Thanks for the mention.
Following ✌️

Chai, no invitation to this bubbly party? Okay o lemme continue reading silently.

sis Eyinimofeoluwa, another flashing

queenitee:
sis Eyinimofeoluwa, another flashing

Sis u too much i dey..thanks

queenitee:
sis Eyinimofeoluwa, another flashing

Sis queenitee u re too plenty lol.

Oga Abra4real come update nah

watin go make person follow you quarell na you go day do o.... Oya come update before the quarell turn fight.




Thanks for the metion sir

Don't be angry, all my lovely people. Thank you for staying with me all the while. Update comes in shortly.

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Chapter Four

Adeola Odeku Street, Victoria Island, Lagos. 8:30 PM.

On the rooftop of a six-story building, a man sat on a cushion chair under a veranda built on a staircase house. Bright lightbulbs hung on the walls of the staircase lit the open space.

The man was twice Simon’s size, stoutly built, and head glued to his shoulders as if he had no neck. He wore a multicolored canvas, a baggy jean trousers that almost covered all of the canvas, and an oversized white polo.

He sunk deep into the foam where his buttocks rested. There was an almost-empty beer bottle on the small table before him and a glasscup filled with beer beside it. He placed a black walking stick in the space between his right thigh and the chair’s right arm. He was breathing with his pot belly.

He sat upright after a lot of effort, grabbed the glasscup from the table, gulped a mouthful from it, and returned it to the table. He took his phone from his left pocket, roused it, and called someone named Paul.

He spoke harshly in some Igbo dialect and then returned the phone into his pocket. He drank from the glasscup again.

A minute later, someone came through the staircase to the rooftop. He was tall and dark, sporting a bushy but trimmed beard. He wore a three-quarter shorts and a sleeveless brown top. He came to stand before the fat man on the other side of the table.

“Papa!” the guy hailed, raising both hands up.

The man motioned him to drop his hands. “How far with the boy?”

“Trust us, Papa. We already set things in place. Just for him to enter the trap.” He was demonstrating with his whole body.

The man cursed in Igbo again. “Trap, kwa? Nna, explain better.”

“No vex, Papa. Trap mean say make the boy just on his computer.”

The fat man leaned back on the chair and let out a devilish laugh. He took a flash drive from his pocket with much effort and extended a hand holding it to the man standing.

“You told me you have completely bombarded the army website.” His face had become cold and there were no Igbo words in his statements any longer. “Didn’t you?”

Paul half-nodded and said, “Not the main army website. My team only hacked Ikeja Cantonment’s server.” He didn’t take the flash drive.

“But what I need is there, abi?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Put it inside this thing,” the man ordered.

Paul took the flash drive but added in a warning tone, “We copied all the files in the server, more than hundred gig. We’re still downloading it to a hard drive here. It will take time before you get what you want.”

“I want it tomorrow morning.” He looked straight at Paul, not blinking. His face had become colder and his eyes rocky hard. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“It’s small thing. Let me go and start working on it.”

He made to leave. Papa held out a hand to stop him. “Tell your boys to order anything they want. Food, drinks, girls.”

Paul laughed and hailed the fat man again with hands raised up.

“But send Lanre to me first thing when you get there.”

Lanre was up on the rooftop minutes later. He was a five-feet-something tall guy on artificial dreadlocks and ugly tattoos on both arms. He wore a singlet, sagged his short, and almost drooled his words. His eyelids had almost closed up under the influence of alcohol and it seemed it would never open all of the way again, even if he stopped drinking.

But there was one peculiar thing about him that the fat man liked: precision. His brain was accurate. He worked like a detective. His shots never missed their targets.

He hailed Papa unenthusiastically and licked his overly black lips.

“My chopper is coming this night, Lanre, so stay awake. It is military grade and some loads are inside.”

“The usual?”

“Uh-huh. I want you to oversee the off-loading with the men that will come with it. Is it okay by you?”

“Anything is okay by me, Papa.”

“No booze for tonight, Lanre. You can order other things but no booze.”

Lanre’s mouth twitched to the left, all smiles.

***

Peter and Simon, after a lot of argument, finally agreed that checking into a hotel first sounds boring and, according to Simon, idiotic.

