TWENTY-TWOIT WAS 22:15 ON WEDNESDAY night as we took off from Rand Airport and headed south-west towards Cape Town, leaving the sprawling Johannesburg behind us. Tonight, the tow truck would sleep in the hangar, away from prying eyes.
Samuel Cheng’s wrists and ankles had been cable-tied. He was still slumped forward, held back by the safety belt—but consciousness was slowly coming back to him.
I said to Diana and Jason, “He’s coming to, no names used in front of him.” I didn’t want this guy to ever find out who we were. “Same to you Mr. Pilot,” I said to Steve sitting in front. He just nodded his head and showed me a thumbs up from the front, maintaining close attention to all his instruments as we climbed up into the night.
The flight between these two major South African cities would
