on their boots.

“Please, gentlemen, follow me.” Mandla walked ahead with Anton, leaving Max and Johnny to file in behind.

His airy office was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the Johannesburg skyline was impressive. Max walked over and tapped on the glass—bulletproof, which didn’t surprise him.

“Mr. Andersen, please take a seat.” Mandla stood behind an oak desk, gesturing to the luxurious leather chairs in front of him.

“I gather this room was swept.” Max referred to listening devices.

“Twice a day and no one enters without being thoroughly vetted. We also have surveillance-blocking technology throughout the building.”

Max nodded once. He eyed the security team as he took a seat. Johnny remained standing. Silence descended as the two seated men weighed each other up. With a soft knock on the door, a petite woman bustled in carrying a tray of refreshments. Biscuits and tea. How very British.

“Help yourselves.” Nkosi waved his teacup. Max poured a cup and selected a small biscuit as a gesture of politeness.

“Nkosi—”

“Please. Call me Mandla. I hate formalities.” Mandla ignored Max’s raised eyebrow. “I’ve heard good things about MIT. Rumors are, thanks to MIT2’s loyal work, there are six notorious Isis leaders behind bars.”

Max kept his expression neutral as Mandla continued. “I’m sure you’ve reviewed my file. But you don’t know me, and I don’t know you. We have little time to establish trust. I need to reassure you however that I work closely with the STF.”

The STF was an elite police tactical unit of the South African Police Service. It consisted of ninety operators based in all major South African cities. Their tasks included resolving hostage situations and combating urban and rural terror.

“Colonel Andre De Beer, who heads up the Johannesburg division, will be here shortly.”

That made the partnership easier, but Max would still need to negotiate their stay.

Nkosi narrowed his eyes. “You’re a quiet one. You’re analyzing me—picking me apart—when it’s me that should be putting you and your team under my microscope. You could possibly incur violence in my country and, if my information is accurate, you’re expressing an interest in one of my citizens, along with gathering intel on an extremist gunrunner. Khalid Al Juhani.”

Impressive work, Max thought. The man seated before him had an even broader network than Max first calculated. No mention however of Khalid’s suicide bomber recruitment network. Classified information too high up the US covert ladder.

“What makes you think that we’re watching a South African target?”

“I’m not a fool. Evans’s name came up as a person of interest.”

Max stiffened. “By whom? No one except MIT knows she’s here and it took all our resources to find her.”

Mandla leaned back. “You forget that I worked for the British Government. Evans got one of our agents killed.”

A frisson of anger ran through Max. Fucking MI6 was sticking their nose in where it didn’t belong. “Tell your English friends to back the fuck off. If they screw with this operation and any of my MIT2 members get hurt, I’m coming for your Limey friends with my entire arsenal of weapons, tied up in a gift of bullshit red tape and a decade worth of paperwork. Their shot-up asses will be bandaged to a desk for the next decade. Do I make myself clear?”

Nkosi’s brows drew together. “If you’re targeting a South African citizen, especially one involved in the killing of a British spy, I’ll need to know if she’s a viable threat.”

“We’re figuring that out. Don’t forget that Evans has dual citizenship, she’s American born,” Max replied.

Nkosi tapped his fingers together, his smile calculating and his gaze direct. “I’m only one man. I use my limited time on this planet to protect my beloved country against both foreign and domestic threats and will happily die for that cause. I don’t care for anyone else higher up in the food chain. My vision for South Africa is all that matters. Is the government failing in many aspects? Definitely. For sure. Does that mean that every government official is corrupt or not doing their job? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Should I step back from my role in the country’s future, a role that ensures that my rainbow nation is safe and that there is equal opportunity for all? I’ll never do that.”

The passion and love for South Africa shone in the man’s eyes. Judging from his past work history, Mandla didn’t seem like the double-crossing type. Patterns were a good indicator. Relying on patterns of behavior did not mean that people never stepped out of their role or acted out of character, but that was the exception and not the norm.

“You’ve worked with two of our teams in the past,” Max said.

Mandla nodded. “I have. MIT1 and MIT4.”

“Are you still willing to help the United States wherever possible?”

“Rivers of blood will not be allowed to flow freely through my country, and a trickle of blood has begun. Hijackers, thieves, and murderers are killing our South African people. I will help to staunch the flow. I will fight to make my country safe and whole.” Mandla paused to sip his tea. “Do you remember the 2010 FIFA Soccer World Cup, held in South Africa some years ago?”

“Vaguely. I’m not a soccer fan. American football is more my thing,” Max said.

“Now that’s a black mark against you.” Mandla chuckled as Max smiled. “Anyway, that was the first time that I worked closely with a US covert team. We stopped an imminent threat to the games, catching a four-man squad holed up in a beach house in Durban. Caught the bastards red-handed with suicide vests lined up on the living room floor. That was when I knew that I was making a difference helping to prevent the mass murder of hundreds of South Africans. My life path took a different turn.”

With no red flags flapping in the wind, a solid alliance seemed likely. Mandla Nkosi would be a useful partner in the war against the Sandpiper.

Max asked a question which had been on his mind. “Have you had an increase in terrorist threats of late? I know there are regular bomb threats here, but most have turned out to be bogus.”

“South Africa hasn’t had a major terrorist incident. But that does not mean that it won’t happen. There are too many unknowns, the threat level is rising rapidly. The Southern region is a cauldron of corruption, violence, and beauty.”

Max agreed. Too many countries ignored growing indoctrination within their borders and only realized the extent of the problem after the wake of their first terror attacks. Better to be proactive before extremists established strongholds. The challenge was identifying sleepers hidden among good citizens. Mandla’s incredible network was formidable in nipping extremist cells in the bud.

Max placed his cup down. “Working together requires a certain level of transparency. I’ll bring you up to speed on what MIT2 has on Khalid, if you promise to watch our backs and feed us any intel that comes your way.”

“I’ll do one better, any resources that you require are yours. Between the STF and my team, you have reliable operatives as backup and access to our resources. Understand that if your team screws this up, I’ll deal with Khalid and you won’t like my methods. If Khalid Al Juhani steps onto my soil, he won’t be stepping off.”

There was a knock on the door. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. Colonel De Beer is here to see you.”

“Show him in.”

The colonel was well trained and competent. A seasoned soldier who, after talking with Max at length, offered his assistance willingly.

Mandla folded his hands. “Now that the dick-measuring contest is over, let’s get on with this. Anton and Johnny, please have a seat. Max, brief us on what you have so far.”

An hour later, after the five men had run over the operation, Mandla led them one floor up and showed them around his facilities. To say it was impressive was an understatement. There was a detention center, interrogation rooms, a well-stocked armory and an analysis room. Bigger sharks backed this baby, Max thought. The equipment looked spook stamped; there was no doubt that the CIA had their hands in this African pot. He didn’t give a damn who Big Daddy was, as long as his team stayed safe and uncompromised.