queenitee:
Ah welcome, sir beside me

Thanks get me popcorn drinks and chair so as to follow the story to an end

Great piece! Please don't relent. Hope to get to shore with you on this one.

[b][/b]greatt piece of work you have here

[quote author=Abra4real post=60763466]Adesina12, Aitee1, soleski01, Creeza, Lawlahdey, sexybbstar, jagugu88li, ADECULATE, Amenaghwon, okorro1, Simplebea, Nmaglit,, osleek, xamster, sirOrubebe, Bobbybube, julietogbo, Osman1966, chii8, tonye72, Winters22, omamush, Twinkle004, debra101, samyfreshsmooth, mozb, prinxxdave, cutietee, kinah, IamLukas, harameede99, ladySuperb, dominicnuel, sod09, chara019, teel123, Pureheart91, Mobecs, latbas, Babsopey, opal4real, Mobecs, latbas, AndyAustin, kingsmith4, ladyverere, KunkeAkinola, mrsuccessful, JMK9600, Michelle55, Audrinakane, Smooth278, Ashley87, Sonamjs, orluuchi, brighttech95, DavidPaul, Kaycee625, Perfectionist11, skillz121, samwise180, Lastking147, suffy834, Prinxxdave, emmynku, aryan28, bossy512, nikz, BlissfulJef, Michelle55, sunshine46, IemFava, segunjowo, harrygold, estie92, clitx, tusinsola, yusufibrahim, Oyindawealth, harunablezin, EpBerezi, chade, bentube, JeffreyJamez, boffinjay, chukslawrence, Akposb, yewande1234, Ikdbabie, dime

Whiydhee:

Thanks get me popcorn drinks and chair so as to follow the story to an end

Coming

queenitee:
Coming

Robbish Story

queenitee:
Coming

WAITING DEAR

PoliticalThuG:
Robbish Story

Then Get out of here

Nice story! Read other cool stories on Tushstories via

www.tushstories.com

#Click!

Abra4real, good job and keep it up.

(#laughing).... Good boy turning bad boy.

Nice story #fromYourNewestFan

PoliticalThuG:
Robbish Story

Please, I want to be polite here

nice story.....buh you have to give us a bit of background on your characters.......suddenly they know how to shot guns with confidence. .......open up about their oast that makes them good with survival instincts. .........

on the second row with my poo corn and hollandia yogurt

oppsyij:
nice story.....buh you have to give us a bit of background on your characters.......suddenly they know how to shot guns with confidence. .......open up about their oast that makes them good with survival instincts. .........

on the second row with my poo corn and hollandia yogurt

Yes, sir. I will reveal how they knew how to shoot guns. Was a bad experience, though.

Tanks 4 d mentions Abra4real, following u bumper to bumper

following. Nice one op

Me Too

[quote author=Whiydhee post=60803661][/quote]

I have been missing o. Ahn ahn. Thanks for the mention Abe. So following right now.

Nice write up. I am still waiting for the write up o.

Hello, everybody, especially those who've been following this story.

I got caught up with the world because of the following two things:

1. My laptop crashed. I was using a Compaq Mini CQ110 series. That small lappy was rugged, but a day came and it said, "Oga, into thy hands I commit my spirit."

I begged, cried, cajoled, fanned it, but it never agreed to resurrect.

And do you know what it means for a laptop to crash? If something don happen to the hard disk, that means the beautiful story you all have been following would be gone. So, I took the laptop to my engineer and I was able to recover the files in the disk.

2. Unilag POST UTME.

Any Akokite in the building? You might have answered 40 questions in 30 minutes in your time. But as at now, they decided to punish us more and add ten whole questions to it, at the same timeframe.

And you know the funny thing? I answered like 30 maths questions, 13 english, and 7 general paper questions.

So, people, that's what has been keeping me away from this story. But don't worry. I've gotten a new laptop and I will update you in a moment.

Abraham

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Chapter Six

Nnamdi Technological Services, Adeola Odeku Street, Victoria Island, Lagos. 7:00 AM.

Nnamdi Technological Services was a six-story building with blue, tinted glass walls and a big crafted plastic letters echoing the company name glued to the front edge of the top of the top floor.

A young man in his early thirties drove them, according to the fat man, to base. He knew what speed was. He squeezed a hundred and fifty miles an hour out of the car. They took many turns, ran along streets with at least three-story buildings in them, until they finally swerved into Adeola Odeku Street.

There were two entrance gates at Nnamdi Tech—one at the left and another at the right. There was a statue of the late Nigerian popular singer, Fela Anikulapo kuti, wearing nothing but an underwear and a big necklace, holding a big wrap of weed in one corner of his mouth, holding a microphone in a left hand, and posing as if it were performing.

