A screaming comes across the asphalt.

An unmarked police car, modified beyond its already considerable specs, snarled as it fought through the night traffic. Blaring sirens and flashing lights would normally be warning enough to get out of the way, but the supercharged screaming from the engine, echoing from building to building, made even the most sluggish drivers quickly duck out of the way. A startled pedestrian, gasping and putting a hand over her fluttering heart, wondered who was crazy enough to drive this fast on the crowded freeway.

There was no crazy behind this wheel; it was Alex. She needed no instructions on how to push her car to the limit or the quickest way to the hideout – but her partner offered them anyway.

"Left!" Shola shouted. "Turn left! Left left left-"

"I know," Alex said. She flung the white Honda Civic Type-R into a maneuver that would make Michael Schumacher blanch. The car cut through the Ikeja lit night like a secretary sliding a knife through an envelope: with bored precision and no fanfare.

"Faster! You heard the threats, they'll kill her!"

"Calm down," Alex said, weaving the car in and out of traffic like a young Mike Tyson dodging punches. Alex displayed consummate skill in handling the growling souped-up Civic, shifting gears with a deft touch of the gearstick and turning corners with a smooth turn of the wheel. Alex's calm dismissal of the whirlwind of destruction sitting next to her highlighted her skill and control, especially now, as Shola asked for something no just and loving God would ever wish upon his creation.

"Let me drive," Shola said. "You aren't going fast enough. Pull over!"

"Can't."

"Come on, why can't I drive?"

Alex zoomed through a yellow light, and dug through her memory for the phrasing from Shola's vehicular probationary notice. "Excessive damage to vehicle, massive destruction to property, danger to life-"

"I know all that," Shola said, slapping the dashboard with her hand. "What I want to know is, why can't-" her words were cut off as Alex executed a sharp turn around Obafemi Awolowo's roundabout, knocking Shola's head into her window.

"Ow," Shola said, rubbing her head. She caught a glimpse through her window of a familiar beat-up car, and instantly forgot her pain.

Shola grabbed the police radio microphone. "This is DetShola Wale reporting multiple traffic infractions," and then she rattled off the license of the beat-up car, its make and model, and its last known heading. The first two she knew by heart. She knew the driver too, but didn't name her. There's no need to arouse suspicion.

"There," Shola said, as she hung up the mic. She leaned back with her hands behind her head in a self-satisfied pose. This was hard to do when her partner was going forty kilometers faster than the surrounding traffic on a cramped street.

"Did you just report your old secondary school teacher? Again?"

"Yep," Shola said, sporting her patented look of smug accomplishment.

"You sure hold a grudge," said. "Maybe it's time to let it go."

"This isn't a grudge! She's a menace to law-abiding pedestrians everywhere! I'm doing her a favor, if you think about it. I'm keeping her off of the streets so she can contemplate and repent of her past crimes."

"Past?"

"Uh…" Shola said. "I meant present, of course. Heh heh."

"I see," Alex said. She turned off the side street into an alley, and quickly executed a left onto the main thoroughfare, a street as wide as the summer sky above Death Valley. There was little traffic to dodge, so she punched the gas. The Civic gave an appreciative growl and surged ahead.

"I still think I should drive," Shola said.

kwantinue please

Alex parked and locked the Civic as she and Shola skulked toward their target, a simple two-story building housing apartments above and a bar below. They were in a red district in Allen where businessmen would drink themselves into a stupor before either taking a ride home, taking a girl home or being taken home by a prostitute. The place was full of middle age men with loosened ties and untucked shirttails, staggering from one bar to the next.

The tall and skinny Alex was the model of detective chic, wearing a black suit cut exactly to her measurements. She wore a white French-cut shirt with YBNL cufflinks. Alex chose that cufflink design because she was heavily into first wave hip hop music, especially african.

Shola was modestly dressed, but in her haste to make it on time, she grabbed a pair of slacks with a malfunctioning zipper. She zipped it up with no hint of modesty, astonishing and delighting the drunks staggering in the street. She also wore her green cloth trench coat, which had a multitude of pockets holding whatever police approved (and unapproved) devices she needed to do her job. Most important to her was that it held her wooden baton.

They made it to the building and entered the bar, heading toward the steps leading upstairs. In the bar was a businessman standing on a table, yelling at the laughing faces gathered around him. He had a tie wrapped around his head and had somehow been liberated of his pants.

A creaky air-conditioner leaking cold, stale air greeted the duo as they ascended the stairs.