“I hate eating inside my room alone as if I’m a monk,” Simon had said.

“Hotels have restaurants—”

“Bone that thing! How many people will be eating at their restaurant now? How many people eat there? They just order for it in their room.”

“You will like a crowdy place, then.”

“You bet. I hope to God they have a busty chick waitress.”

So, they branched a restaurant several streets and turns away and took a table at a corner far left where they could see whatever happened in the place. It was a few minutes after eight.

Simon panted and breathed heavily as he sat on the plastic chair, more like letting his weight hit the chair. Peter sat close to him.

A fair overzealous waitress on skimpy skirt and cleavage-bearing top promptly appeared at their table and had started a friendly seller-to-customer conversation with Simon. He was grinning, laughing, and looking sexually at the day, when Peter asked him impatiently, “What do you want to order?” He made a that’s-how-you-do face at Simon.

The conversation stopped. Or seemed to stop for a while. Because after Simon had ordered a bottle of malt and Peter a bottle of Pepsi as appetizer—so Simon put it—he tried to rekindle his unconcluded conversation with the lady.

“Get our orders fast,” Peter told the lady, cutting Simon’s words short. When Peter was sure the lady had gone, he said, “Women will still kill you.” That was all he could say before the lady appeared with their orders.

Simon immediately snapped open the drink and, between gulps, ordered for a full plate of akpu, egusi soup, and ugwu leaves, and two fishes.

“How would it digest?” Peter asked.

“It would digest in my sleep.”

Peter ordered for three sausage rolls, a scotched egg, and a bottle of Sprite.

He was surprised that Simon could still walk perfectly after they left the restaurant. At ten o’clock, they checked into Maureen Hotels and Suites, a ten-story glasshouse with transparent glass walls at the reception on the ground floor.

Peter fished for his new glasses, donned them, and approached the bespectacled lady receptionist with a wide grin. Peter checked in as Christian—but asked to be addressed as Chris—while Simon as Smart.

Peter leaned his back on the counter, looking at the traffic on the street outside. Smart leaned on the counter chatting with the receptionist while she worked on the computer. The security guard sat on a stool near the entrance door staring at Peter with cold, stony eyes.

“Would you mind putting our rooms side by side?” Simon asked.

“Oh, sure, Mr. Smart,” the bespectacled female receptionist said. “There’ll be no adjoining door, though.” She took two keys from a drawer, told the security guard she’ll be right back, and led them on a flight of stairs. She apologized profusely that the lift had stopped working for the day.

Their rooms were on the sixth floor. The lady gave them a key each and made to leave.

“Wait!” Simon ordered.

The lady stopped and turned.

“Where is the bar?”

***

Peter threw his backpack on the neatly made bed and sank on it, lying on his back. At least, now that Simon was out of the way, he’d be able to do some computer work.

He sat up and began from his phone. About eighty emails were waiting for him. Most of them were duplicates:

ATTENTION: Someone is using your VPN Server IP address as a hidden proxy
NOTICE: VPN Server CPU usage over 50%

Only twenty five emails were from clients, a payment processor, banks, and his online programming community.

Abomination! Who could be using his server?

He let the thought run in his mind as he probed his backpack for his laptop, flipped it open, and turned it on. None of his immediate family members were really tech savvy. He had no techie friend online or offline who could pose that threat. And then, Simon was a douchebag, probably vomiting in the loo now.

As his computer booted into Windows, he was about to connect to the internet when he saw a popup window:

Connection failed! Check your internet connection and retry to continue allowing Nnamdi Technological Services connect to the internet via your VPN Server IP address.

What? Via his VPN Server IP? Nnamdi Technological Services? He’d received an email from them some days ago advertising their tech services. Obviously spam, but Peter had clicked the link in the email out of curiosity.

Nnamdi—whoever he was—was the parasite feasting on his VPN Server CPU and cloning him somewhere. He disabled the IP address sharing and logged onto the internet to find the personalities behind the company.

By the time it was 2 AM, Peter had gathered information plenty enough to fill a ten-page booklet. He transferred the information as PDF to his smartphone.