Misplaced priorities, Peter thought.

The young driver raced past the already-open left gate, swerved right into the driveway, and approached another gate on the right, length spanning from the ground floor wall to the high fence. The gate slid to the left inside the main building and it had barely opened halfway when the car turned left and squeezed past it into another driveway, missing the edge of the gate by an inch or two.

“Jesus!!!” Simon yelled at the front and, when he realized they had past the gate, exhaled audibly.

Peter froze and jerked alife by the car settling in the garage at the back of the building. There was another gate at the back of the building which slid upward. Two men filed out. One hailed the fat man while the other took his briefcase and they disappeared inside immediately.

The fat man and the driver alighted almost simultaneously. Peter followed suit, but Simon didn’t. Sweats had sprouted on his forehead and his hands glued to his body.

Peter went to him and leaned on the car’s window pane. “Why behave like a kid, Simon?”

The fat man and the driver, about to enter through the gate, stopped and turned. Peter didn’t allow either of them to speak. “Coming along,” he said, loud enough for them to hear.

Simon finally unbuckled his seatbelt, alighted, dusted and straightened his clothes.

“Come on, boys,” the fat man called out. “We don’t have all day.”

Peter took his backpack from the back seat, backed the gate so the fat man won’t see him, took some things from it, stashed them into his pockets, and strapped the backpack on.

Peter and Simon stood side-by-side a few meters from the gate. Inside was dark and it appeared that the two men that had just been waiting for them had disappeared in the darkness. The fat man called out again from the darkness. His voice echoed. He was somewhat far from them.

They entered the dark building.The gate slid down automatically, enclosing them in complete darkness. As their eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness, the lights came on at once.

They were in what looked like a mechanic workshop. Metals everywhere. On the right was an almost-dismantled car. Its body had been scraped of its color, and there was no car logo.

There was a driveway stair on the left, which curved upward to the left and then out of sight. There were metal scraps behind the staircase. Right ahead were three elevators with a password machine in place of the button.

They went to the two men. The driver motioned them a little backward and took a step backward, too.

The fat man placed his right thumb on the machine. A green hue covered the thumb. He punched in some numbers and the elevator slid open.

“Come on, boys,” the fat man said. “There is no time.”

***

Olivet Memorial High School, GRA, Ikeja, Lagos. Five years ago.

The four-feet-ten Christian Igbinedon entered the second class marked SS2B.

“Small boy!” someone yelled from the back of the class. “This isn’t SS2A. What are you doing here?”

Christian ignored the voice and went to the class captain’s seat. The bespectacled small girl lay on her desk, napping. Christian gave her a light tap.

“Small boy, didn’t you hear me?”

Christian looked toward the voice. It was a chubby girl who had the hots for him, but Christian had been notorious for infuriating her with all his intelligent talks. What she wanted to discuss was the latest hiphop track in town, the party she attended last weekend, and things of the sort. They were poles apart—their talk, whenever they were chanced to meet had never grazed more-than-friendship.

Notorious bully Jones Davies had the hots for the girl, too. “Maria is officially my wife now,” he had announced one hot afternoon after school closing hours. “Everybody should be warned. If you go near my Maria, I’ll finish you.”

And he was true to his words. He’d had three fist-fights with Simon Coker that term, knocked out one short junior, and eventually got suspended for two weeks.

Maria, however, never liked Jones, never approved of his unnecessary protection, so she’d still wink at Christian whenever they met. And she was winking now also.

Christian smiled at Maria and tapped the rousing class captain again. The girl yawned and stretched.

“Here,” Christian said, holding out her glasses to her. “Your glasses. It just fell down.”

“Thanks.” She collected it. “What do you want?”

Just then, Jones entered the class, saw Maria smiling toward Christian’s direction, got angry, hit the boy with a blow that sent him crashing on the floor, and began to curse.

Christian spat out some sand, got up, and found the lenses of his glasses broken. “Jones! My glasses!!”

“And so?” Jones fired back. “Your father will get a new one.”

Christian began to cry. “How will I read? I cannot read without my glasses.”

The whole class burst into laughter.

“Jones, his father is a police officer,” one boy said.

“All the better,” Jones said. “He will buy the new goggles with the bribes he collects.”

“He will arrest you, instead,” the boy replied.

“Arrest me, my foot!”

The laughter increased.

“Chai, my belle o! Jones will not kill us,” one girl who couldn’t stomach the laughter blurted.

