CHAPTER 2
FUNANI
The office immediately feels small and suffocated. He stares at the barrel of the silenced pistol, his heart beating so fast against his ribs like a trapped bird. He is a man of power, a man who has stared down union leaders and rival contractors, but the cold look in the stranger’s eyes is something different. This is the look of a man who is just doing a job.
“Who sent you?” He asks, his voice surprisingly steady despite the sweat trickling down his spine. “Was it the Mthethwa group? If it’s about the Durban site, we can talk. Money is never an issue.”
The man in the suit doesn’t blink but adjusts his grip on the weapon. “It’s not about the site, Funani, it’s about the throne. You’ve sat on it long enough.”
Just as the man’s finger begins to tighten on the trigger, the office door doesn’t just open, it explodes inward.
Gatsha bursts into the room with a heavy metal pipe in his hands. Before the assassin can redirect his weapon, Gatsha swings the pipe, catching the man across the shoulder. The gun fires, the silenced bullet hitting the desk, scattering wood splinters into the air.
The assassin stumbles, gasping in pain, but Gatsha doesn’t stop.
He tackles the man, sending both of them crashing into Funani’s filing cabinets. The sound of metal buckling and glass shattering fills the space. Funani dives behind his desk, his mind racing.
“Get out of here, Funani! Run!” Gatsha shouts, his face turning black as he wrestles the man for the gun.
He doesn’t run but grabs a heavy glass award from his desk, ready to jump in, but Gatsha manages to deliver a brutal elbow to the assassin’s temple. The man drops dead on the floor. Gatsha breathes heavily, his chest going up and down. He kicks the gun away and stands up, wiping blood from a small cut on his forehead.
“Are you okay?” Gatsha asks, leaning over the desk to look at him. “Did he hit you?”
He stands up slowly, his legs shaking. He looks at the unconscious man on the floor and then at his friend.
“I’m fine, but Gatsha what the hell was that? Who is this person? How did he get past the front gate? How did he get a key to my office door?”
Gatsha shakes his head, looking frustrated and panicked. “I don’t know, mzala. I saw him sneaking around the back of the warehouse and followed him. I thought he was just a petty thief until I saw the suit and the gun. The security at the gate must have been bribed. I’ll kill them myself for this.”
He looks at the computer screen, which is still showing the unauthorized wire transfers. “And the money from Mauritius? I was just asking you about them before this guy walked in. Someone is moving our money using my signature.”
Gatsha steps closer, his shadow falling over Funani. He looks at the screen and then back at Funani, his expression softening into one of deep concern.
“Funani you are spiraling. You almost just died and your brain is trying to make sense of things that don’t matter right now. Those transfers are probably just the accountants moving funds for the new equipment. I’ll check it and call the bank.”
“The accountants don’t have my digital signature, Gatsha. Only you and I have access to that,” he says, his suspicion rising up.
Gatsha sighs, stepping around the desk and putting his hands on Funani’s shoulders. “Look at me and my face. Have I ever let you down? Since we were boys in the dusty streets, have I ever left you behind? I just saved your life, man! If I wanted you dead or your money gone, I would have let that guy pull the trigger.”
He looks into Gatsha’s eyes. He wants to believe him, they have been through too much together for this to be a betrayal.
“I need to call the police,” he says, reaching for his desk phone.
“No. No police as yet. Think about the business, Funani. If the authorities come here and see an assassin and start digging into our hazardous logs, they’ll shut us down. The environmental inspectors are already looking for an excuse to pull our licenses. We handle this internally. I have people who can take this guy away and find out who sent him.”
“We can’t just ‘make him disappear,’. This isn’t a movie,” he protests.
“It’s our life!” Gatsha shouts, “It’s Hlengiwe’s life. Do you want her to spend her afternoon being questioned by detectives? Do you want her to know how close you came to dying today? She’s pregnant, Funani. The stress alone could kill the baby.”
Mentioning Hlengiwe makes him pause. His protective instincts for his wife and unborn child outweigh his need for answers.
“You’re right,” he whispers, rubbing his face with his hands. “She doesn’t have to know about this.”
“Exactly,” Gatsha says, “Go home, Funani. Take the back exit. I’ll clean this up and tell the drivers to keep their mouths shut. I’ll find out who this guy is, and I’ll secure the accounts. I promise you, by tomorrow morning, everything will be back to normal.”
He picks up his jacket, but his movements are slow, like he’s walking through water. “You’ll call me? The moment you get something?”
“I’ll call you, now go be with your wife. You look like a ghost,” Gatsha says, ushering him toward the door.
He walks out of the office door to his car. He doesn’t feel like the king anymore but like a target. As he reaches his SUV, he glances back at the office window and sees Gatsha standing there, looking down at the unconscious assassin.
He gets into his car and starts the engine, his hands are still shaking. He drives out of the gates, barely noticing the security guards who wave him through.
HLENGIWE
She is in the dining room, directing MaMhlongo on how to set the table for a special dinner. She has changed into a flowing dress in a deep blue. She has lit scented candles that smell of vanilla and sandalwood.
