The Loyal Wolves
1036 Words
ECHOES OF BLOOD
(Sasha's POV)
The dead always leave something behind.
A photograph.
A scar.
A memory.
A warning.
Sometimes...
they leave an army.
Three days had passed since Leon Pretorius was found hanging from that tree.
Three days since I stood beneath the cold Johannesburg sky staring at the words carved into his flesh.
SHE SHOULD'VE DIED.
Three days since I realized somebody had been hunting me long before prison.
And for three days—
I had been angry.
Not loud angry.
Not reckless angry.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that smiles.
The kind my father feared most.
The kind that plans.
The mansion was unusually quiet.
Dmitri had already left for school.
Mama was in the garden.
Kwanda was sleeping.
Pregnancy had turned her into a professional sleeper.
I stood inside Viktor's old study.
The room still smelled like him.
Leather.
Cigars.
Whiskey.
Power.
Everything remained untouched.
Exactly how he left it.
I stared at the giant portrait hanging above the fireplace.
The Iron Tsar.
Viktor Shostakovich.
My father.
My first teacher.
My first hero.
My first monster.
The man smiled in the painting.
Confident.
Untouchable.
Dangerous.
A king.
I hated that smile sometimes.
Because even now—
years after his death—
it felt like he knew something I didn't.
My fingers tightened around my whiskey glass.
"You're hiding something."
The portrait remained silent.
Annoying.
The study door opened.
Scara entered carrying a file.
A thick file.
Interesting.
Scara rarely carried paperwork.
He preferred guns.
"Morning, Boss."
I didn't look away from the portrait.
"What did you find?"
A pause.
Then—
"I think we found one."
That got my attention.
I turned slowly.
"What do you mean one?"
Scara placed the file on Viktor's desk.
Then opened it.
Photographs.
Reports.
Names.
I immediately recognized the faces.
Viktor's men.
The old wolves.
The soldiers who helped build the empire.
Most were dead.
Some disappeared.
Others vanished completely after my arrest.
For years nobody knew where they went.
Scara pointed at one photograph.
A bald man with a scar across his jaw.
Cold eyes.
Military posture.
Danger written all over him.
My heart skipped.
"Ndlovu."
Scara nodded.
"Alive."
The room became still.
Very still.
Because Ndlovu wasn't just another soldier.
He was family.
Not by blood.
By loyalty.
The rarest kind.
When I was twelve years old, he taught me how to shoot.
When I was fifteen, he taught me how to spot an ambush.
When I was eighteen, he taught me how to survive betrayal.
And then—
he vanished.
No body.
No funeral.
Nothing.
I looked at Scara.
"Where?"
Scara smiled.
"That's the interesting part."
Two hours later we were driving toward Soweto.
The city moved around us.
Busy.
Alive.
Unaware.
Most people never realize powerful wars happen right beneath ordinary life.
A businessman shakes hands.
A politician smiles.
A criminal dies.
The city keeps moving.
I sat in the backseat of my black G63.
Scara drove.
Three armed vehicles followed behind us.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I had become valuable again.
Power attracts bullets.
My phone suddenly rang.
Mama.
I answered immediately.
"Yes?"
"You forgot your lunch."
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Even when I was hunting ghosts—
I remained somebody's child.
"I'll survive."
"No."
Mama sounded offended.
"You won't."
I laughed softly.
Scara nearly crashed from shock.
I never laughed during operations.
Mama continued.
"And don't think I won't send someone after you."
"Mama—"
"Sasha."
The warning in her voice made me smile.
"I am serious."
I surrendered immediately.
"Fine."
"Good."
A pause.
Then softer—
"Be careful."
The smile disappeared.
Because she knew.
She always knew.
I looked through the window.
"I will."
The call ended.
For a moment nobody spoke.
Then Scara grinned.
"Still scared of your mother?"
I looked at him.
"More than bullets."
"Fair."
The safehouse looked abandoned.
Small.
Broken.
Forgettable.
Exactly the kind of place dangerous men choose.
We approached cautiously.
Weapons ready.
Eyes alert.
The front door opened before we reached it.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
An old man stepped outside.
Gray beard.
Hard eyes.
Weathered face.
Older.
Thinner.
But unmistakable.
Ndlovu.
The old wolf.
For several seconds nobody moved.
Not me.
Not him.
Then—
he smiled.
A genuine smile.
The kind I'd never seen him give anyone.
"My little flame."
The nickname hit harder than expected.
Because suddenly—
I wasn't twenty-six.
I was twelve again.
Trying to hold a gun too big for my hands.
I walked toward him slowly.
Then hugged him.
The old soldier froze.
Completely confused.
Ndlovu didn't do hugs.
Neither did I.
Yet there we were.
Two survivors.
Still standing.
He finally cleared his throat.
Awkwardly.
"You got emotional."
"Don't ruin the moment."
His laugh echoed through the yard.
For the first time in days—
something inside me felt lighter.
Hours later we sat around a wooden table.
Coffee.
Old memories.
Hard truths.
Ndlovu's expression eventually became serious.
"I knew this day would come."
My attention sharpened.
"You knew I would find you?"
He nodded.
"Viktor knew too."
Silence.
Every nerve in my body suddenly focused.
"What did you just say?"
Ndlovu leaned forward.
"The night before he died..."
A pause.
"...your father prepared for war."
The room froze.
Even Scara stopped moving.
My voice lowered.
"What kind of war?"
Ndlovu's eyes darkened.
"The kind that starts when somebody inside the house becomes the enemy."
A chill ran down my spine.
Because suddenly—
my father didn't feel dead anymore.
He felt close.
Watching.
Waiting.
Ndlovu stood.
Walked toward an old cabinet.
Unlocked it.
Then returned carrying a small black box.
My heartbeat slowed.
The way it always did before danger.
He placed the box in front of me.
Carefully.
Respectfully.
Almost reverently.
"What is it?"
Ndlovu looked directly into my eyes.
"The reason Viktor knew he was going to die."
Silence.
Pure silence.
I stared at the box.
The old wolf stared back.
Then he spoke words that changed everything.
"Your father left this for you."
My heart stopped.
Because dead men don't leave gifts.
Unless they know they're about to become dead.
And suddenly—
I realized my father may have known far more than any of us imagined.
- Writer
