Chapter 55: S3E4: Choosing Sides
The Western Cape High Court gardens smelled of jacaranda blossoms and freshly mowed grass, the kind of deceptively peaceful place where lives were dismantled and reassembled behind thick courtroom doors. Ragnak stood beneath a sprawling oak, his back to the courthouse steps, watching Mia and Ava approach from opposite directions.
Mia arrived first, her nursing scrubs swapped for jeans and a loose linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The scar on her left forearm—thin and pale—caught the sunlight as she adjusted her tote bag. Ava followed moments later, her braids tied back in a practical knot, a takeaway coffee cup in each hand. She handed one to Mia without a word.
Ragnak didn’t greet them. Just waited.
Ava took the first sip, her dark eyes scanning his face. “You look like shit.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a flinch. “I don’t sleep.”
Mia frowned. “That’s not a flex.”
“It’s an observation.”
A pigeon strutted across the cobblestones between them, pecking at invisible crumbs. The distant murmur of lawyers and clerks faded into background noise.
“So,” Ava said, tapping her nails against the coffee cup. “Why’d you call us here?”
Ragnak exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking to the courthouse doors—massive, imposing, the kind that swung shut with finality. “Do you consider yourselves empathetic people?”
Mia blinked. “What?”
“It’s a simple question.”
Ava tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she was trying to solve. “Yeah. I do.”
“Me too,” Mia said, softer. “It’s kind of the job.”
Ragnak nodded once. “Good. Then help me get Emily out of prison.”
Silence.
Mia’s coffee cup slipped slightly in her grip. Ava didn’t move at all.
“You’re serious,” Ava said finally.
“Deadly.”
Mia’s breath hitched. “Ragnak, that’s not—that’s not something you just *do*. There are appeals, paperwork, lawyers—”
“Exactly.” He stepped closer, his voice low. “I need the best lawyers you know. Contacts. Favors. Anyone who can cut through the red tape in five days.”
The number landed like a brick.
“Five *days*?” Ava hissed. “That’s impossible.”
Ragnak didn’t blink. “Then make it possible.”
Mia rubbed her temples. “Why the rush?”
“Because I leave in five days.” His jaw tightened. “And I’m not leaving her there.”
Ava and Mia exchanged a look—one of those silent, loaded conversations people who’ve known each other forever could have without words. The pigeon between them cooed, oblivious.
Finally, Ava sighed. “I know a human rights attorney. She owes me.”
Mia bit her lip. “My cousin works in the prosecutor’s office. He might… know someone.”
Ragnak’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Good. Connect me.”
Ava narrowed her eyes. “Why do *you* care so much?”
The question hung in the air, sharp as the scent of freshly turned earth from the flower beds. Ragnak’s fingers flexed at his sides, the ghost of Emily’s grip still warm against his skin.
“Because she’s one of us,” he said simply.
Another glance between Ava and Mia. Something unspoken passed between them—resolve, maybe. Or understanding.
“Okay,” Mia said, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s do it.”
Ava pulled out her phone, thumbs already flying across the screen. “I’ll call my contact now.”
Ragnak watched them work—Mia’s quiet determination, Ava’s fierce focus—and for the first time in years, he felt something unfamiliar flicker in his chest.
Hope.
The courthouse bell tolled overhead, deep and resonant. Five days.
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders like he was shedding an old weight.
“Thank you,” he said, quieter than he intended.
Ava waved him off, already dialing. “Save it for when she’s out.”
Mia reached out, squeezing his arm—brief, grounding. “We’ve got this.”
The pigeon took flight, wings beating against the crisp afternoon air.
Ragnak watched it go, his pulse steady for the first time in weeks.
Five days.
He could work with that.
=====
The humid prison air clung to Ragnak's skin as he slipped the guard another folded stack of rand. The man's nicotine-stained fingers counted the bills with practiced efficiency before jerking his chin toward Cell Block D. "Fifteen minutes. No more."
Emily was waiting, perched on the edge of her bunk with her knees pulled up to her chest. The moment the cell door clanged shut behind him, her face lit up—not the brittle smile she used for guards, but something raw and unguarded. "Back so soon? They'll start charging you rent."
Ragnak didn't smile. Couldn't. Not when her left eye was still shadowed with fading bruises, not when he could count every rib through her thin cotton shirt. He crouched in front of her instead, close enough to smell the prison-issue soap on her skin, the faint metallic tang of fear beneath it. "Ava knows a human rights lawyer. Mia's cousin works in the prosecutor's office."