"Geez," Shola whispered. "It's almost October."

"Don't think this is ever turned off," Alex said.

They made their up the stairs, with Shola occasionally checking behind her to make sure they weren't being tailed. Alex drew her gun when they entered the second floor.

"Why can't I have a gun?" Shola said.

Reciting from memory, Alex said, "flagrant and intentional misuse, destruction of property, danger to life-"

"I know all that," Shola hissed. "What I mean is, why ca-"

Shola was cut off by a door opening directly behind her. A middle-aged lady emerged and saw the skulking detectives. Her face stiffened into a display of great alarm.

Shola pulled out her badge. She put a finger on her lips and whispered, "Police business, please get back inside."

The woman immediately backed into her apartment and shut the door, locking every lock she had.

Shola and Alex continued down the hall, walking on the ratty brown threadbare carpet, each step raising a mini dust storm. The smell of mildew grew stronger. Alex put up a hand and stopped Shola from moving.

"Here's the door," Alex whispered. "Don't step in front of it. Peep hole." Alex bent down and walked to the other side. Shola crouched and reached into her trench coat. She pulled out a fiber optic scope, a rare device she acquired for herself and placed it under the door, peering into it.

Shola scanned the room. "It's clear," she said, "except for a light in the kitchen."

Shola pocketed her scope and crouched in front of the door, facing the doorknob. She reached into her trench coat and pulled out her lock-picking kit, a sight that always bothered Alex to the point of annoyance.

"How did you ever learn enough patience to use that thing," Alex whispered, her pistol at the ready.

"Remember when Ngozi made that stupid rule about not stealing food from her?"

"The one you ignored?"

"Yeah, that one." Shola slowly worked the lock. Normally, she would have this sort of thing unlocked in less than a minute. However, safety of the hostage was priority, so Shola had to make use of two of her hated enemies: stealth and patience.

"She got a new desk and she put her snacks in a locked drawer," Shola said. "She even mocked me about not being able to get them."

"Well, those were her snacks. Keep it down."

"Yeah," Shola said, working the lock. "But it's how she said it. It pissed me off so much that I put in for a lock-picking kit, and when I got it, I would practice on cars in the parking lot. When I got it right, I broke into her desk and cleaned her out of every snack she has. It was awesome."

"Hmm," Alex said. A bead of sweat formed on her forehead. She was afraid that Shola would get loud at any moment.

"You know what I did to her today?" The lock clicked before she could finish. Shola slowly revolved the door handle and nudged open the door. Alex eased in through the opening, and Shola followed behind. She stuffed her lock picking kit back into her coat, and pulled out her baton.

The living room was dark and smelled of dust. Cushions were scattered on the stained arabian mat partially covering the floor. A table was in the middle of the mat, and an old TV was in the corner. The kitchen light was on, and Alex counted the voices.

"It sounds like two," Alex whispered.

"I'll go first," Shola said, pointing at the kitchen with her baton. "You cover me."

"Okay," Alex said. "Sneak up on-"

"Police! You're under arrest!" Shola shouted, and she lunged into the kitchen.

A young woman with a handkerchief stuffed in her mouth was tied to a chair. The two kidnappers crowded around the kitchen table, eating a rice dish. They were startled, but not startled enough to lose their sense of self-preservation. Both jumped out of their chairs.

Shola struck a heroic pose, and pointed her baton at the one she decided to name 'Agbolo' because of his shiny scalp. "Hooligan! In the name of a just and verdant soc-"

"Kill the hostage!" Agbolo shouted to his co-kidnapper. He whipped out a chain and struck at her baton. The chain wrapped around her baton and he pulled it out of her hand. Fortunately, Shola had long since been introduced to this trick. While he was pulling away her wooden baton, his lips curling back in assurance of victory, Shola lunged forward and kicked him hard in the nuts eliciting a blood curdling scream.

At the same time, the other kidnapper brandished a knife and grabbed the hostage's head, pulling it back to deliver the killing slice to her throat.

Alex rushed into the kitchen and fired two precision shots that severed the potential hostage killer's spirit from his body, in addition to carving out a portion of his head. His body fell to the floor, and the hostage shuddered from the violence of his death.

Shola surveyed the damage. "Look at that! That was what, five seconds? Three? And we got them all?" She stepped over Agbolo, who was moaning in pain. She picked up her baton and slammed it down on the back of Agbojo's neck. He slumped forward, groaning. She grabbed the chain and unwrapped it from her baton. "I can't believe you did that to Sword," she said.