The noise attracted students from class SS2A. The first to make it there was Peter Adewale. Then Simon Coker. Then Olatunde Olashupo, popularly called The Doctor, who rushed to Christian with his always-handy stethoscope and began to examine his heart rate. The last of Christian’s gang to arrive was Raheem Muhammed, popularly called Imam, an Islamic cleric, and he was with his Islamic beads on his neck.

The class quieted. Jones’ forehead puckered in anger.

“Look who is here,” he announced. “Please, help me welcome The Gang with a round of applause.”

The girl who had overlaughed wanted to clap. Peter gazed at her. Her hands froze in the air and the smile her mouth had formed slowly faded away. And then the hands followed suit, slowly.

Simon approached Jones, looking straight into his eyes. They were about the same height, but Simon was weightier. Agility wouldn’t help anyone here. Jones was tightly cornered.

Jones and Simon stood an inch apart, eyes like crimson, cold, and stony, brows knitted in a V. They remained frozen for some seconds.

Simon took the first punch to Jones’ mouth. Jones’ lips tore at the corner and bled. Simon held Jones’ reprisal punch in his left hand and sent another to the same place the first had landed. The lips tore more and bled freely. Blood trickled down Jones’ jaw and fell on the floor.

“I’ve been looking for this opportunity for long,” Simon said.

“Me, too,” Olatunde said. “Opportunity not to stop your HIV-infested bleeding.”

There was silence for about thirty seconds, and then Jones’ gang began to file in. They wore puzzled look as they entered. Michael, Gabriel, and then Uriel. They’d earned an “Angel” prefix to their names for a whole lots of reasons, the first being the names themselves. Charles made it in last, probably because the news got to him late where he was looking for trouble all over.

Little Christian sensed it was getting to the time to move. He packed every fragment of lens and the frame and stuffed them into his pocket.

Jones touched the corner of his mouth with a finger, saw blood on the finger, and laughed. “You behave as if you run the school, Psycho. Here comes the chance to see who gets the trophy. Don’t ever stay in school till five if you can’t face Hell itself.”

“Deal,” Peter said. He moved toward Jones slowly. “The deal’s sealed.”

Jones laughed again. “You know you cannot fight, Peteru.”

“Not with weapons,” Peter shot back. “You forgot there’ll be a lot of weapons.”

Jones chuckled this time. “Bring it on.”

Christian marched into the group and faced Jones. “You’d better prepare for me also. Because I’m coming along.”

For once, Maria’s eyes became watery and there was a sparkle of pride in them and how she stared at Christian.

“Five it is,” Peter said.

And then Peter, Simon, Christian, Olatunde, and Raheem filed out, leaving SS2B as quiet, fearful, and bewildered as possible.

***

The elevator took the fat man, the driver, Peter, and Simon to the top floor, a spacious place full of computers. They met four men there.

Peter and Simon stopped after stepping out of the elevator to imbibe whatever was on the floor.

The fat man walked slowly around the floor, addressing them. “First of all, introductions. My name is Nnamdi Mbagwu, CEO Nnamdi Technological Services. We specialize in IT services such as computer installation for individuals and companies, website creation and design, apps and software design and creation, and so on.

“Here,” He continued, referring to all the computers, “is where the in-house services happen.”

Peter sniffed and nodded. Simon didn’t move.

“Now, let me introduce you to my main boys.”

Peter sent Nnamdi’s voice to the background and began to access the arrangement of the computers. It was arranged in an O with a dot in the center, representing the central computer whose back was facing the elevator. If you planned on attacking the computers or the company database, you’d better face the central computer. There were several wires on the floor connecting the central computer to each sub-computer.

Nnamdi introduced the guy at the central computer, first, as Jerry. Jerry stood up, slept the computer, making the monitor’s LCD light go out, and held out a hand toward Peter.

Peter dipped his hand inside his pocket as if to stash something, removed it in a tight fist, and as he moved toward Jerry, he tripped and fell, bringing his face directly at the back of the CPU. He swiftly inserted a USB drive into a USB port, sprang up, and pretended he was fine. He dusted his clothes with his left hand as he shook Jerry’s in his right hand.

Nnamdi said a whole lot of balderdash as Jerry’s biography. But simply put, Jerry was a computer wizard.

Nero was introduced next, a fierce-looking man with big muscles and wide chest. He seemed to have shaken Peter’s whole body. Simon shook Jerry’s hand, and then Nero.

Another balderdash ensued as Nero’s biography. But the takehome was that Nero was a brutal killer.

How on earth would a tech company employ a brutal killer? Peter thought.

Nnamdi didn’t appear to be surprised that Peter wasn’t puzzled at Nero’s biography. He introduced Paul, quiet but wise, heads the computer department. Jerry’s wizardry may be high grade, but Paul worked like a super computer.

