EPILOGUEThe storm had passed and all of its loose ends were blown away along with it. Naidoo. The British rabble rousers. In two weeks’ time—no one would remember nor care about the meddlesome legionnaire—formerly known as Neville Shedd. Thus was the advantage and disadvantage of the 24-hour news cycle in all of its splendor.
Abram was drenched in sweat. He pounded the viper reflex ball—with reckless abandon. He was in the middle of his sixth set of twenty hyperactive jabs. This was the idyllic cardio-centered routine for him to blow off steam after another long day in the trenches. Monsieur Hulley’s Johannesburg dreams were back on track. There were no more major drug dealers left for them to oust nor prominent palms that needed greasing. Nothing—aside from a divine act perhaps—would be