"I wish you'd name that thing something else," Alex said. She forced herself not to look at the dead kidnapper, instead focusing on the hostage. Alex leaned in front of the hostage and removed the handkerchief from her mouth. "Daniella Dumebi"

"Yes," Daniella said. She lifted up her head to reveal soft brown eyes that could drain hate from a Klansman, and a chin that could cut diamonds. Tears had dug canals into her face, shed in fear over the last three days. New tears were forming, but of relief and joy. "T-thank you so much. I was… just…"

"It's okay," Alex said. She took out her pocketknife and cut Daniella's bonds.

"Yeah, no need to thank us," Shola said. "It's what we do. Did you see me kick that guy? Totally awesome, huh?"

"You don't have to answer that," Alex said, seeing Daniella's confusion.

"Hey, Alex, " Shola said, pointing at the table. "They were eating Jollof rice! I am so going to have that tonight."

Alex finished cutting free the hostage. Daniella stood up and rubbed her wrists. She glanced back and forth between Shola and Alex. Her mouth opened slightly as if to say something, but she sighed and closed it.

Shola slapped a pair of handcuffs on Agbolo, who was still lying on the dirty floor. She saw Alex pocket her knife. "Hey, why can't I have knife- don't answer that!" Alex pulled out her police radio and reported in to headquarters, while Shola opened the fridge and rummaged through its paltry contents.

...

Shola and Alex stood in the living room, the ceiling light showing how decrepit this room really was. A flock of police pickups flashing red and blue lights lit up the alley below. Several news vans pulled into the alley, spewing forth reporters and cameramen.

The uniformed officers led Agbolo away in handcuffs, while paramedics tended to Daniella Dumebi. The dead kidnapper, covered with a white sheet, was carried out on a stretcher. Alex turned away and looked out the window, watching the commotion below.

"What's all this about?" Shola said, when she pushed toward the window. "Oh wait, I know. It's because we're awesome."

Shola insisted on giving thumbs up to each officer that passed by. The few that didn't return the gesture ignored her. Daniella Dumebi as led outside, her head down, surrounded by a gaggle of police officers.

"Shola," Alex said, not turning away from the window. "Do you have any idea of who we just rescued?"

"She's some kind of idol, isn't she?" Shola said.

A stout uniformed officer stood at the door, knocking on the pine door to get their attention. "Detectives? The chief is outside. He wants to see you two."

"Can he come up here?" Alex said, but Shola had already rushed downstairs. Alex grimaced and followed behind.

Shola marched outside with a triumphant grin. Cameras and microphones were thrust into her face. The reporters did their annoying shtick of all talking at the same time, producing a cacophony of banal questions that dissolved into a stew of incoherence.

"Ms. Oladapo! What were your thoughts when-"

"-discover the location-"

"-expect a reward?"

"Oh, it's all in a day's work," Shola said, deciding to press on through with whatever popped into her head. "We were outnumbered, see, five of them had AK-47s. There was this big shrine in the middle of the room with some human heads and we had to fight a ghost. Alex was screaming, 'Don't touch it oh!' but I knew that if-"

"Hey!" One of the reporters said. "It's the Boss lady!"

Oh great, Shola thought. She smirked as she watched Alex exit the building, heading straight for the chief. She kept her head high and her path straight, not answering the reporters' prodding questions.

"Alex, how'd you do it?"

"Show us your gun, Boss lady"

"Why do you get a nickname and I don't?" Shola said, when Alex had caught up with her. "I'm so much more cooler than you."

"It's a lazy nickname," Alex said, as they both headed across the street toward the chief. She had gotten it when an image of her totting a machine gun surfaced online. Police officers began to make a perimeter around the two detectives, keeping the reporters out. "What do you want your nickname to be?"

"Shola, Destroyer of Worlds!"

"Fitting," Alex muttered. They reached the chief and saluted.

Chief Frank was a tall, stocky man, who had all of his black hair despite being in his late fifties. He was wearing a gray suit with a vest, topped off with a fedora. The chief had the right combination of age and looks to pull off that look without coming across as pretentious.

He saluted his two investigators. His face, carved from granite, had a nose that would fit a hawk hunting for mice.

"Detectives," he said, in his gruff voice, "you have performed a valuable service tonight. I thank you for your dedication to protecting the innocent and fighting crime. Tonight, I have a special guest who would like to thank you in person. I am honored to present to you Senator Femi Johnson, our representative in the House of Assembly," The last part he added for Shola's benefit, hoping to prevent her from doing anything stupid (which, right now, was asking why he had two last names).