And then Alpha, called Alfa—a muslim cleric—came next. Sporting a bushy beard, Alpha was expert in voodoo, which Nnamdi claimed to have been dwindling nowadays.

Scorpion might be small at just four feet eleven, but he was highly venomous, especially when operating machine guns.

Mosquito, the expert driver who always faked his death, had driven them to base. Lanre the forensic was still out there cleaning the mess Peter had created. And that was the full house.

“Anybody else here work for one of these guys,” Nnamdi said.

Peter sighed. “We’re not on the same frequency…” He hesitated.

“Call me Papa,” Nnamdi said.

“I guess we won’t be leaving anytime soon, Papa, will we? I’m dirty and famished.”

Simon stared at him. He stared back.

“Well, boys,” Nnamdi said, motioning them to the elevator. “Let me show you your quarters.”

Thanks for the mention, still following

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Chapter Six ...cont'd.

By a lot of weapons, Peter didn’t insinuate North Korea’s nuclear weapons or the tanks at the Nigerian Army’s disposal. He meant sticks, irons, metals, cutlass, and sand, anything nearby.

At four-thirty, scores of fearless students waited behind to see what would become of the fight. The two gangs had dueled before, but it appeared today’s fight was going to be more brutal and ugly.

Cutlass hidden inside the classroom’s open ceiling got revealed. Wooden chairs got dismantled to make long sticks with sharp, rusted nails attached to it. Spoilt metal window frames got splitted into portable portions. And those who still had unsubmitted canes added them to their arsenal.

Preparation went on as if for the Biafran war. By four-fifty-five, all male teachers who could have influenced the fight had gone home. Barely two teachers remained—and they were females. The school principal was a short woman of over fifty. The gateman was over sixty. In short, all what constituted the stronghold of Olivet Memorial in the members of staff had vanished for the day.

Scores of students had filled the spectator space of the football field ahead of the gangs’ arrival.

Jones and his gang arrived first. Jones wore a sleeveless top and a jersey short, barefoot. He tied a piece of red cloth around his head like a headband. So did each member of his gang. He carried a wooden stick dismantled from a chair on his left hand and an iron on the right.

Michael, Gabriel, and Uriel dressed like an angel in tekwando outfit and donned red waistband. Michael carried a cane only and told the spectators he had a lot of deliverance from demons to do. Gabriel had a cutlass and a stick like Jones. Uriel said he could make it alive bare hands and feet.

Charles joined them last. He was on his school trousers—rolled up over his knees, a Manchester United jersey, and a pair of hand gloves.

Jones and the gang took one goal post.

Simon made it onto the field, first, among his gang. He wore a baggy jean trousers without belt, tied it to his waist with a rope, and exercised like a footballer on his canvas. He carried an iron wrapped at one end with rubber like a broom on his right hand and a cane on the other hand.

Peter came out next. He wore a blue jean trousers, a black polo, and the strong school sandals he claimed to have been using since junior school. He held a cutlass in his right hand and a fifteen-by-ten plank wrapped on his left hand to serve as a shield. Here cometh the gladiator.

Olatunde surprisingly came to the field with his stethoscope on his neck. He wore a black jean trousers and a tight black T-shirt. His football boot sparkled in the sunlight. He had a shield like Peter and a wooden stick from a dismantled chair on the other hand.

Raheem, speculated to have been reciting verses of the Quran, came second last on danshiki and three-quarter shorts. He had a shield, too, on his left hand and an iron on the right. He wore a canvas that didn’t match.

Five minutes passed with spectators arguing, betting, and cheering their favorite gang, yet, Christian was nowhere in sight. Jones got impatient, came halfway toward the other goal post, and yelled, “Seems your small boy garbaged out at the last minute!!!”

Spectators laughed, roared, and booed, but just then, Christian appeared from among the spectators with a bag hung on his neck, the pouch bouncing in front of his belly. It contained something a little heavy, but the smugness of the bag against Christian’s body and the vigor in which he carried both himself and the bag surprised Jones. Jones laughed and backed away.

Christian wore a blue jean trousers, a polo, and a trainers. He held a cane on his left hand and a catapult on the right.

Gangs completed, Jones wasted no time taunting his opponents, particularly Simon. The fight began in a race, a group of five boys on this side running toward and against the other one. Christian was among the runners, but some fifty-something meters to ignition, he slowed down, tucked his cane beside his belt in his trousers, fixed a stone from the sack onto his catapult, and fired.

As the stone swished away, Peter, Simon, Olatunde, and Raheem placed the weapon on their right hands on the left, packed a handful of sand, and hurled it toward their opponents.

