Private Gold

Prologue

Alone in his office, Khosi Khumalo waited for the visitor who was his last hope. He was nervous about this meeting, more so because the man was late. He glanced through the window. The latch had been damaged in the recent burglary and he’d fixed it with a piece of twisted wire. Outside, the sky was darkening and the hum of traffic was starting to subside. But he’d willingly stay here till midnight or beyond if this visitor could deliver what he’d promised... information.

Khosi was desperate for the vital link that would allow him to pull together everything he’d learned over the past few weeks. They knew he was digging, and they were trying to stop him. The recent break-in was proof of that, he was sure. He’d hidden two sets of backup data in different places, and although they’d found one, they had missed the other.

But he didn’t know who “they” were — not yet.

He hoped that by the time he left tonight, things would be different. Then he could share the knowledge with his business partner. It would turn everything around, and give the two of them a fighting chance again. He hadn’t wanted to burden Joey with what he’d learned, not when Joey was preoccupied with the day-to-day survival of Private Johannesburg, their fledgling investigation business.

The shrill ring of the doorbell made him jump. Instinctively he glanced at the empty space where the video surveillance screen had been. It had been stolen, of course, together with everything else of value.

Khosi checked that his pistol was holstered on his belt. Then he hurried to the lobby and opened the door. “Mr. Steyn?”

The man who shuffled in looked as furtive and dispirited as he had sounded when he’d called earlier. They’d taken everything from him, he’d said, and it certainly appeared true. Dressed in shabby jeans and a threadbare shirt that hung on his lean frame, he seemed much further down on his luck than Khosi was. He carried piles of files and documents in a makeshift wooden crate with nails jutting from it. In a soft voice, he greeted Khosi.

“Let me help you with that,” Khosi offered, taking one side of the crate, but Steyn nearly dropped his side, and the flimsy container started to fall apart. Khosi made a grab for the documents as they slid to the floor. Wooden slats clattered around him, and something sharp jabbed him painfully in the thigh.

“Hey! Careful, there,” he warned as he picked up a dog-eared folder. Behind him he heard Steyn mumble, “Sorry.”

A minute later, and Khosi had retrieved the fallen papers and pressed the nails back into place. His thigh was stinging... the crate looked old and dirty and he made a mental note to get a tetanus booster as soon as possible.

He placed the crate on the desk, feeling surprisingly tired after the short walk. Well, it was only Tuesday, but the week had already been filled with stress. He sat down, realizing that the room was starting to swim around him. Desperately, he tried to gather his thoughts.

“Tell me who they are,” he began, but he slurred the words. Deep inside him, a flame of panic blazed. He slumped onto the desk, aware of Steyn pulling on a pair of latex gloves before approaching him. Steyn’s movements were no longer downtrodden and shuffling, but fast and purposeful.

“No!” he wanted to shout, but the words would not come; a darkness was rushing up to meet him. He tried to channel his panic into action but the flame flickered and died. With a jerk, his pistol was snatched from the holster.

He felt his hand being lifted; gloved fingers forced the gun into his own grasp. Khosi had time only for a pang of terrible regret that his own desperation had driven him so trustingly into this trap.

Cold steel, hard against his temple.

Then... nothing.