His IP address had been used to hack Ikeja Cantonment’s server. Finding the officer in charge of ICT in the cantonment wasn’t that hard. Peter sent a concise email to one Staff Sergeant Rachael Okeke:

Dear Racheal,

I didn’t hack your server, ma’am. Some idiots cloned me. I’ve attached two proofs.

I dare say if you’re looking for me, it will be best to locate Nnamdi Tech as contained in one of the attachments.

I’m no coward who can’t confront idiots.

There was no signature. One of the attachments contained every information he could find about those running Nnamdi Tech. The other was a log text file showing how the files they had copied from Ikeja Cantonment’s server was being transferred to theirs.

There was no time hacking Nnamdi Tech’s server, but Peter had made sure that he set the pace for it. He knew he’d be needing it soon.

And then came the next challenge, he’d like to print the PDF he transferred to his phone. He envisioned a busy day when his phone would run out of power.

He had an idea. On the bedside table where a table phone was placed, there was a flyer containing short codes placed beside their corresponding departments in the hotel.

Peter took the receiver from its prong, hoped to God the phone would bypass the Nigerian factor and work, and dialed the reception. After the fifth ring, a deep lady’s voice said, “Hello?”

Peter heaved a sigh of relief. “Uh… This is Chris… uh, I forgot your name, ma’am.”

“You called in the middle of the night just to ask for my name?”

“Not really, you should know. I need your help.”

“I can’t—”

“You can, Miss Receptionist. You have to.” Peter let a moment pass and sighed. “Please.”

“I ca—”

“Don’t finish it. I know you’re sleepy, but this is business right in front of you. How much do cyber cafes print a page? Oh, fifty naira. What if I paid you a hundred per page?”

“You want to print?” the lady asked.

“You catch on fast, Lady Receptionist. You see, this business requires no investment, because I’m sure that printer I saw behind the counter yesterday still works.”

“I’m not saying I won’t print whatever you want to print, but you have to come downstairs with it.”

Peter heard someone rouse and yawn at the other end. He transferred the PDF and TXT file to a flash drive, tiptoed out, and suddenly realized that he’d not taken as little as his sneakers.

The receptionist sat behind the counter, waiting for him with glinting glasses. At a corner, the same security guard sat on a stool and leaned on the glass wall near the entrance. He was snoring. They spoke in almost hushed voices.

“Quite a day,” Peter said when he’d diverted his attention to the lady.

“Oh, you can ignore him,” the lady said, referring to the security guard.

“It wouldn’t hurt to know your name now, would it?”

“Call me Catherine.” She stretched out a hand with an open palm. “Can I have whatever you want to print?”

“Oh, sure.” Peter dropped the flash drive into her palms. “Why Catherine, huh? Why not Kate?”

“Catherine sounds formal. I like it that way because it makes me work-conscious.”

“Work-conscious? Why?”

“If they find out I helped you do this—” she held out the flash drive out to him between a thumb and an index finger, “—they’ll fire me, so, I might as well try my best not to let them find out.” She was still holding the flash drive. “I can’t use it. It could have virus or malware. This is company computer.”

“I have a phone—”

“I don’t sell USB chords, for goodness sake.”

“I have a chord, too.” Peter handed over his phone and a USB chord to her. “Will that do?”

“I don’t know,” she said and got to work on the print job.

When the desk printer pulled in the first paper, Peter said, “I need another favor, Kate. Uh… sorry, Catherine.”

The lady looked at him. “What favor?”

“Can Smart and I check out by maybe five or six?”

“Why?” She wore both a surprised and a confused look. “The—“

“Screw it, Catherine. Look at our security here—” he pointed at the sleeping guard, “—he won’t know. And how much did we pay yesterday? Half day? I’ll pay another half day if that’s what you want.”

“For you and Mr. Smart?”

“Yes. And I’ll pay in cash. Trust me, I don’t care what you do with it.”

Catherine laughed. “No problem, but don’t pay me in cash.”

“Why?” Peter asked and looked confused. He’d begun to open his wallet.

“CCTV.” When Peter wanted to look where he thought the cameras might be, Catherine said, “Don’t look at it,” rather sharply. “I will give you my account number.”