The stone hit Jones on the side of his head before the sand came raining. Jones staggered back, coughed, and got a kick in the stomach from Simon. Jones crashed backward.

Peter, Olatunde, and Raheem took on Angels Michael, Gabriel, and Uriel. Charles ducked round the place in a newly germinated fear, took Jones’ iron, and began to fight. Christian ran for Jones, landed on him, and began to send rapid blows onto his face.

Jones’ lips tore in different places and his cheekbone swelled up. Once in a while, a blow from Jones’ concentratedly-energized hand landed on Christian in the face. Until it came no more.

And then Christian took his cane on his right hand and began whipping the next available opponent, ducking whenever he felt danger coming. Two whips on the leg made Charles surrender to Simon.

The three tekwando’s were good, but no matter how sophisticated their kick was, it always hit either of Peter, Olatunde, or Raheem’s wooden shields.

The fight was still ongoing when a Toyota Hilux van containing about ten policemen raced through the school entrance gate, and then the cops began shooting in the air. Peter, Olatunde, Raheem, and the three angels took to their heels, first, over the schoolfence. Simon helped Jones up and they ran behind Christian and Charles toward the fence.

The spectators had scattered on the field, trying to fly over the fence, some running back into the school’s inner corridor. Apparently, the sixty-something-year-old gateman, having discovered the rowdiness in the school compound and not strong enough to control the situation, had tipped the police.

***

Peter’s phone buzzed in his pocket all the way down to the glorified quarters they were to stay. Simon kept wondering why Peter was suddenly smiling.

There were two rooms with a bathroom each and a sitting room equipped with a three-sitter sofa, plasma TV, and fully air-conditioned.
When they had been left alone, Simon hissed, whined, dragged his legs noisily in the sitting room, and mumbled something about this rat hole of a prison.

Peter said, “If you think this is a prison, then waltz out,” ignored his reply full of complaints, and went into one of the bedrooms, slamming the door behind him. There was a neatly made bed, a table and a chair with a table lamp, plasma TV, and the doorless bathroom.

Peter dropped his backpack and went to wash his face inside the sink. He hung his head over the washer, let drops of water fall into it from his head for a while, and then left for the bedside table.

There was a face towel hung beside the washer. He also saw the long towel, soap, roll-on, sponge, brush, and toothpaste. All new. He didn’t use any.

He roused his phone and logged into his mail box. Scores of emails were waiting for him. He scrolled down to the first to enter.

ATTENTION: Arrow Box activated

Arrow Box: Stage 1, Extracting necessary files

Arrow Box: Stage 2, Initializing

Those were happy emails but not the end result that he was sure would come. He scrolled up, saw an email saying he’d received a payment in his domiciliary account, and when he opened it, saw that the payment was a thousand and fifty-three cents. Sounds like a three-legged goat, he thought.

There was a reminder email in-between. The rest were from Arrow Box, the Trojan software that the USB drive he’d inserted into the central computer contained. He scrolled all the way up and then the email that caused him to smile stared at him in the face.

Arrow Box: Congratulations, Arrow Box successfully executed

Listed in the email were the Windows password of the central computer—the Trojan had overridden the original password; control panel password of Nnamdi Tech’s server extracted from the default browser installed on the system; and a note confirming that a virus had been distributed from the central computer to all the connected computers in the local area network. Bingo!

He smiled again. And just then, the vibration from the home theater system in Simon’s room rocked Peter’s room into frequency. Simon could be heard singing along to One Corner.

***

By the time the cops had descended their van, the ten boys had made it out of the school compound, ran many lonely streets in the GRA, and burst onto a group of snoring policemen.

The cops smelled of a bit too much of alcohol they’d taken. Two hundred meters from where the policemen parked their dirty blue Toyota Hilux van, the road ran down a hill and then up another hill. One policeman stretched himself on his back on a bench near the van. His hands dangled sideways near the ground, and his cellotaped rusted AK47 lay on his potbellied stomach.

Three others—a driver, one beside him, and the other at the back—were inside the van, snoring in grotesque positions.

Surprise turned to amazement and then fear when they saw a herd of cows running down the other hill on full speed. The boys halted. Uriel wiped his face twice to troubleshoot the authenticity of his eyesight.

Of course, after descending the other hill, the cows would climb this one and knock them over. This wasn’t one village in Ogun State or Ekiti State where neighborhoods had intertwined shortcuts that runs beside mud houses. The fences, left and right, imitated that of Jericho. The only logical option was to run back the way they’d come. But then, they still had some policemen on their tail, although their sirens had vanished.