Emily's breath hitched. She uncurled slowly, her bare feet brushing the concrete between them. "You really did it."
"I said I would."
Her fingers found his, tracing the raised scar along his knuckles—the one he'd gotten stitching up a gang leader in Joburg when the anesthesia ran out. "Why?" The word hung between them, fragile as the candy wrapper she'd saved in her pocket.
Ragnak turned his hand over, letting her palm press against his. Her skin was warmer than he expected. Alive. "Because you bite back."
Emily laughed—a startled, husky sound that filled the cramped cell. Then her face crumpled. A single tear tracked through the dust on her cheek before she swiped it away angrily. "Fuck. I promised myself I wouldn't do this."
He caught her wrist mid-swipe, thumb brushing the delicate bones. "Do what?"
"Hope." The word came out cracked, like it had been trapped in her chest too long.
Ragnak's grip tightened. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to anchor. "Too late for that."
She surged forward then, her mouth crashing into his with desperate hunger. The taste of salt and stolen chocolate flooded his senses as her teeth caught his lower lip. He growled, one hand fisting in her hair while the other gripped her hip hard enough to bruise.
Emily moaned into his mouth, her fingers scrambling at his belt. The leather slid free with a whisper. "Tell me you want this," she panted against his jaw.
His cock throbbed against his zipper, aching and heavy. Every rational thought—the guards, the cameras, the fucking countdown ticking in his skull—dissolved under her touch. "Christ, Emily—"
She dropped to her knees before he could finish. The concrete must have bitten into her skin, but she didn't flinch. Just looked up at him through her lashes, pink tongue darting out to wet her lips. "We have time."
Ragnak's pulse roared in his ears. His fingers tangled in her hair as she worked his zipper down, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet cell. Cool air kissed his straining erection through his briefs. "Fuck. They could come any second—"
Emily nipped at the fabric, her breath searing through the cotton. "Then you better be quiet, surgeon."
His hips jerked involuntarily as she peeled the waistband down, his cock springing free. She didn't hesitate. Just licked a hot stripe from base to tip before swallowing him whole.
Ragnak's head slammed back against the bars with a muffled clang. His thighs trembled as she worked him, her mouth sinful and wet, her fingers digging into his hips hard enough to leave marks. Every slick slide of her lips dragged him closer to the edge.
"Look at me," he gritted out.
Emily obeyed, her eyes dark and glazed with want as she took him deeper, her throat fluttering around the head. Saliva glistened on her chin.
The guard's radio crackled outside. Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Ragnak dragged her off with a hissed curse, tucking himself away with shaking hands. Emily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her chest heaving. "Next time," she whispered, "I want you inside me when they come knocking."
The cell door rattled.
"Time's up," the guard barked.
Ragnak stood on unsteady legs, adjusting his jacket to hide the evidence. Emily stayed on the floor, her lips swollen, her gaze burning into him like a brand.
Four days left.
He pressed a single finger to his lips, then to hers. A silent promise.
The guard yanked the door open. Ragnak stepped into the hallway without looking back.
He could still taste her.
=====
The taste of Emily still burned on Ragnak’s lips when his phone buzzed—once, sharp, like a scalpel hitting a steel tray. Mia’s name flashed across the screen.
He answered without preamble.
"Talk."
Mia’s voice crackled through, breathless. "I found someone. *Actually* found someone. But you need to get here now—Kloof Nek Road, near the courthouse. Bring Caleb."
A muscle in Ragnak’s jaw twitched. "Who?"
"Judge Van der Westhuizen’s old clerk. She remembers Emily’s case. Says there were irregularities, *major* ones, buried in the paperwork." Mia’s words tumbled out in a rush. "She’ll only talk to you in person. Ragnak, this could—"
"Five minutes." He hung up.
Caleb was waiting by his battered Land Cruiser, sleeves rolled past his elbows, forearms tan against the steering wheel. He took one look at Ragnak’s face and cranked the engine.
"Get in," he said, before Ragnak could speak. "I’ll drive."
The Cruiser peeled away from the curb, tires chewing gravel. Caleb wove through traffic with the same quiet precision he used navigating dense thicket—no wasted movement, no hesitation. Kloof Nek Road stretched ahead, a winding ribbon of asphalt clinging to the mountainside.
Ragnak braced a hand against the dash as they took a curve too fast. "You know where we’re going?"
