Chapter 33: The Failed Assassination

 

The hitmen arrived in Dubai under the cover of a moonless night, moving like shadows through the neon-lit streets. They were seasoned professionals—ghosts who left no footprints, men whose names were whispered only in dark corners. For this job, Nkosana had paid them well—triple their usual rate—to ensure there were no mistakes. "Make it painful," he had ordered, his voice coiled with venom. "Let the traitor’s lover die screaming his name.” The plan was meticulous. They had photographs, schedules, and even the access codes to Khalid’s penthouse. They had mapped out every security detail, every blind spot, every possible escape route. There was no reason for failure. And yet, the moment they breached the apartment, a whisper of doubt crept into the air. The penthouse was eerily silent, its opulence untouched by the usual signs of occupancy. No music. No murmured conversations. No scent of recent meals. Khalid barely had time to react before they were on him, dragging him from his chair and slamming him onto the cold marble floor. A knife pressed against his throat, the steel biting just enough to draw a thin line of blood. "Where is he?" the leader of the assassins snarled, tightening his grip. "Where is Zwelibanzi?” A slow, mocking laugh bubbled from Khalid’s bleeding lips. "You think he would still be here? After what your king has done?" His dark eyes burned with defiance, even as pain twisted his features. The hitmen exchanged wary glances. Nkosana’s intelligence was outdated. Zwelibanzi hadn’t set foot in Dubai for months. Frustration bled into recklessness. They ransacked the penthouse with the ruthless efficiency of men accustomed to leaving chaos in their wake. Drawers were upturned, papers scattered like fallen leaves. A laptop was hacked into, its contents scoured for clues. The plush mattress where Khalid and Zwelibanzi had once slept was shredded apart, feathers from torn pillows floating like snowfall in the dim light. Nothing. No travel itineraries. No messages. No contacts. No trace of where the exiled king might be hiding. Zwelibanzi had disappeared like mist at dawn. With no prize to take back to Nkosana, they left Khalid bleeding on the floor, his penthouse a wreckage of its former elegance. As the last of the assassins turned toward the door, Khalid forced himself up onto his elbows, spitting blood onto the pristine white marble. His voice, hoarse but laced with quiet triumph, followed them into the night: "Tell your master… that Zwelibanzi is coming for him.” The words echoed in their minds long after they had boarded their plane back home. Whether it was a bluff or a prophecy, none could say. But when they delivered their failed report to Nkosana, the king’s fury shook the palace walls.