There were no drainages. Instead, house owners were fond of decorating the front of their house with gardens. And this breed of cows would never honor beautiful gardens. Hide there and they would switch lane and fish you out. One of Maria’s friend had tried it while trekking home one day, but the next place she woke up was the general hospital where they tied her a knot with crushes.

So, the boys stood there, looking at each other, and waiting for the one who would have a big bang idea. Jones had recovered from his slumber. Simon exhaled, approached the policeman snoring on the bench, and tried to grab his gun.

The rest of the boys exclaimed, “Ah!”

“Thumbprint, Simon,” Christian cautioned. “My daddy told me they can catch anybody with his thumbprint.”

“So?” Simon shot back. “Do you want to worry about thumbprint at this time? Look over there! Cows!! C-o-w-s!”

“You can only use it if—”

“If what?” the rest of the boys cut into Christian’s words. They moved toward him, half pleading, half menacing.

“If you use a glove,” Christian said. “My daddy told me.”

About five of them muttered, “Gloves, gloves,” as if testing the bitterness with their mouth. Simon turned to Charles. “Your gloves, Charles.”

Charles surrendered his gloves. Peter went away toward the steep. The cows had reached the valley. They were gathering momentum to climb the next hill.

Peter returned to the rest. “Be fast, they’re coming.”

Simon had worn the gloves and was with the AK47, trying to work it. The policemen continued snoring, regardless of the noise.

“That’s not the way,” Christian said.

“You know the way, then say it,” Peter added.

Simon tried to hand over the gun to Christian, but the little boy backed away.

“Don’t give me,” he said. “Since cartridge is there, just pull that place,” and he pointed the place to Simon, adding an occasional “…yes, yes… that way… no, harder, my daddy pulled it harder.”

By the time Simon was done cocking the rifle, the cows had reached the steep. Frustrated, Peter went to the van and, gloves or no gloves, collected the rifle of the man who slept beside the driver, spent some seconds cocking it the way Simon had, and backed away with his mates.

Simon fired a shot as they backed away. It went wide.

“Use the scope,” Christian advised.

“What scope!!!” Simon yelled back.

“The one on top at the end of the gun. Close one eye and aim with the hole.”

As Simon followed the instruction, Peter had taken the cue. But he wasn’t aiming at the cows. The muzzle pointed at the water tank of a house mounted on a four-leg platform beside the fence.

The cows were approaching. A bullet hit one leg of the iron platform and after some seconds another hit a second leg. The platform bent and leaned on the fence. The water tank slid onto the street near the police van and burst on the asphalt.
The cows were inches away and would have started their havoc with the policemen. The tank landed in a bang and the force of its water sent the forefronting cows rolling backwards. The preceding cows absorbed the force and rolled backward, too. And the circle continued.

Water splashed on the police van and completely drenched the cops. Yet none woke up. The boys were completely drenched, too. Simon returned the gun on to the man’s belly. Christian said the water would have washed away Peter’s prints, but he wouldn’t have it. He put off his black polo, wiped every inch of the rifle clean, and returned it without leaving another print.

Nobody in the neighborhood came out or peeped out despite the noise and gunshots. Instead, more windows got shut, blinds drawn. No dog barked. Perhaps, this neighborhood had no dog.

Having dismantled one problem, they made to leave, and it suddenly occurred to them that they might still have to face their previous problem.

***

Peter composed a short, concise email to Staff Sergeant Rachael Okeke:

Nnamdi Tech’s servers has been hacked. Find the particulars in the attachment. Karma is a bitch.

There was neither salutation nor a signature. Attached to the email was a text file containing access password to Nnamdi Tech’s server. He left out the central computer’s password.

Abraham carry the go I'm with u.

...

Splendid, just splendid!

Great job Abe. You just dey drop am as e dey hot! Really enjoying the story. Weldone

Nice update... Please continue... Enjoy other cool stories on Tushstories via

www.tushstories.com

#Click!

I love Peter already. Smart and no coward.
But come update na Abe.

Interesting. More update please.

More apologies, buddies. You know that any time I come to update, I bring you meat and not bones. Update in a bit, please.

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Chapter Seven

Nnamdi Technological Services, Victoria Island, Lagos. 12:00 PM.

Lanre stood on the rooftop with a camera in hand. He was picking out obscure areas and viewing them with the camera’s lens.

An insignificant dot appeared in the distance, and then grew bigger into a bird-like figure. It was approaching the building directly. It took a while before Lanre recognized it as an Apache helicopter, painted the color of the Army camouflage.

***

Nnamdi sat on a cushion chair on the top floor streaming a YouTube video when the elevator bell clicked, opened, and Lanre emerged from it.

