WEB OF LIES Novel Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

GATSHA

His heart beats so hard against his ribs but he keeps his face straight. He doesn’t like being caught off guard. In his world, being surprised usually means you’re about to die. He looks at Zenzele sitting there, looking far too comfortable for a man sitting five feet away from a dead body.

Zenzele has been the Nhlapho family lawyer for six years. He knows every contract, every bank account, and every dirty secret the company has ever buried.

“Zenzele,” he says, “You have a bad habit of appearing where you aren’t invited. How did you get in here?”

“The same way you do, Gatsha. I have keys to every door Funani thinks he locked. I’ve been watching you for months. The Mauritius accounts? That was a nice touch. Very clever but you forgot that every cent that leaves this country has to be scrubbed by someone who knows the law. You’ve been using my firm’s digital signatures to bypass the reserve bank.”

He feels a cold sweat on the back of his neck. He thought he was being a ghost, but Zenzele has been holding the flashlight the whole time.

“So you’ve been watching me steal from our friend and you didn’t say anything?” He asks, stepping closer, his hand twitching toward the metal pipe he used earlier.

Zenzele laughs, “Why would I stop you? Funani is a good man, but he’s boring. He wants to play by the rules now because he and his beautiful wife have a baby on the way. He’s forgotten that this business was built on blood and hazardous waste. You, on the other hand, still have hunger. I like hunger, it’s profitable.”

He relaxes his posture, but his mind is racing. The idea of sharing his prize with a lawyer who sits in an air-conditioned office while he does the heavy lifting makes his stomach turn. Fifty-fifty? That’s not a partnership; that’s a robbery.

“You want half?” He asks, putting on a fake smile. “That’s a big ask for a man who didn’t have to tackle an assassin tonight.”

“I’m the one who makes sure the assassin doesn’t lead back to you,” Zenzele replies, standing up and walks over to the body on the floor and nudges the man’s shoe with his loafer. “I’m the one who will handle the paperwork when Funani accidentally passes away. I’m the one who will ensure Hlengiwe is tied up in legal red tape so long that she’ll beg you to take the company off her hands just to pay her bills. Without me, you’re just a criminal. With me, you’re a CEO.”

He hates how right this man is. He knows how to move trucks and scare people, but he doesn’t know how to move millions across borders without triggering alarms. He needs Zenzele’s brain, at least for now but 50% is too much.

“The risk is all mine, Zen,” he says, walking toward the window and looking out at the yard. “I’m the one who has to look Hlengiwe in the eye and lie to her. If something goes wrong, I’m the one who goes to C-Max. You? You just delete a few files and move to Cape Town.”

He turns back, his eyes narrowing. He needs to sweet-talk this man, play on his own greed but keep the upper hand.

“How about this? We don’t talk about percentages yet but the goal. We get Funani out of the way and get the widow under our thumb. I take over the operations, you take over the finances. You get a thirty percent stake, and I handle all the messy parts. Thirty percent of this company is more money than your law firm makes in ten years.”

Zenzele tilts his head, “Thirty? You’re insulting me, Gatsha. I know exactly how much is in the Durban contract. Forty percent, and I want a seat on the board of the shell company.”

He clenches his jaw to stop himself from wrapping his hands around Zenzele’s neck. He walks over and pours himself a glass of the same whiskey.

“You’re a shark, Zenzele. I respect that,” he says, raising his glass. “Fine, forty percent. You must handle his family, those are vultures. They’ll come for the house and the cars the moment Funani is in the ground. I don’t want them sniffing around the books.”

“The family is easy,” Zenzele smirks, clinking his glass against Gatsha’s. “They are greedy and simple. I’ll promise them a small monthly allowance from the estate if they support our restructuring of the company. They’ll sell Hlengiwe out for a new Mercedes and a trip to Cape Town.”

They toast to that and gulp down the whiskey.

So,” Zenzele says, glancing at his watch. “The house? Is it happening tonight?”

He stares at Zenzele, the liquid in his glass catching the light as he swirls it slowly. The image of the gunmen waiting in the shadows of the Nhlapho driveway flashes through his mind. He looks at the dead body on his floor and the calculating eyes of the man sitting across from him.

If Funani dies tonight, Zenzele has him trapped. Two bodies in one night would bring a level of police heat that even a high-priced lawyer couldn’t breeze away. More importantly, he doesn’t trust Zenzele as far as he can throw him. If he lets the lawyer in on the exact timing of the hit, he’s handing over a noose for his own neck.

“No,” he says, “It’s not happening tonight.”

Zenzele raises an eyebrow. “Oh? You’re getting cold feet? That doesn’t sound like the man I know.”

“It’s not cold feet, Zen, it’s common sense,” he snaps, “If Funani drops dead two hours later after what happened today, even the dumbest cop in the hood is going to start connecting dots. We need air and space. Taking out the help and the king in the same night is sloppy. It’s a mess I’m not willing to clean up.”

He stops by the desk and looks down at the dead man. He needs to move, and he needs to move alone. He can’t have Zenzele knowing his every move, especially not the how and when of Funani’s end. If he gives Zenzele everything, he becomes the lawyer’s puppet. He hasn’t worked this hard to trade one boss for another.

