The Billionaire Bastard's Vendetta

Chapter 3: The Journalist’s Price

Tawanda didn’t wait for an answer. He threw the car door open and scrambled out, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. The armored truck’s high beams turned the night into an blinding white void. He saw a man step onto the truck’s running board, a heavy crowbar gripped in his hand. Tawanda didn't think about his bank account or his new CEO title. He thought about the twenty years of cold concrete and the taste of rotten fruit. 

"Get back!" Zanele shouted from the driver’s seat. She reached under her dashboard and pulled out a jagged, silver plated stun gun. "They aren’t here for an interview, Tawanda!"

The man with the crowbar lunged, his movements sluggish but heavy. Tawanda ducked under the swing, the iron bar whistling past his ear and smashing into the door of Zanele’s sedan with a sound like a gunshot. Tawanda pivoted, his elbow snapping upward into the man’s chin. The attacker stumbled back, spitting blood, but he was already reaching for a hidden knife. 

"You think you’re tough because you inherited a suit?" the thug snarled, spitting out a tooth. 

"I think I’m tough because I’m still breathing after you losers tried to run me over," Tawanda retorted. He didn't play fair. He kicked the man’s kneecap inward, then slammed his head against the side of the truck. 

Zanele was out of the car now, moving with a grace that surprised him. She didn't look like a reporter. She looked like a wolf in a silk blouse. She stepped behind another attacker who had circled around the front of the truck, pressing the buzzing tip of her stun gun against the small of his back. A spray of blue sparks illuminated the alleyway. The man collapsed with a rhythmic twitch, his body folding like a wet paper napkin. 

"Nice shot," Tawanda panted, backing away as two more figures emerged from the shadows of the truck. 

"Focus," Zanele snapped, her hair falling into her eyes. She tucked a lock behind her ear, her expression bordering on exhilarated. "If we don't get to the dive bar, the guy who knows where the Mthembu dirt is hidden will be dead by sunrise. Do you want to be a billionaire victim or a billionaire winner?"

Tawanda grinned, a reckless, wild expression that made Zanele pause for a microsecond. "Winner. Definitely winner."

They sprinted toward the end of the alley. Tawanda grabbed a discarded wooden pallet and shoved it into the path of their pursuers, causing a chain reaction of tripping bodies. They didn't look back. They pushed through the damp, narrow corridors of the shipyard until they reached a nondescript bar called The Rusty Anchor. It was a hole in the wall, smelling of stale beer and desperation. 

Tawanda burst through the door, his heart hammering against his ribs. The music was a low, thumping bass that vibrated in his teeth. He scanned the room and saw a man sitting in the back corner, nursing a glass of whiskey that looked older than the building. 

"That’s him," Zanele whispered, her hand sliding down to rest against Tawanda’s arm. Her touch was electric, burning through his ragged jacket. "His name is Tapiwa. He’s the one who leaked the internal memos. And he’s the only reason Nomalanga is currently losing her mind."

Tawanda walked over, his boots sounding like war drums on the hardwood. He pulled out a chair and sat down across from the man. Tapiwa looked up, his eyes bloodshot and watery. He pushed his glasses up his nose and sighed. 

"You look like hell," Tapiwa muttered, glancing at Tawanda’s stained shirt.

"I’ve had a busy day," Tawanda replied. He gestured for a whiskey. The bartender shoved a chipped glass toward him. Tawanda downed it in one go, the burn of the cheap liquor grounding him. "Tell me what you have. And make it good, because I just killed half your fan club outside."

Tapiwa chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. He reached into his coat and slid a thumb drive across the table. It was small, unassuming, and worth more than the entire dock they were standing on. "This isn't just about money, boy. This is about blood. Your stepmother isn't just sleeping with the board chairman. She’s been systematically draining the pension funds of every single worker who helped build that empire. And she’s been doing it since your mother was alive."

Tawanda felt the air leave his lungs. He looked at Zanele. She was watching him, her gaze intense, her lips slightly parted. The tension in the booth was palpable. It wasn't just professional; it was primal. She leaned in, the scent of her perfume, jasmine and ozone, overpowering the stench of the bar. 

"You see it now, don't you?" she whispered, her voice a low purr. "The Mthembu legacy isn't gold. It’s a pile of corpses and unpaid debts. You’re holding the shovel, Tawanda. Are you going to dig, or are you going to keep staring at the dirt?"

Tawanda took the thumb drive. His fingers brushed against hers, and for a moment, the world stopped. He felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated adrenaline. He leaned closer, his face inches from hers. The humor of the situation returned, the idea that he, a man who slept in alleys, was now the judge, jury, and executioner of the city’s elite. 

"I think," Tawanda said, his voice dropping to a rough, intimate register, "I’m going to make sure they see every single bit of that dirt. But we need a stage. A big one."

Zanele smirked, her eyes sparkling with a dangerous light. "The charity gala tomorrow night. The city’s biggest donors will be there. Every politician, every CEO, every vulture in a tuxedo. You show up there with this, and their entire world turns to ash in front of the cameras."

Tawanda felt a surge of triumph. He looked at Zanele, seeing the raw, predatory intelligence in her eyes. It was a partnership born of hate and refined by a shared hunger for destruction. He reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing it hard. 

"We’re going to give them a performance they’ll never forget," Tawanda said. 

"Oh, I plan on it," Zanele replied, her tone sharpening. "But first, we need to talk about the stepmother’s affair. You think it’s just about business? She’s been blackmailing the Chief of Police with photos of that affair. If we leak the files, we burn the police force too. It’s an all-or-nothing move."

Tawanda laughed, a short, sharp bark of pure joy. "Everything or nothing. That’s been my life for twenty years. I’m comfortable with that."

He stood up, pulling her with him. They walked out of the bar into the cool night air. The city lights beckoned, a vast, glittering target waiting for their next move. But as they reached the car, a black sedan drifted to the curb. The window rolled down, and a man in a crisp suit stared at them with eyes like gunmetal. 

"Mr. Mthembu," the stranger said, his voice terrifyingly polite. "Your sister, Nomalanga, wants to know if you’re enjoying your last night of freedom."

Tawanda tightened his grip on the thumb drive. He looked at Zanele, then at the man in the car. He felt the weight of the revenge he was about to unleash, a heavy, intoxicating burden. He didn't answer the man. He just stared at the driver, his silence acting like a threat.

"Tell her," Tawanda said, his voice cold and steady, "that the fire is already lit."

The man in the sedan smiled, a thin, cruel line, and tossed a small, ticking device onto the pavement at Tawanda’s feet. Before Tawanda could react, the car screeched away into the darkness, leaving him standing there with the timer counting down in bright, glowing red numbers.