“Papa!” Lanre called out.

Nnamdi diverted his attention to Lanre but did not reply.

“Did you order for room service?” Lanre asked.

“Room service?” Nnamdi sat upright. “What do you mean?”

“There’s a fighter helicopter out there, and it is coming here.”

“Relax, Lanre. Get the other boys up here.”

Lanre went to a wall telephone, punched some numbers, and held the receiver to his ears. From outside, the loud rumble of the helicopter could be heard, and the swish-swosh of its rotors enveloped the building.

As Lanre yelled into the receiver, someone made an announcement from the helicopter with a big microphone.

“Attention, everybody inside Nnamdi Technological Services building. This is the Army. You’re housing a fugitive named Peter Adewale. You’re therefore ordered to deliver him to the helipad in fifteen minutes. Failure to do so makes you an accomplice, and you will live with the consequences.”

The elevator bell clicked and opened. Jerry, Nero, Alpha, Scorpion, Mosquito, and two men rushed out.

“Paul is on his way,” Jerry said and began to setup the central computer for operation.

Nero singlehandedly mounted a fifty-five-inch-long plasma TV on the wall in preparation for Jerry’s camera views. Scorpion went to the blue-tinted glass walls, shielded his eyes with a palm as if from the sun, and squinted.

Just then, Jerry shouted, “The password of this computer has been changed! I can’t access anything.”

“Hey, Jerry,” Scorpion said, “can you keep it low? I’m trying to get something here.”

Scorpion squinted again and assessed his outside view. He suddenly left the wall, went to an adjacent wall, pressed his right palm on it, and waited as the wall parted, revealing a weapons chest. Hung here and there were sniper rifles, US military grade rifles M16 and M4, night goggles, pump actions, pistols, and grenades.

Scorpion’s eyes darted around the menu until he sported what he wanted. A bazooka, an anti-tank missile launcher. It was hidden so well that he had to remove it from the wall as if removing a lead from a pencil.

He loaded it. “Nero, can you get me a ladder?”

With the ladder in place, Scorpion climbed it to the top, his head touching the deck. He broke part of the glass around the billboard area and presented the bazooka. Its muzzle emerged from the first O in “Technological.”

The helicopter followed a pattern: throttle round the building, hover in front of it, and stop to make the same announcement. It was about to make the fifth announcement when the bazooka fired. It hit home. The helicopter exploded in a big ball of fire and shattered down onto the asphalt in debris.

“Okay, done.” Scorpion exhaled.

“Nothing is done, idiot,” Jerry said. “Nothing. Our computer has been hacked. I need to find where that chopper came from.”

Nnamdi’s boys argued, lamented, and prescribed suitable solutions to the case, but he sat on the sofa, still, thinking. When the boys had exhausted their arguing energy, they turn to face him.

“Papa!” Scorpion said. “I’ve taken down the chopper. What do you want us to do next?”

“I think we need to find where that chopper came from,” Jerry said, “and why. But I can’t do anything. Our computer has been hacked.”

Nnamdi looked up at Jerry. “Where is Paul?”

***

Level Two, Nnamdi Tech., VI.

Simon was notorious for singing too loud. And off tune, too. In fact, he didn’t understand the French spoken in the song he was listening to. Peter had little problem with that. What he found disturbing was, of course, the vibration and the beat. But right now, he wouldn’t let that deter him.

He continued with what Arrow Box gave him. All files on the central computer had been uploaded to his server. He didn’t bother to try downloading them onto his computer. He’d open any file via internet services.

He accessed each customized email address on Nnamdi Tech’s server and found nothing on them. Nothing in inbox neither sent box, trash, nor spam box. No mail forwarder. All mail boxes were practically clean, as if just created moments ago. Or rather, had been wiped clean. Peter knew it would be the latter. How could you run a tech company without getting emails?

He went onto the copied files in his server. There was a folder named Correspondence. He opened it. There were PDF files arranged by date. Peter opened the latest one. It was a converted email addressed to Nnamdi from one Honorable Daniel with a bogus email address whose domain name wasn’t connecting through. The email read:

Nnamdi,

I’m glad you confirmed the receipt of those firearms and coke.

I want to make it clear that the coke was 500kg on dot. No more, no less. If more, we would surely have had problem getting it through. It was carefully packaged in 10kg bags. I will give you this one, Nnamdi. 0.1kg is not much significant in our long-term deal. I hope the coke market on the island keeps increasing as I’ve heard.