“Besides,” he continues, his mind spinning a new lie. “Funani is suspicious, he saw this guy and felt the tension. If I try to finish it tonight, he’ll be looking for it. We wait until he feels safe again..”

Zenzele sighs, “I suppose that’s logical but don’t wait too long. So, what about our friend here on the floor? My firm has a relationship with a particular disposal service. For a fee, he can be gone before sunrise.”

He looks at Zenzele, seeing the trap.

“No thanks,” he says with a fake smile. “I’ve got this covered. I’ve been moving hazardous waste for ten years, Zen. One more piece of trash isn’t going to make a difference. I have a specialized incinerator at the North depot that doesn’t ask for paperwork.”

Zenzele stands up, “You’re playing your cards very close to your chest, I see. Just remember, a partnership only works if both sides are protected. If you try to sideline me, I’ll make sure the only thing you inherit from Funani is his cell in Pretoria.”

“I know the stakes, Zenzele. Now get out of here. I have work to do.”

He watches the Zenzele leave, waiting until the tail lights of his car disappear into the night. The moment he is alone, he lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding for hours. He spits on the floor near the dead man’s head.

“Forty percent,” he mutters. “In your dreams!”

He can’t kill Funani tonight, not with Zenzele sniffing around. He needs a plan that makes him look like a saint and leaves Zenzele out of the loop entirely. He needs to be the one who comforts Hlengiwe, the one who secures the assets, and the one who eventually gets rid of a lawyer that knows too much.

He grabs the dead man’s ankles and begins to haul him toward the back exit where the heavy-duty plastic sheets are kept. As he drags the body, he thinks about Hlengiwe, the way she looks at Funani with that annoying devotion.

“Don’t worry, Hlengi,” he grunts, pushing the body over the threshold. “I’m giving you a few more days of happiness. Enjoy them because when the end comes, I’m the only brother you’re going to have left.”

He throws the body into the back of a specialized waste truck, climbs into the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life, drowning out the quiet of the night.

FUNANI

He sits at the head of the breakfast table, his eyes fixed on the newspaper, though he hasn’t read a single word. Every time the heavy front door creaks or a car passes by the gate, his muscles lock up. Hlengiwe walks into the room, looking like a dream in a sunflower-yellow dress. She leans down and presses a warm kiss to his cheek.

“You didn’t sleep well, my love.” she says softly, her hand lingering on his shoulder. “You were tossing and turning all night. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He forces his face to relax and looks up at her, trying to find his reflection in her eyes, hoping she can’t see the terror hiding behind his pupils.

“I’m just overthinking the Durban contract, sthandwa. Big money brings big headaches. Don’t worry about me.”

“Well, try to put it aside for today,” she says, picking up her handbag. “I’m meeting the florist and the caterer to finalize the baby shower. Will you meet me at the venue at two?”

“I promise,” he says, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “I just have some paperwork to finish here in the home office then I’ll be there.”

She nods and he watches her leave, his heart aching as he hears her humming a lullaby on her way out. The moment the sound of her car fades down the driveway, the mask drops. He stands up, goes straight to his study and locks the door.

He doesn’t trust the office at the depot anymore. He doesn’t trust the servers Gatsha manages and most painfully, he isn’t sure he trusts Gatsha himself. The way the assassin had been so easily handled, the way the office door was locked from the inside all feels like a play where he is the only person who doesn’t know the script.

He sits at his desk and dials a number he hasn’t called in three years.

“It’s Nhlapho,” he says when a voice answers. “I need the best man you have. I don’t want a security guard but a ghost. Someone who can dig into offshore accounts and follow a trail without leaving one.”

“That’s expensive, Nhlapho,” the voice responds.

“I don’t care about the price. I think my house is being dismantled from the inside. I need to know who is signing my name when I’m not looking and I need a tail on Gatsha. Everywhere he goes, who he talks to, what he eats for lunch. I want it all.”

“Give me forty-eight hours,” the voice says before the line goes dead.

He leans back, staring at the ceiling. He feels like a man standing on a shrinking island. He thinks about the way Gatsha looked at him after the struggle. There was no fear in Gatsha’s eyes, only a strange intensity.

He spends the next few hours trying to work, but he keeps finding himself staring at the security feed on his monitor. He watches the gardeners, the cleaners, and the guards at the gate. Every one of them looks like a stranger now. Every one of them could be on a payroll that doesn’t belong to him.

Around noon, a notification pops up on his laptop. It’s an encrypted email containing a single PDF file. He opens it and discovers that his trusted friend flew to Mauritius on the same day the first unauthorized transfer was made.

He hears a soft knock on the study door. “Sir? The car is ready to take you to the meeting with the Mrs,” MaMhlongo calls out.

He wipes his face, closes the laptop, and stands up. He has to play the part, go to a venue and talk about flowers and baby gifts while his world is on fire.

He checks the drawer of his desk, making sure his own licensed firearm is tucked securely into his waistband, hidden by his blazer.

“I’m coming,” he calls out.

To be continued

(Please like, comment and share. I get that the story is new and you are still piercing pieces but we can’t built it with your silence. We need the momentum for me to post 2/ more chapters a day .)