The outskirts of Leopards Hill Cemetery were cloaked in a heavy, humid mist that clung to the tall grass. It was a city of the silent, where the white headstones of the wealthy sat in sharp contrast to the simple wooden crosses of the poor.
Zazu killed the lights on Musi's car a kilometer from the gate. "If we drive in, we're sitting ducks. We walk."
Leya clutched the cello case to her chest. The vellum strip was tucked safely into her shoe. "Section 12 is at the very back. Near the old boundary wall."
Musi looked over his shoulder at the dark road they'd just traveled. "You realize we're literally grave robbing, right? If the police catch us, 'Heritage Society' isn't going to be enough of a cover story."
"The police aren't the ones following us, Musi," Zazu said, his voice a low, lethal hum. "Now, move."
They moved through the rows of graves like shadows. The only sound was the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets and the crunch of gravel under their sneakers. When they reached Section 12, the atmosphere shifted. This wasn't a place of manicured lawns; it was a rugged, overgrown patch of earth marked by a single, massive granite slab: **THE FALLEN OF 2012.**
"The coordinates point to the base of the pillar," Leya whispered, kneeling in the dirt. "But there's no latch. No door."
"It's not in the pillar," Zazu said, his eyes scanning the ground. He pointed to a small, unremarkable flat stone nestled in the weeds, carved with a single letter: ***L***. "Lombe. Your mother didn't just pick this spot for the politics, Leya. She picked it because no one would dare touch it."
Musi handed Zazu a heavy tire iron he'd scavenged from the trunk. "Hurry up. I see headlights on the main road."
Zazu wedged the iron under the 'L' stone. With a grunt of effort, the earth gave way. Underneath wasn't a coffin, but a heavy, rust-resistant ammunition box wrapped in thick plastic.
"Open it," Musi urged.
Leya reached for the box, but a sudden, sharp *click* echoed through the clearing.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Miss Kapiri."
A beam of light sliced through the mist, pinning them against the granite monument. Standing ten feet away was a man in a charcoal suit—not a mercenary, but a familiar face from the Board. It was the school's Head of Security, a man who had worked for the Tembos for twenty years.
"Mr. Banda?" Zazu said, his voice trembling with disbelief. "You're working for the Consortium?"
"The Consortium pays for my daughter's medical bills, Zazu," Banda said, his pistol held with practiced steadiness. "Your father pays for my silence. It was an easy choice. Now, step away from the box."
"The box is empty, Banda," Leya said, her voice cold. She didn't move. She felt the weight of the cello case against her knees. "The real ledger isn't in there. This was the bait."
Banda's eyes flickered to the cello. "The girl is bluffing. Open the box, or I'll see if the Prince's blood is as blue as they say it is."
In that split second, the roar of a high-performance engine shattered the silence. A black SUV tore through the cemetery gates, its high beams blinding Banda.
"Get down!" Zazu screamed, tackling Leya into the long grass.
Gunfire erupted—not from Banda, but from the SUV. The Consortium's 'Cleaners' had arrived, and they weren't interested in negotiations. Banda dove for cover behind a headstone, returning fire as the cemetery turned into a battlefield.
"The wall!" Zazu pointed to the crumbling stone boundary at the edge of Section 12. "If we can clear that, there's a drainage ditch that leads to the main highway."
They scrambled through the dirt, bullets whizzing past them and chipping fragments off the granite memorial. Leya felt a sharp sting on her shoulder—a graze from a stone splinter—but she didn't stop.
They reached the wall, Zazu hoisting Leya over first. As she landed in the muddy ditch on the other side, she looked back. Musi was hesitating at the top of the wall, looking at the box they'd left behind.
"Musi, forget it!" Zazu roared.
"It's the only way they stop following us!" Musi yelled. He grabbed the ammunition box and hurled it into the darkness of the opposite woods, a decoy to draw the fire away from them.
The distraction worked. The mercenaries shifted their fire toward the woods, and the three of them sprinted down the drainage ditch, guided only by the distant, flickering lights of the Lusaka-Kafue road.
They stopped a mile away, huddled under a concrete bridge, drenched in mud and sweat.
"Is it safe?" Musi gasped, clutching his side.
Leya slowly reached into the hidden compartment of her cello. She didn't pull out a ledger. She pulled out a small, old-fashioned brass key with a tag that read: **CENTRAL STATION – LOCKER 212.**
"The box was empty," Leya whispered, her eyes shining with a mix of exhaustion and triumph. "My mother knew they'd come for the grave. The coordinates on the vellum weren't for the box—they were for the distance you had to walk *away* from the grave to find the key hidden in the wall."
Zazu leaned his head against the concrete, a ragged laugh escaping his lips. "She played them. She played them for ten years."
"We have the key," Leya said, looking at the two boys. "But we can't go to a locker at Central Station looking like this. And we can't go home."
"Then we go to the only place they'll never look," Zazu said, looking at the dawn beginning to break over the horizon. "We're going back to school. Not as students, but as the owners."
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