The print job was done now. Catherine packed the printed papers, bundled and stapled it, and then dropped it on the counter. From under the counter, she wrote ten digits on a piece of paper, handed it to Peter, and told him the bank name.

When Catherine wasn’t looking, Peter looked where the CCTV could be, saw one that would’ve been capturing them clearly, and asked her, “But the CCTV has already captured us.”

“Stop making complicated matters worse. Better to know nothing.”

The security roused but did not wake up.

Catherine unhooked the USB from the computer and when she made to give them to Peter, he said, “Your phone number. I’m sure we’ll be checking in again.”

She punched some numbers into the phone and handed it and the USB chord to Peter. He saved her number, transferred some money into her account, and was leaving with the papers.

“You’re leaving together, right?” she said. There was something in her tone that meant she knew what she was saying.

Peter stopped and turned.

“I mean at the same time.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe you should check him at the bar, first.”

“Oh, Smart!”

Peter rushed to the bar on the fifth floor at the back of the hotel. It was a hall with colored lightning but blue background. Heavy sound blasted from the speakers and Peter wondered why he couldn’t hear anything either in his room nor at the reception.

The DJ at the back of the hall dragged some weed, changed the dance tune, and entered into spirit. At the front, there was a counter with some stools, about half occupied by guys and ladies who sat in twos. The rest of the hall were filled with people dancing and romancing.

Peter stashed his phone, his USB chord, and his wallet into his pocket and folded the papers into a cylinder.

On the way to the counter to meet the bar man, some ladies tried to seductively drag him but he pulled off.

“Welcome, my guy,” the barman said. “Which drink you want?”

“I dey fine. Uh…” Peter cleared his throat. “I’m looking for one fat guy.”

“Tall, right?” a lady said from behind Peter, grabbed his hand, and dragged him to two empty stools. “So, you’re his friend?”

“Yes, but—”

“Are you as good as he is?”

“Good in what?”

“Oh, he is as tall as the thing between his legs. My God, he was good!!!”

“Keep it low, Tracy,” the barman bellowed.

Peter ignored him. “Where is he now?”

“Told me he was going to his room. Do you want to try me out?” She rubbed her left breast as she twisted seductively. She winked at him.

“For free. Your friend has paid me enough for the night.”

Peter stood up. “You know what? Thank you for your good gesture, but no.” And he was gone.

Simon was awake when he got to his room. It was twenty minutes after three in the morning. Simon was all dressed up.

“What” Peter exclaimed when he saw Simon all dressed up.

“Why? My clothes? I’m still going to sleep.”

The surprise in Peter’s face disappeared. “Be really fast with it. We’re leaving by five, latest by five-thirty.”

“Why? Are we wanted criminals now? God only knows what you might have done throughout the night. I know you didn’t sleep, did you?”

“Did you, too?” Peter asked.

“Simon went mute and his jaw slackened in a bogus surprise. It was rather a you-did-that-to-me? look.

“Were you not with Tracy doing God knows what? Shut up, Simon, and just do as I say.”

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Chapter Five

Maureen Hotel and Suites, Lagos Island, Lagos. 5:00 AM.

The Lagos Island Central Mosque blared its loud speakers over a five-mile radius in a call for Fajr, signaling the reluctant dawn over the city of Lagos.

Peter stood at his room’s window, staring out into the open black space. There were skyscrapers scattered far away, some taller, some shorter.

The desk telephone rang. Peter moved for the first time in twenty minutes to the telephone. “Hello?”

“Coast is clear,” Catherine said from the other end. “Follow the back door, take a left, then a left, and walk straight down.”

“Thanks.” Peter hung up and strapped on his backpack.

Simon joined him in the hallway. They took the dark stairs, tiptoeing, making sure nobody was walking toward the stairs at each level before moving on. At a point, they heard some footsteps. They ducked into a corner. The footsteps were that of a security guard going upstairs.

They made it out of the backdoor, took a left, then a left. It was a narrow way only wide enough for one car at a time. Probably a driveway to the garage at the back. They couldn’t tell, even with the bright lights mounted on the walls. Sometimes, you cared more for your safe movement than what way you were taking.

