Chapter 3: Dead Drop

Chapter 3: Dead Drop

The sun had barely started to rise when the taxi rolled to a stop near the Pretoria station. Cold air slipped in through a crack in the window, but Thabiso didn't flinch. He kept his hood up, head low, eyes scanning every reflection that passed in the windows of cars and shop fronts. He handed the driver a wrinkled hundred, stepped out, and faded into the crowd.

Pretoria station was already buzzing. Street vendors setting up. Buses warming their engines. Security guards half asleep, leaning on walls, pretending to watch. It was the perfect place to blend in. People moving fast. No one looking too closely.

He moved with purpose, like he knew where he was going. Like he belonged. He walked past the food stalls and vending machines to the locker section. Rows of metal boxes. Some dented. Some rusted. All numbered.

Locker 91.

He crouched, glancing to his left, then right. No one. He pulled the small key from his sock and slid it in. Click.

Inside: a black duffel bag. Compact. Clean. He zipped it open.

A change of clothes. A small pistol wrapped in cloth. Burn phone. Fake Namibian passport. A few stacks of cash. And a note, handwritten:

"One shot, Echo. No resets."

Neo's handwriting. Sharp and narrow. Just like her.

He packed everything carefully into a small backpack, folded his old clothes into the duffel, then stuffed the duffel in a bin near the toilets. He poured a half-full coffee cup over it. Let them think it was trash. He didn't plan on coming back.

Back in the crowd, he changed pace, walking slower now, blending again. He was just another tired commuter.

But something was wrong.

He felt it.

A chill crawled up his spine.

The feeling of being watched.

He stopped near a magazine stand, pretended to read. Eyes scanned the reflections in the glass.

A man. Late twenties. Clean haircut. Tourist-looking clothes that fit too well. Standing just far enough to seem casual. But he wasn't buying anything. He wasn't moving.

Rookie.

Venta was testing him. Sending fresh meat.

Thabiso sighed.

He turned and walked toward the food court. Made a hard left. Then another. Then stopped at a mirror outside a clothing shop. The man was still behind him. Not directly. But there.

Following.

He picked up his pace. Crossed the hall. Entered the underground toilets. Inside, he walked past the urinals, down to the maintenance door. It was unlocked, barely. He slipped in.

Darkness. Pipes. Moldy walls. Back access to the station's lower tunnels.

He waited.

Two minutes later, quiet footsteps. Then hesitation. The door creaked.

Thabiso struck fast. Arm wrapped around the guy's neck. Pulled him in. Slammed him to the floor. Boot on the wrist. Gun out.

"You Venta?"

The man didn't answer. Just gasped.

"You following me?"

Still no answer.

Thabiso knelt, gun pressed to the man's throat. The guy looked terrified. Young. Maybe never even killed anyone yet.

"First tail job?"

A nod.

Thabiso stepped back, lowered the gun.

"Run home. Tell your boss he should send killers. Not puppies."

He walked out the way he came, leaving the recruit frozen on the ground.

Back outside, the air felt lighter. The tail was off. For now.

He moved toward the train platform. His train left in ten. Destination: Upington. From there, he would cross into Namibia. A long route, but safer.

He found his seat. Window side. No one next to him. Bag clutched tight.

As the train pulled off, Thabiso stared out. The city shrinking behind him.

He couldn't help but think of Jozi, Neo, the note.

One shot.

He was all in now.

The train rocked gently as it sped through dry landscapes. A boy played with a toy car on the seat across the aisle. A mother snored softly beside him. Life moved on.

But for Thabiso, this was war.

His mind played old images. Flames in Milan. Bullets in Prague. Screams in cold Russian forests. Venta missions had no rest. No sleep. No retirement. Only ends.

And now, he was the mission.

He took a deep breath.

If Neo's plan held, he had three days until Venta caught up. Maybe less. He had to cross the border fast. Blend in. And find a way to strike back.

Because running forever wasn't living.

It was just dying slower.

He leaned back. Closed his eyes.

Whispers of the past echoed in his mind.

"Echo. Do the job. Come home."

But there was no home now.

Only forward.

Namibia was the next move.

And he had no plans of going quiet.