The firearm is purposely for the local government election in Ekiti two weeks ahead. Intel from a reliable source has it that the DSS are mainly focusing on Ekiti state and its neighboring cities in terms of security. The plan is to wait until the last minute and smuggle the goods in. So, do not engage anyone with those firearms, even if your building is under siege. You’ll have fresh arms for your diminishing ones in two days as usual. I will be glad too if some of your boys can assist in the election by executing some covert operations as usual. But that’s optional.

I will also like to make another business proposal. Some business tycoons are having problem housing imported generators. Intel I had it was that some educated ghetto boys are arming up and coordinating themselves like a special op team. Of course, they have some godfathers here and there. That’s what gives them the audacity to operate in that manner. They assign codenames to operations. They have the latest technological equipment. They have up to five secure bases, but I don’t know where. Most importantly, they are everywhere. They took it upon themselves to end the suffering of the masses, however, without blowing things up.

You might have heard about them. Unfortunately, I don’t know what they call themselves, but I’ve assigned the job to another reliable guy like you. They will get us the basic profile of the group in two weeks. One thing I know for sure… No, two. One, they are frustrating generator sales in the country. Two, they will engage you if they discover that you meander into shady things.

You might also be wondering why I’m telling you all these. I want you to house those generators for the business tycoons. I’ve been told you have more than enough space to store them. Name your price. In addition, I might just allow you to meet one or two of them. Talk about eliminating the middleman.

I will be expecting your response, at most, a week from now.

Honorable Daniel.

Peter sighed, stood up from the table, and paced the room, reminiscing on what he had just read.

So, Peter thought, Nnamdi, hiding under the umbrella of a tech company, was a drug baron, the leader of a group of election thugs, and a potential power outage advocate, among others.

Not that he didn’t think him an advocate already, but his decision would make his desire more prominent.

Peter went back to the table. He opened the second last PDF file. It was also an email. It read:

Honorable Daniel,

My helicopter and your goods have just been delivered to my base at 1:15 AM.

The helicopter is in good condition. But to my surprise, the armory is empty. You delivered the wrong specification of firearms, too. My boys have assessed them and told me they’re of higher grade. I may be mistaking, but if you think I needed higher grade firearms, then so be it. I should tell you that there will be no additional payment, whatever they might have cost you.

Lest I forget, I should also add that the coke you sent is exactly 499.9kg. Accordingly, I will send you payment worth 499.9 kilos of coke. I hope you understand.

Nnamdi.

Just then, Peter’s phone buzzed. It was an email from Rachael Okeke.

Peter,

We have your location. Stand down. We will take it from here.

Oh no, Peter thought, I won’t stand down, Staff sergeant. I am going to create my own mess before you arrive.

Laptop and charger carefully enclosed inside his backpack, Peter strapped it onto his back. It took Simon some cajoling, arguing, and yelling before he agreed that it was time to move. He didn’t turn off the music, however.

“I will enjoy it till the last second,” Simon said as he dressed up and danced in-between.

Peter went to the table and yanked off Simon’s phone from the charger and the charger from the wall socket. Simon exclaimed.

“Believe me,” Peter told him, “you won’t be needing it.” He tossed the phone to Simon. “All you will be needing,” and Peter took his pistol out and brandished it, “is this.”

Simon froze. And then his face went from surprise to amazement to excitement. “It’s time for show, then.”

A loud rumble enveloped the building like the sound of a grinding machine. Simon killed the music. The two boys listened with strained ears.

The voice came from a speaker. Loud. Clearly audible as if it was sounding in their head.

“Attention, everybody inside Nnamdi Technological Services building,” the voice said. “This is the Army. You’re housing a fugitive named Peter Adewale. You’re therefore ordered to deliver him to the helipad in fifteen minutes.”

“They are here,” Peter said.

“…makes you an accomplice…”

“Let’s go,” Peter said.

Simon quickly put on his top and they rushed out to the elevator. The floor counter was adding one to the number every time the elevator ran past a floor. It was ascending from level minus five.

Simon made to press the elevator button. Peter grabbed his hand.

“Not yet,” Peter said. “Let them go. We will follow behind.”

The elevator stopped at level six. Peter and Simon waited. The helicopter was still making announcement. Then an idea struck Peter.

“Simon, do you have an active data subscription?”

“Oh, yeah? I thought you said we won’t be needing it.”

“Slippers of tongue. Go to Jumia foodstore and order as much chin-chin as will go round us and everybody on that top floor.”

“Chin-chin? Are you crazy?”

“Give them the address of this place. Pay online with this,” and he handed Simon a debit card without a name. Simon squeezed his face at the card.

“What? You’ve never seen the card before? It’s a pre-issued debit card for a zero account. It doesn’t carry a name.”

As Simon worked his phone, the elevator began to descend.

“They’re coming to get us,” Simon said.