There was a gate that had a burglary-like design at the upper section of it at the end of the road and a security post. The guard on duty had slept off.

Peter checked his watch—5:32 AM. About time they got their asses out on the field. He ducked low at the security post while Simon followed him closely behind. The gate was unlocked. He hushed Simon, raised his head, and peeped out into the street through bottom of the burglary design. There was a man standing, both hands in his jean trousers’ pockets. He had a low haircut, wore a white polo, and was looking opposite Peter’s direction. Peter couldn’t see his face clearly.

Simon tugged him from behind and spoke in a hushed tone. “Who’s there?”

Peter tugged at him back with his elbow without looking back and went to the other side of the gate, ducking low. He raised his head and peeped again. There were two men standing in front of a car, one on dreadlocks and sleeveless top, the other on a black shirt and a facecap.

Peep harder, boy, Peter told himself. Simon was waving at him, asking what the peeping was all about. Peter ignored him and peeped again. The car was an old generation BMW, made of eighty percent metal.

Peter whistled unusually high. One hit by that car alone would send the victim to Gbobi Orthopaedic Hospital in Yaba.

The security guard roused and rubbed his eyes. Peter quickly went to Simon.

“Shit!” he said.

“Why?” Simon asked.

Peter pointed at the security post and placed his index finger on his lips. “Can you blow someone hard they’ll faint immediately?”

Simon nodded and tightened a fist. “Hmm-mm. Why?”

“We’re gonna need it…” Peter waited for the security to open the door, come out, and shield his dizzy eyes blindfolded by the lights erected on the walls. And then he said, “…now.”

Simon sprang up and delivered a supersonic punch onto the man’s neck. The man went limp in Simon’s hands. They dragged the man into the security post and set his head and his hands on the desk as if he was sleeping.

Simon sighed when they were out at the gate again. “Care to tell me what’s going on, Peter?”

“We got another tail.”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “Oh-ho.”

“Not yesterday’s guys. Different people.”

“So, what’s the plan? Time is ticking.”

“Don’t get caught,” Peter said.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan. Don’t get caught.”

Peter ducked down, opened the gate slowly and quietly a click, and peeped. When he raised his head, he signed.

“Change of plans?” Simon asked.

“No. Follow my lead.”

“I thought we didn’t have another plan.”

“This one’s a rule, Simon. Break it and I boot you out.”

Peter opened the gate wide enough to squeeze his slim body into and ran very low beside a parked car in front of the hotel. Simon had to open the gate twice as wide, but he got out quietly and ducked behind Peter without attracting the man’s attention.

They crawled beside the gutter, hastening up at the spaces between those cars. At the end of the parked cars, there were left with an open space. There was neither a car nor someone around the long stretch of the street before it twisted to the right out of sight.

“Can you run, Simon?”

“Wouldn’t hurt to lose some weight.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Peter sprang up into a sprint, closely followed by Simon. The man on white polo jerked into consciousness, wanted to chase the duo, decided against it, and yelled to the man standing in front of the BMW. They got into the car pronto while Mr. White Polo started the chase.
Peter couldn’t believe how close Simon was running up behind him. He was even yelling at Peter to never stop.

The BMW revved and its sound drowned the rapid sound of footsteps hitting the sidewalk. The headlights came on, blindfolding, casting the shadows of the three running figures on the asphalt in front of them.

The driver kicked the car into gear and floored the gas. The car sounded even louder.

Peter and Simon took the twist the street made and disappeared into an alley they had taken the previous day. Mr. White Polo ran involuntarily past the alley but saw them. He yelled something into his microphone and ran along the street’s sidewalk.

Someone placed a leg on the way inside the alley. Peter skipped it, but Simon couldn’t. So, he tripped. His head landed inside a pool of dirty water a pothole had made on the asphalt.

The man who had doublecrossed Simon grabbed his trophy by his collar, choking Simon. Peter halted and, without thinking twice, raced back and jumped on the man.

Peter bit the man’s ear with all his might. The man let Simon go and started hitting Peter’s head. They were all making a hell of a noise. Simon caught his breath and delivered another supersonic punch onto the man’s neck. The man went limp and his head fell into the same dirty pool Simon had fallen into.