A hush settled over the crowd like morning dew blanketing a lawn. The tall, lean Femi Johnson, immaculately dressed in a bespoke English suit, approached the two detectives. The patched up Daniella stood next to him, looking downward like a fading flower. Femi was at least 6 ft tall, and flashed his boyish and charismatic smile that helped him win enough votes to become the youngest representative ever voted into the House.

He looked at Shola, thought better of it, and looked at Alex, "Detectives," he said, in his rich voice, "I am proud to have such fine members in my constituency's police force. I thank you for rescuing my secretary-"

A light bulb lit in Shola's head.

"-by going above and beyond the call of duty. Your tireless devotion to the cause of justice is an inspiration to us all. I thank you both from the bottom of my heart."

He bowed deeply, and Shola and Alex both responded with their own bows. A cheer went up from the police, and the reporters readied their mics to feed. Femi and Alex broke their bow to shake each other's hand. Alex nudged Shola to break her bow, so she could shake hands as well.

The police perimeter broke and the reporters lunged on Femi Johnson, flinging questions about the upcoming re-election, domestic issues, the kidnapping, and the rumor about him becoming the Vice President. Femi smiled and waved while black suited bodyguards, rushing them toward their waiting vehicle, surrounded him and . Daniella kept looking back at Shola and Alex. Her mouth opened and closed, and she slid into the limo with her boss.

"Break this garbage up," the chief said, and the uniformed cops began shooing away the reporters. Chief Frank faced his detectives. He looked at Shola, thought better of it, and faced Alex.

"Great work," the chief said.

"Hell yeah we did great!" Shola said, speaking for Alex. "Did you see me shoot that guy? He had a Gatling gun-"

"Shola, get rid of those pants," he said, pointing at them with a hirsute finger. "What the hell? I mean really, what the hell? And stop lying to the reporters. I'm going to have to ask them not to use your interview footage."

"Oh come on chief, they aren't that bad," Shola said. She reached down and zipped up her pants.

The chief pulled out a bottle of antacids. He opened the bottle and tossed several tablets into his mouth. He chewed them thoroughly before continuing.

"And furthermore, you can stop reporting on-" he pulled out a piece of paper dotted with hastily scribbled kanji. "-Ms. Alli. We know you have a grudge against her, and anyway we've been disregarding your traffic reports for months. You guys got a lot of paperwork, so get on that before you start helping out the Area F"

"Area F?" Shola said. "That's in Surulere."

"Thanks for the geography lesson," the chief said. "Don't worry, it's temporary. Two of their detectives got arrested on corruption charges, and they need some backup until they rehire. It shouldn't be longer than a month. I'm sure you'll be able to juggle an extra district. You'll still be reporting to me."

"That's not much of an award," Shola said. "You saw who we rescued, right? Femi Johnson's secretary! Our senator!"

"You didn't know who you rescued until just a couple of minutes ago, Oladapo," the chief said. "But if you want a reward, I tell you what. You two get the next two days off."

"Nice!" Shola said, flinging her fist into the air.

"Although showing some initiative by finishing the paperwork will be noted. Dismissed," he said, with a wave of his hand. He turned and walked toward the crowd of reporters to shame them into going back home, calling them vultures and other unsavory terms relating to a lack of moral character.

Alex tapped Shola on the shoulder. "Let's go," she said.
...

The Civic Type-R was cruising along at legal speed, as Alex was taking Shola to her apartment. They had remained silent since getting in.

Shola finally spoke. "Notice anything dodgy about that kidnapping? Something completely out of the ordinary?"

"I've never seen kidnappers so eager to kill their hostage," Alex said. "Usually they plead or try to negotiate a release, or attempt escape. These guys went into instant kill mode. There was something they didn't want to get out."

"Eh? What are you talking about? I meant that they used gaffers tape instead of duct tape to tie her to the chair. Who uses gaffers tape? Do they have some agenda against duct tape? It's a conspiracy by the duct tape-industrial complex, I'm telling you."

Alex frowned. "I wonder what antacids the chief uses?"

"Oh? And what does that mean?" Shola said, fixing Alex with a mock angry stare. "Seriously though, yeah… they instantly tried to kill the hostage. And did you see how she kept looking at us when she got into the limo? I think she wanted to tell us something, but was afraid too. She had been trying to tell us something the instant you took that handkerchief out of her mouth."

"I noticed," Alex said. "It's out of our hands, though."

...

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