“The sea bass should be served exactly at seven, MaMhlongo,” she says, checking the time on her phone. “Funani said he’d be home early today. He sounded tired this morning, so I want everything to be peaceful.”
“I have the lemon butter sauce ready, madam,” MaMhlongo says. “The master will be very pleased.”
She walks to the front window, pulled by that strange, invisible string that connects her to her husband. She sees his car turning into the long driveway and smiles, her heart relaxing. As the car pulls into the garage, she notices something. Funani doesn’t get out right away. Usually, he’s through the door in seconds, calling out her name. Today, he sits in the car. Even from the window, she can see his shadow through the windshield. He is slumped over the steering wheel, his head resting on his hands.
Her smile fades. A cold prickle of dread moves up her neck.
“Funani?” she whispers to the empty room.
She walks toward the garage door, her hand resting protectively over her belly. By the time she reaches him, Funani has stepped out of the car.
“Funani, sthandwa sami, what happened?” she asks, reaching out for him.
He looks at her, and for the first time in their marriage, she sees a wall in his eyes. He forces a smile, but it doesn’t reach his tired, frightened eyes.
“Just a long day at the depot, my love,” he says, his voice cracking. “Just a very, very long day.”
He hugs her, pulling her in so tight it almost hurts. She holds him back, but her eyes stay open, looking over his shoulder. She can smell the faint scent of the depot on him.
“Is everything okay with work?”
Funani stiffens for a split second before relaxing. “Gatsha is handling it, let’s just go inside. I want to see the nursery plans and think about something beautiful.”
GATSHA
He stands in the middle of the dark office, looking down at the body of the man in the suit. He kicks the man’s ribs, but there is no movement.
“Damnit!” He curses under his breath, “I told them to wait!”
He paces the room, his heavy boots crunching on the glass shards from the broken filing cabinet. He is vibrating with a mixture of adrenaline and rage. This was supposed to be clean. The plan was for Funani to have a tragic accident involving a chemical leak at the Durban site later this week somewhere far away and quiet. The people he hired got greedy and impatient.
“Idiots,” he spits, wiping the blood from his forehead.
If he hadn’t stepped in and played the hero, the yard would have been swarming with workers within minutes. There were too many eyes and drivers milling around the tankers. If Funani had been shot right there, in his own chair, during business hours, the investigation would have been a nightmare. He had to kill his own hitman just to keep the secret safe.
He looks at his hands and thinks about how he has spent years in Funani’s shadow, playing the loyal friend, the muscle, and the one who does the dirty work while Funani wears the silk suits and gets his picture in the business magazines. He is tired of being the shadow. He knows where the money is buried, and he knows how to run the tankers. Funani has become soft, distracted by a pregnant wife and dreams of a quiet life.
“Going forward, I will do it myself,” he whispers to the shadows. “No more middlemen and mistakes.”
His phone vibrates in his pocket, the buzz making him jump. He pulls it out and sees Hlengiwe’s name pop up on the screen.
He clears his throat, smoothing his voice into the calm, comforting tone of a trusted family friend. He answers on the third ring.
“Hlengi, dadewethu,” he says, “Is everything okay?”
“Gatsha, I’m worried,” Hlengiwe’s voice comes through, “Funani just got home. He’s acting so strange, quiet and looks pale. Did something happen at the depot today?”
He leans against the desk, looking directly at the dead man on the floor. “He’s just exhausted, Hlengi. We had a bit of a scare with one of the high-pressure valves on the new tankers. It almost blew, and Funani was right there. It shook him up, but I handled it. You know how he is, he takes the weight of the whole company on his shoulders.”
There is a long pause on the other end. “A valve? Is that all?”
“I promise you,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “He just needs sleep. You need to focus on that baby, don’t let your mind run wild. You’re at a sensitive stage, and the last thing the little boss needs is a stressed-out mother. Let me handle the business side. That’s what I’m here for.”
Hlengiwe sighs, “Thank you, Gatsha. I don’t know what we would do without you. You’ve always been the brother Funani never had. I’ll make sure he rests.”
“Always a pleasure MaHlengi. Sleep well.”
The call ends, he stares at the screen for a moment, a slow twisted smile spreading across his face. He puts the phone away and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, clear plastic bag. Inside is a spare set of keys to the Nhlapho mansion, keys Funani doesn’t know he has.
He looks at the dead assassin one last time, then pulls out a second burner phone and dials a number he knows by heart.
“It’s me,” he says when the line connects. “The first attempt failed. The target is home. He’s suspicious, but he’s alone in his head. No, don’t send the crew to the depot. Send them to the house and tell them I want the wife left alive. I have other plans for the widow.”
He hangs up and walks to the office window.
“You always were a better actor than a businessman, Gatsha.”
He freezes and spins around, his heart stops beating for a moment. Sitting in the shadows of the visitor’s chair, holding a glass of Funani’s expensive whiskey, is Zenzele Ngcobo, the family lawyer. He is watching him with a calm, terrifying smile.
“So,” Zenzele says, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Are we splitting the empire fifty-fifty, or do I have to tell Hlengiwe what’s really in those Mauritius accounts?”
To be continued
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