“Motherfucker!” Simon yelled.

Peter frisked the man. He found a transmitter on his waist, on which the wired earpiece that stuck into the man’s ear was attached. There was a gun on the other side of the waist and a wallet that contained a few thousand naira, some twenty-dollar bills, and some IDs. Near the pool, the man’s phone had fallen.

They stripped him off the booties. Simon rejected the offer to handle any of them, but he smashed the man’s phone into pieces. They continued running.

At the mouth of the alleyway, Peter, leaning on a fence and Simon closed behind him, ducked a man’s blow and, by the time the blow hit Simon on the face, Peter had sent a blow into the man’s stomach and another to his solar plexus.

While the man groaned, Peter took out his gun and hit the man’s neck with the butt. The man fell on the floor, limp. Simon did the frisking while Peter covered him, cocked gun in hand.

Items found were similar to those found on the man in the alley. Simon unhooked the earpiece from the transmitter and took the transmitter alone. Phones got smashed into pieces. Wallets got stripped off of a few hundred dollars and then the empty wallet thrown away.

Simon also found two extra magazines with the gun, and that was when he noticed that the men used the same kind of guns and gave one to Peter, who stashed it, and kept one.

They continued on the street, Peter watching the front while Simon covered the back, both with aimed cocked guns.
The BMW appeared faraway, headlights like two lightbees. At the other end of the street, a man appeared with a torch, searching secret and dark places of the sidewalk.

Not far from Peter and Simon, there were five cars parked in a single file. They ducked beside it. Before the man with the torch got near, Peter lay flat on his belly and crawled under one of the cars with difficulty getting his backpack to follow him, but it did all the same.

Simon managed to squeeze himself between two cars, facing the direction of the BMW. He grasped the gun in his hand tight and clenched his teeth.

The man with the torch got nearer. It was Mr. White Polo. He was almost at the cars Simon squeezed himself in when Peter’s shot went off. It hit Mr. White Polo on the leg, and he shouted and fell. Another shot hit his hand and he dropped his gun.

Peter crawled out, making a lot of noise, and kicked away the man’s gun into the nearby gutter. Mr. White Polo tried to kick Peter, but Peter held his leg, balanced himself on both knees, and hit the man’s jaw with the butt of his gun.

The men in the BMW had heard the shots and increased their speed.

An unusual confidence baptized Simon, because he suddenly stood erect, aimed his gun at the BMW’s headlights about forty yards away, fired about five shots, and hit bullseye twice. The subsequent shots broke the windscreen, shards of glass shattering on the men inside the car. The car careened to the right and struck a fence.

A few seconds later, smoke oozed out of the BMW and then subsided. The driver’s head lay on the wheel. The man beside him coughed and tried to get out.

From fences all around them, men with deadly rifles that had scopes and grenade launchers began to jump over. They kitted up like soldiers going to war, helmets with mounted cameras in place, bulletproof vests, and vague blue uniforms that had only structure similar to a soldier’s. They surrounded Peter and Simon in no time, rifles aimed.

Peter took cue and aimed his gun at one of the men. Simon stood back-to-back with Peter, aiming his own gun at one of the men, too. At least, if they would die any minute from now, they should make a run for it.

Peter remembered one of his high school days. They were discussing fight-or-die situations and what they would have done if they happened to be a victim.

“What would you do if you found yourself and a tiger in a room that is locked?” Christian had asked the group back then.

Peter couldn’t remember his answer, but he could remember that they all agreed that if you fought the tiger, you would still get killed, and if you didn’t, you’re still likely to die. So, why not die fighting? Little did he know that the day the practical will stare him in the face would come sooner. And he it was.

A car revved in the distance and drove to them, stopping on violently screeching tires. The gunmen didn’t say a word.

A fat man alighted from the car and made his way to the armed men. They parted way for him, still aiming their guns. The man entered the circle, clapping his hands in amusement. “Wow, wow, wow,” he said.

He was over six feet tall, potbellied, and on oversized jeans and T-shirt.

“I’m impressed, Peter, and Whatever-the-name-of-your-sidekick-is.” He smiled, his fleshy cheeks expanding and making his face look more oval. “It’s just some minutes after six, Peter.”