Caleb’s gaze never left the road. "High Court district. Only place Mia would call from in that tone."
The city blurred past—tourists gawking at Table Mountain, street vendors hawking mango slices, a cyclist swerving at the last second as Caleb swung into the oncoming lane to pass a slow-moving truck. The air smelled of exhaust and fynbos, sharp and herbal.
Ragnak’s phone buzzed again. Ava this time.
*She’s legit. Van der Westhuizen retired last year, but his clerk kept copies of everything. Paperwork was doctored. Witness statements disappeared.*
He clenched his teeth. "Faster."
Caleb downshifted, the engine growling. "You think I’m sightseeing?"
A minibus taxi cut them off. Caleb swore under his breath in Xhosa, swinging wide. The Cruiser’s mirror clipped a road sign with a metallic screech.
Ragnak barely noticed. His mind raced—irregularities meant appeals. Appeals meant time. Time they didn’t have.
Three days.
The High Court loomed ahead, its sandstone facade glowing amber in the late light. Mia stood on the steps, pacing, her sneakers scuffing against century-old stone. She spotted the Cruiser and sprinted toward the curb before Caleb fully stopped.
"Took you long enough," she panted, yanking Ragnak’s door open.
He stepped out, scanning the plaza. "Where’s the clerk?"
"Inside. But listen—" Mia grabbed his wrist. Her fingers were ice-cold despite the heat. "She’s nervous. Van der Westhuizen wasn’t just corrupt, he was *connected*. If we push this—"
Ragnak cut her off with a look. "We’re pushing."
Mia exhaled, sharp. Then nodded. "Okay. Then let’s go save your girl."
Caleb fell in step behind them, a silent shadow. The courthouse doors swallowed them whole.
=====
The courthouse doors swallowed them whole.
The air inside was a sharp contrast to the salt-tinged wind outside—stale, thick with the scent of old paper and industrial cleaner. Mia led them down a side corridor, her sneakers squeaking against polished marble. "She's in Room 412. Had to call in three favors just to get her to stay past five."
Caleb kept pace behind them, his presence like a silent pressure change. "You sure this clerk's clean?"
"Clean enough," Mia muttered. "Her brother's a patient at my clinic. She owes me."
Room 412 was smaller than Ragnak expected—a cramped annex with yellowing case files stacked in leaning towers. The woman behind the desk looked up as they entered, her glasses reflecting the flickering fluorescent light. Late fifties, steel-gray hair pulled tight, fingers stained with ink.
Her nameplate read: *G. Botha – Senior Clerk*.
Ragnak stepped forward. "You have information about Emily Nkosi's case."
It wasn't a question.
Botha's gaze flicked to Mia, then back. "Sit."
They didn't.
With a sigh, she pulled a manila folder from the bottom drawer. The label had been blacked out with marker. "Van der Westhuizen buried this. Would've stayed buried if his successor hadn't ordered a database purge." She flipped it open. Inside, a single photograph—Emily, younger, face swollen with fresh bruises. The time stamp was two days *before* her alleged crime.
Ragnak's pulse spiked. "Who did that to her?"
"Her employer. Security firm contracted to Parliament." Botha tapped the photo. "This was her whistleblower file. She reported illegal arms shipments. Next day? Arrested for smuggling those same weapons."
Caleb made a low noise in his throat. Mia gripped the desk edge, knuckles whitening.
Ragnak kept his voice level. "How deep does this go?"
"Deep enough that the original arresting officer transferred to Interpol three weeks later." Botha slid a second document forward—a bank transfer slip. "Fifty thousand euros. Deposited the day after Emily's sentencing."
The numbers blurred. Ragnak forced his breathing steady. "What do you need to reopen the case?"
Botha's smile didn't reach her eyes. "You misunderstand. I don't *do* anything. I'm a glorified file clerk." She leaned back, chair creaking. "Justice requires momentum. Visibility. *Leverage*."
Ragnak understood. He reached into his jacket, pulled out the checkbook from his offshore account. The pen scratched loud in the quiet room as he wrote—six figures, clean and bold.
He slid it across the desk.
Botha glanced at the amount. Didn't blink. "Consider it done."
The words hung between them, heavier than the check.
Mia exhaled sharply. Caleb shifted his weight, boots scraping tile.
It wasn't magic. Just power moving. Doors unlocking. The system—finally—paying attention.
Ragnak turned toward the door. Three days left.
Emily's bruised face flashed behind his eyelids.
They were out of time.