They know I accessed their systems.
They know what I did.
They know who I am.

Greg Owen is the head boy of a private boys’ school when Eckardt Wilken, an outsider, joins them in their final year.

From the initiation of the newcomers, a bond forms between the two boys. Eckardt admits that he is an excellent computer hacker and introduces Greg to the secrets of the underworld, which involuntarily pulls him into a dangerous adventure.

With Eckardt’s sudden and mysterious disappearance, Greg begins to question everything he previously took for granted.

The underworld knows his name and calls him to come and play.

The author has conducted extensive research on cyber hacking, and this, combined with a well-written and conceptualized storyline, makes for thrilling reading material.

Translation

Underworld was translated by the author, Fanie Viljoen, from the Afrikaans novel Onderwêreld, a book that is used widely in schools.

Buy

Underworld is available in all good bookshops and online.

Click to buy directly from the publisher.

Click to buy from Loot.

Click to buy from Graffiti books.

Click to buy the ebook from Amazon.

Click to buy the ebook directly from the publisher.

Excerpt

This is what fear feels like: Fire blazes through your body, every single nerve ending roused, adrenaline propels your thoughts, accelerates them, your breathing stops, compressing your chest. And you’ll hear it – your own heart. Pounding. Pounding. Pounding.

A strange sound woke the boy. Or perhaps it was a dream urging him on. “Get up. You have to stop him!”

That’s where the fear began.

Down, down the darkened hallway he moved. His throat tightening with every step. The pounding fist of his heartbeat accelerated.

He longed to return to the safety of his bed, but he was nearly there, the room at the end of the hallway. The place where the light was shining. Where his eyes were about to open to the horrors of the world.

He could barely hear his own footsteps on the tightly woven carpet. His breathing was shallow, but every breath
felt deeper, more urgent than the previous one. Finally, he reached the door to his dad’s study, standing ajar.

You have to stop him!

Stop him from doing what? The dark-haired boy with the ever-questioning eyes lingered at the door. There was something special about him. It was more than being smart for his age or almost princely. Perhaps it was the way in which he paid attention to the world around him. Always watching, listening, silently absorbing everything, and storing it away inside himself for safekeeping.

Listening now, he heard the crickets outside the house. A car passing in the street. From the study came the rustling
of papers.

The strip of light below the door fell across the tips of his toes.

He inhaled. The smell of wood oil from the door brought momentary comfort, a familiar aroma that lingered throughout
the home. His fingers touched the door handle and the cold sent a shock through his eleven-year-old body.

Then a sudden sound emerged from the study. Like a frightened animal, maybe. No, it was human. It is his dad.

The boy pushed the door open completely.

What he saw chilled him to the marrow and became the first tearing scream that would echo throughout his childhood
and thereafter: His broad-shouldered father whom he loved for all his caring, kindness and compassion, bent over the desk as if writing. But there was no pen in his hand. It was a 9-mm pistol clamped in his fist. A finger curled around
the trigger.