Chapter 4: Ghost in the Sand

Night time.

Deep in the Kalahari desert, under a sky littered with stars, an old, rickety bus tore through the worn-out road like it had something to prove. Its tired engine coughed with every bump, every pothole, and every stretch of rough gravel. The windows rattled in protest, and the whole body trembled like it could collapse at any second.

The bus gave off a low, constant growl—like a dying animal refusing to stay dead.

Inside, most of the passengers were asleep, rocked into unconsciousness by the long trip and the rhythm of the road. The lights inside flickered dimly, giving the whole space a ghostly, half-lit glow.

In the very back seat, nearly swallowed by shadow, sat a man with a cold, hard expression. The kind of look that made people keep their distance. A warning carved into bone: "Come close and regret it." His posture was calm, but not relaxed. His eyes scanned every movement, every sigh, every bump the bus hit.

At his feet lay a black duffel bag—nothing flashy, nothing suspicious, but packed with a few things that would scare anyone who knew what to look for.

Thabiso didn't sleep.

Couldn't.

His body was still, but his mind was a different story.

He drifted to an old memory—a mission in Turkey. Him and Anya.

The client had been the Americans. The target was a Turkish businessman accused of funding weapons to Syria's regime. The objective was simple: eliminate the target, fast and loud. No need for discretion. They wanted a message sent. Venta was more than happy to be the courier.

Thabiso stepped out of a black Mercedes van that night. Black suit. Black tie. His eyes cold, his steps smooth. The streets of Ankara were quiet. Too quiet.

He walked calmly toward a well-guarded mansion.

Then—

"Eyyy Echo," a voice called out behind him.

He paused. Slowly turned.

Anya's head poked out from the van. Her red hair was tied back, and she wore a black leather jacket that barely counted as tactical gear.

"Don't leave a lady waiting too long, aight?" she said, smirking.

He didn't reply. Just gave a nod.

They entered the mansion like shadows with blades. Anya took the top floors, Thabiso the bottom. It was over in four minutes. Ten dead. One building on fire. A message written in blood and flames.

Venta got paid.

Mission success.

But that was before.

Before the betrayals. Before the Coil. Before Kraken.

Now, the only flame that remained was the one inside Thabiso—and it wasn't for mission success.

It was for revenge.

The Trans-Kalahari border.

The bus finally wheezed to a halt.

Thabiso stepped out with the others. The border post was quiet, just a few buildings with old paint peeling off. A light wind blew sand over the cement. A couple of guards stood under a dull lamp, holding rifles that looked too big for how bored they seemed.

Thabiso joined the line. The heat of the day had faded, but sweat still rolled down some of the travelers' necks.

When it was finally his turn, he stepped up and handed his Botswana passport to the officer.

The guard squinted at him, flipping the passport slowly.

"Name?"

"Thabiso Sekgoma," he said without hesitation.

The guard tilted his head, looking from the passport to Thabiso, then back again. His partner leaned over.

"Where you headed?"

"Windhoek," Thabiso answered, tone calm and flat.

They looked him over again. Something didn't sit right with them. Maybe it was the eyes. Maybe it was how still he stood.

"You travel alone?" one asked.

Thabiso nodded. "Yeah."

Another long pause. Then the officer scribbled something down, stamped the passport, and handed it back.

"Alright. Safe journey, boss."

Thabiso nodded once and walked through.

As soon as he was across, he didn't look back.

He changed buses twice over the next ten hours.

Each time, he chose a new route—took a short-distance line, then a taxi, then a new long-range bus. If anyone was tracking him, their signals would blur across five cities and two fuel stops.

By the time he reached Windhoek, it was just past 6 AM. The city was still waking up, but the sun already poured over the hills like it was trying to blind anyone who dared step outside.

Thabiso stepped off the bus, duffel still slung low. He grabbed a bottle of water from a kiosk and moved down the street without a word.

He followed the path Neo left him through coded text: "Find the painter by the green door. Tell him Echo's still humming."

He walked through the quieter part of town until he found it.

A building that looked abandoned. Walls cracked. Paint faded. But the door was a fresh coat of green.

Thabiso knocked twice. Waited. Knocked once more.

A peephole slid open.

"You're early," a voice behind the door said.

"I'm never late," Thabiso replied.

The door creaked open.

Inside stood a tall man in overalls, paint splattered across his sleeves. He looked like someone's uncle. Friendly eyes. Strong hands.

"Name's Biko," he said. "Neo told me you'd show. Didn't say you'd bring a whole sandstorm with you."

Thabiso stepped inside.

The place wasn't really a home—it was a front. Under the stairs was a false floor. Biko pulled it open to reveal a small metal trunk.

Inside: a burner phone, new clothes, a fake Namibian ID card, a mini laptop, and a pistol with a silencer already attached.

"Neo's message is preloaded," Biko said.

Thabiso didn't speak. Just powered on the device.

A short video played. Neo's face appeared, grainy from compression.

"Echo, if you're seeing this, then you've crossed. Good. Kraken's nest is about five clicks west. Industrial area. Corporate front. Real work happens underground. Your name's Koos now. Use it well. And don't die."

The screen cut off.

Thabiso slipped the pistol into his waistband and changed into a plain button-up and jeans. Looked like a construction worker now. Ordinary. Forgettable.

He thanked Biko with a nod, then stepped out.

By midday, he had reached the edge of the industrial zone.

It looked ordinary—warehouses, fences, a few delivery trucks. But he knew better.

Venta never put anything important where it looked important.

He scoped the area from the rooftop of an old hardware store across the street. Through his compact monocular, he counted four guards doing casual walks. They wore no uniforms, but their movements screamed military.

The building had three cameras. One was dummy, two were active. No visible alarm systems. That meant hidden ones.

"Too clean," he muttered.

He watched for two hours. Made mental notes. Shift changes. Vehicle schedules. Security blind spots.

He didn't take pictures. Didn't write notes. Just memorized.

Venta agents didn't leave trails—even of their own planning.

Around 4 PM, he made his way back toward the town outskirts.

That's when he felt it.

Not saw. Not heard.

Felt.

Someone watching.

He turned into a narrow alleyway, walked slow, ducked under a laundry line.

A flicker in the mirror of a parked car.

Movement.

Two men, leaning against a wall across the road. Pretending to smoke. But their posture was wrong. Too alert. Too upright.

One had a slight bulge under his shirt. Gun, probably.

The other wore a watch on his inner wrist—a habit Thabiso remembered from Venta recruits. A habit that came from spending years hiding everything.

He turned a corner and vanished into a crowd of school kids walking home.

By sundown, he was back in a small room Biko set up. No lights. Just a candle and the soft hum of the laptop.

He sat cross-legged, gun on the floor next to him, watching the map of the compound he'd mentally drawn earlier.

"Eyes on me already," he whispered.

He picked up the burner and texted a single line to a number only Neo knew:

"We're not alone."

No reply.

He placed the phone face down and leaned back against the wall.

Venta was moving faster than expected.

And if they were already watching… he needed to strike before they closed the net.