Peter looked up at the sky. It had become grayish blue.

“I will clean up the mess you created before seven o’clock on one condition,” the man stated. “That you join me. You have talents I could use. Don’t let it waste.

“Now, you have two choices. One: join me and I will clean up the mess before the police arrives, although they will stay longer than seven, that… I know for sure. Two: reject the offer and be blown up in pieces. There will be no mess to clean up if you choose it that way. It applies to your sidekick, too.”

Then he emphasized the next word, letting a second pass before saying the next. “Choose… very… fast!”
Peter lowered his gun, nudged Simon, and Simon lowered his gun also. The armed men made to cuff Peter and Simon, but the fat man waved them to stop.

“Leave them,” he ordered. “They ride with me back to base.” Then he told Peter that he could keep whatever he got from his incompetent men, whether gun or money.

Peter tucked the gun by his waist and signaled Simon who did the same.

“Clean up this mess, Lanre,” the fat man told another man Peter and Simon hadn’t noticed had been with them all the while. He had dreadlocks, wore a sleeveless top, and sagged his trousers. His cold stare held a lot of menace.

The armed men dispersed. Peter and Simon walked up to the second car that brought the fat man. It was a black Toyota Camry.

Simon sat in front beside the driver, seatbelt donned. Peter sat at the back beside the man. They rode in silence to Nnamdi Technological Services.

JohnGainsville:
Oga Abra4real come update nah

Sorry, my oga. I've added two more chapters. Lengthier than the rest.

marvwhite:
watin go make person follow you quarell na you go day do o.... Oya come update before the quarell turn fight.




Thanks for the metion sir

My oga, no vex o. I don update two more chapters.

sod09:
Present!!!!

Two more chapters updated.

EvaJael:
Abra4real, I promise you my full attention very soon. It looks hot to to me though

Two more chapters updated. Enjoy.

oluwatosin070:
way to go bro. u r da bomb but u didn't mention me..

My oga, I've updated two more chapters. I kept my promise o.

Who's the fat man again

queenitee:
Who's the fat man again

Did you follow the story well? The fat man's the one who sat on the rooftop doling out orders. You should understand na.

Abra4real:

Did you follow the story well? The fat man's the one who sat on the rooftop doling out orders. You should understand na.

I understood jare, I meant what's he up to,his mission? Don mind me jare, to type is a problem for me ni

queenitee:
I understood jare, I meant what's he up to,his mission? Don mind me jare, to type is a problem for me ni

Don't worry, Abra4real is going to put us through so don't panic
#Ghost Mode Deactivated#

queenitee:
I understood jare, I meant what's he up to,his mission? Don mind me jare, to type is a problem for me ni

I think the proper question is: why would he have his men hack Ikeja Cantonment's server and frame it on Peter?

Shit is gonna be red in the next episodes. Prepare for the military men.

Nice one the fray is getting hotter.�����

Nice one the fray is getting hotter.��

Nice update.. Weldone

Story yii sha kpran kpran, o sha proper !!!

Great write up , Op. Great geographical description. Shows you put in work It's however, number plate, not plate number...and the word "gist" isn't what we Nigerians use it as. Look into it. Just brush up some grammatical expressions.
Moreso, I think the characters, especially, Peter, should be developed more so readers can have empathy for him.

This is creatively awesome. Following without distractions.

Beautiful storyline OP...I'd love to see what Papa has in store for Pete. Simon may come in handy, looks like the handyman personified. Good job.

nice story,creativity at it's finest.I just hope the army will keep off peter and simon and go after nnamdi techs.

This is nice men...I will love to develop a military story too one of these days, i have the story in my head but i just cant start...i am not familiar with ranks in the military.

So following you bumper to bumper, let me educate myself very very well.

Wonderful piece bro! you've got me glued to this........following till d end!
nice one bro!

Abra4real:

I think the proper question is: why would he have his men hack Ikeja Cantonment's server and frame it on Peter?

Shit is gonna be red in the next episodes. Prepare for the military men.

Yes sir

Whiydhee:

Don't worry, Abra4real is going to put us through so don't panic
#Ghost Mode Deactivated#

Ah welcome, sir beside me