Owen Able and the Two-Headed Dragon

Chapter 1

22 October 2009, Fresnaye, Cape Town

A mysterious figure stealthily makes his way across the shadowy surface of a wooden barn-like structure's slanted roof, standing on the slopes of Lion's Head Mountain. The dull thuds of his rapid footsteps on the roof's metal sheets barely disrupt the soothing chorus of chirping crickets. Secured around the shadowy figure's waist is a rope adorned with metal hooks, the rope's opposite end appearing to be suspended in mid-air like magic, visible for only about a meter before it disappears into the darkness of the night. From afar the figure looks like a puppet on a string. Another coiled rope, about eight meters long, is draped diagonally across his body. He reaches the center of the roof and crouches down. Raising a gloved hand, he checks the time. The round face of the smartwatch automatically illuminates and displays the time in bold, white numbers across the center of its display. It is now 7:59 p.m.

A warm breeze lightly tugs at tree leaves, carrying their fragrant floral smell on its wings from the lush pine and dogwood trees dotting the vast property. The sound of rustling leaves is briefly interrupted by the creaking of branches. Although the calendar shows the middle of spring, the atmosphere is reminiscent of a serene summer's night. It is the perfect setting to gather friends and family around a crackling campfire, indulge in a barbecue feast with succulent lamb chops, sizzling beef sausages, and soft white rolls slathered in butter. Cautiously feeling his way in the dim moonlight, the shadowy figure finds and skillfully removes all the screws from several metal roof sheets with an electric screwdriver taken from his tool belt. He dares not switch on his headlight, to prevent detection and to avoid any unpleasant surprises from unwanted company.

Three roof sheets are now completely free from the rafters with their edges slightly bobbing upward. Andrew screws a U-shaped metal bracket to each loosened sheet using the small electric screwdriver. He unties the rope with the metal hooks from around his waist, and carefully attaches a metal hook from the rope to each U-shaped bracket. Three hooks to three brackets in total. Quickly, but silently, Andrew moves closer to the edge on the southeastern side of the roof. He removes the rope hung across his body and places it next to him. With a soft jingling, he takes another U-shaped bracket and two screws from the pouch hanging from his belt. The metal plate softly vibrates with a low grumbling sound as Andrew secures the bracket with the screws to the roof sheet. He then ties the rappelling rope to the bracket and effortlessly rappels down the five-meter wooden wall on the southeastern side of the building that faces Lion's Head Mountain.

That side of the building is shrouded in darkness like a thick blanket, obscuring any discernible details. However, with a faint click, a sudden beam of light bursts forth and paints a bright, yellow dot of light on the deep-golden oak wooden wall. Scanning the wall, the dot of light following his gaze, he finds the electrical box mounted at the left side corner.

Andrew carefully approaches the electrical service panel box. With gentle and controlled force, he pries the box open using a small crowbar retrieved from his tool belt, mindful of minimizing any noise that might give away his presence.

The box door flings open. He reaches inside and meticulously attaches a small explosive charge to the power meter unit. With the press of a small button on the front of the explosive charge, followed by a faint beep and a small flashing red light, the detonator is armed.

After pushing the electrical service box closed, he switches off his headlight and climbs back onto the roof using the rappelling rope still dangling from the side.

Andrew takes another peek at his watch. The time on the watch shows that it is now 8:25 p.m.

I will need to get a move on, he thinks.

Andrew quickly coils the rappelling rope, unties it from the bracket, and throws it over his head, so it hangs diagonally across his body. He then silently moves to the loosened roof sheets again under the cover of night. With a few sweeps of his index finger over his watch face, it transforms into a remote control of sorts, with four directional buttons in circular form to the left of its display.

Andrew taps the buttons on his watch, skillfully maneuvering the rope that hangs suspended from the sky, bringing it closer to where he is crouching. A blurry, vertical shape gradually comes into focus until finally revealing itself as a sturdy steel cable with a carabiner attached to the end, dangling from the sky. With a few more precise taps on the watch's remote buttons, the steel cable now hangs a mere arm's length away from him. He reaches over, grabs the steel cable, and secures the carabiner to his harness. A few more sweeps over the watch's face, and a button press, and Andrew begins to ascend slowly into the air. Suspended in mid-air, he has a clear view of his surroundings. Andrew sees the rope he secured to the roof sheets sliding past him from above, down to the roof of the building below. In the distance, to the northeast, stands a magnificent Cape Dutch house, illuminated by its outdoor wall lights. To his left, he spots headlights coming up Avenue Deauville.

Just in time, Andrew thinks to himself. This may very well be the first guests to arrive for the fight.

* * *

Just off Avenue Deauville and to the north-west, two large wrought-iron gates block the entrance to a long, sweeping driveway lined with, what appear to be, pink flowering dogwood trees that lead up to the majestic Cape Dutch house standing on the slopes of Lion's Head Mountain.

Approaching headlights cast two bright, cone-shaped beams of light onto a gravel driveway, illuminating the wrought-iron gates as the vehicle comes to a stop.

Two gleaming brass lion heads, one mounted on each gate, stare back at the limousine driver with open jaws and glistening teeth. Andrew, still ascending, slowly disappears into the darkness.

A tall and slender security guard, with an M5 submachine gun slung over his shoulder, approaches the car, the dim glow of two Transylvania-lantern-shaped wall lamps on either side of the gates illuminating his way. One of the passenger's windows rolls down with a soft electric hum.

"Good evening, sir. May I see your invitation, please?" the guard asks.

A white Fedora, Panama style, with a black ribbon trim, obscures the passenger's face. A wrinkly, well-tanned hand protrudes through the dark car window, clutching a black plastic ticket with gold lettering between his index and middle fingers. On his pinky, a shiny gold ring proudly boasts a Barnard family coat of arms engraving.

After taking the ticket from the weathered hand, the guard scans the gold print on the ticket with an app on his mobile phone. The lettering reads "θάνατος μέσα από μάχη," which means "death by combat" in Greek. The app beeps as it identifies several DataDots located in different areas of the embossed text. The mobile phone screen then displays scrambled letters and symbols as it decrypts the information retrieved from each DataDot. After the screen fades and comes back to life, Mr. Barnard is identified, complete with his photo, full name, and number of events attended. A green checkmark appears next to the text "On Guest List." Moments later, small electric sparks and popping noises are emitted by the ticket, leaving burned holes where the DataDots used to be. The guard discards the ticket into a leather pouch carried around his waist.

He leans over to address the silent man in the car. "Thank you for honoring us with your presence, Mr. Barnard. Please enjoy the event."

Then, via a two-way radio, he commands another security guard in a control booth on the other side of the gate to open the gates and let the car through.

At 9:15 p.m., the parking lot in front of the fighting hall has transformed from an empty space to a showroom for luxury vehicles. Hummers, Cadillacs, and various high-end German cars now occupy every available spot. A procession of elegantly dressed individuals, exuding sophistication and wealth, step out of their vehicles and slowly make their way towards the entrance, mingling and chatting.

If one did not know better, it would be easy to mistake the scene for a black-tie gala or a red-carpet event.

* * *

Meanwhile, Andrew sits somewhere in a cozy leather seat, busy pulling up a live stream of the underground fight that is about to take place on his tablet.

Rows of plush and comfortable seats upholstered in leather, arrayed in a circle, ascending gradually towards the ceiling. The ring is in the center of the hall, its canvas illuminated by a spotlight that casts a focused beam on the gladiatorial stage.

The ring announcer steps into the ring, clutching a microphone, ready to introduce the evening's fighters and kick off the night's thrilling events.