Chapter 7 - The Unraveling Threads
By noon that day, the High Court victory had transformed into a total war of attrition.
I was moved from the public hospital to an elite recovery clinic in Morningside under round-the-clock armed guard. Baba sat in the corner of my private suite with a secure laptop open, coordinating the second phase of his counter-offensive.
"How did you get the server footage, Baba?" I asked, watching the midday news on the wall-mounted television.
The screen displayed aerial shots of Nomsa’s Bryanston mansion surrounded by yellow police tape. Below it, the ticker read: *MOKOENA EMPIRE CRUMBLES: SARS AND HAWKS RAID LUXURY PROPERTIES IN GAUTENG.*
"Nomsa believed that because she paid the IT company’s monthly retainer, they belonged to her," Baba said without looking up from his keyboard. "The owner of that private security firm was a young intelligence officer I pulled out of a military tribunal in 1998 when he was falsely accused of treason. True loyalty cannot be purchased with stolen money, Naledi. It is earned through honor."
A knock sounded at the door. Daniel Khumalo entered, accompanied by a woman wearing a tailored navy suit and carrying an official leather portfolio embossed with the crest of the South African Revenue Service (SARS).
"Naledi, this is Commissioner Sithole from the High-Wealth Individual Tax Unit," Daniel introduced.
Commissioner Sithole shook my hand gently. "Mrs. Dlamini, we have executed Section 179 Third-Party Collection notices on every single bank account associated with Sibusiso Mokoena, Nomsa Mokoena, and the Jackson Mokoena Family Trust."
I blinked. "Every account?"
"Their total tax liability, including interest and compound penalties dating back to 2012, stands at 480 million rand," Commissioner Sithole explained. "Thirty minutes ago, SARS froze their domestic and foreign currency accounts at Standard Bank, Investec, and FNB. Their credit lines have been canceled. Their corporate credit cards were declined at lunch today. By tomorrow morning, the sheriff will begin attaching their luxury vehicle fleet—fourteen sports cars, including Sibusiso’s prized Bentley."
My phone rang. The screen displayed Sibusiso’s number.
I looked at Baba. He gave me a gentle, reassuring nod. "Answer it, Naledi. Let him speak to the woman he thought he could murder without consequence."
I pressed speakerphone.
Sibusiso’s voice was hysterical, screaming over the sound of blaring car horns. "Naledi! You evil witch! Tell your father to call off the Hawks! The bank just declined my card at the petrol station! They’re repossessing the offices in Rosebank! Nomsa has collapsed from high blood pressure!"
"Where are you, Sibusiso?" I asked, my voice calm, steady, and free of the terror that had paralyzed me for four long years.
"I’m driving to the airport! I have five million rand in a private vault in Dubai—I will take Lerato, and you will never see her again! Do you hear me? I will hire people to wipe you and your pathetic father off the earth!"
"You won't make it to O.R. Tambo Airport, Sibusiso," Baba interjected, leaning toward the phone. His voice was an anchor of absolute, crushing authority.
A sharp silence fell over the line, broken only by Sibusiso’s ragged breathing. "Sipho? You broke old piece of trash—"
"Your passport was flagged on the Interpol red notice system forty-five minutes ago," Baba said. "And the GPS tracker on your Mercedes has just led the Tactical Response Team to the Gillooly’s interchange. Look in your rearview mirror, Sibusiso."
Through the phone, I heard the sudden, deafening wail of police sirens and the distinctive thump-thump-thump of a police helicopter hovering directly overhead.
"Pull over, boy," Baba commanded. "Your life as a prince is over."
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The line went dead with the metallic sound of a car braking violently, followed by the muffled shouting of armed men through a megaphone: *DRIVER, STEP OUT WITH YOUR HANDS RAISED!*
***
