₦airaland Forum

seun0225:
I shall wait for the mail then. But please be fast about the mail. Cos the thriller is wow. And i want to read the story faster. More grease to your elbow. Keep up the good work cos the heavens is your limit

I've sent you some emails.

seun0225:
Boluwaseun53@gmail.com.
When are you going to be starting the chase here on nairaland

That would be sometime later, maybe two months from now. It's on Kindle Select, an exclusive publishing platform of the Kindle Direct Publishing platform (http://kdp.amazon.com) Upon enrollment, 90 days would have to elapse before I can publish or share the book elsewhere.

However, I can send you a free copy in exchange for an honest review. You should get my mail in a bit.

Emanuel1997:
omisakin205@gmail.com

will be especting bro

donkelz:
Donferaz4real.com

oppsyij:
mailope2004@gmail.com

Sorry it came late, but check your email.

Also, both A Hunt and The Chase are currently free on the Amazon Kindle store here: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B078X86YVT/ref=series_rw_dp_sw/

Grab your copy while it lasts.

hadow:
victor61277@gmail.com

isyboi12:
efedhomaisreal@gmail.com

Horladan:
Olugbotemiogheneyeruwo@gmail.com

bigbauer:
myabcashsystem@gmail.com

URANTAALLWELL:
urantaallwell@gmail.com

Guys, check your email address.

Thank you all for your response so far. I saw all the emails and the ones you've dropped in my inbox, too. I'll reply you sooner. My free promotion days on Amazon will start on 15th of this month, so I'm marketing it for that day. Kindle free book promotion runs for five days, so you'll be able to own it on Amazon, too.

Please bear with me.

You can also drop your email here and I'll contact you.

A deadly agent
A deadly pursuit

Peter Adewale and Simon Coker were set to be secret service agents in three weeks.

But the situation became complicated when they discovered that Jones, the director of The Jones, an undercover intelligence agency under the Nigerian Intelligence Agency, was pulling strings at Nnamdi Tech, the case he was supposed to assign to them exclusively.

Jones' three contractors had to be sorted. Peter and Simon had to team up with John, Qazim, and officers at the Ikeja Army Cantonment. Honorable Daniel's wings had to be clipped.

And a deadly chase between Peter and Jones all through the way from Victoria Island in Lagos to Ikenne in Ogun State, which left devastating catastrophe in its wake, will leave you breathless to the end.

Coming Soon: The Cleanse (A Hunt Series Book #3)






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Hello, my people.

Happy New Year. I wish you success and a blissful 2018.

While many might think I'd gone off the radar, well, I was busy working on the second book in the A Hunt series. And while I might have loved to post everything here - more than two hundred pages - I've published it on Amazon KDP and enrolled it in KDP Select, which binds me that I can only distribute my book elsewhere in another format - print, audio, etc.

But nonetheless, for people who will be interested in reviewing the book on Amazon, you'll get the book for free. Yes, free. But all you have to do is send me an email at Abraham@AbrahamAdekunle.com

Sveen, duch12, queenitee, pnet22, sod09, emazy10, nikz, hadow, Honeydawealth, Creeza, EvaJael, oluwatosin070, Whiydhee, donobecs, Davidpaul, MichaelBlake40, Eyinimofeoluwa, JohnGainsville, marvwhite, DiegoNakel, ebby9z, Matherson, emperormossad, Nostradamus, Longjohnsilver, jayeoba92, dhesire, itopat007, PoliticalThuG, itsandi, Freeezzz, oppsyij, ADECULATE, Omobolaji20, loverboi97, ladyverere, Superkid201, Ikdbabie, jagugu88li, Awesome35, Ayoshewa12, chii8 ....

Most of you guys asked me to inform you when The Chase is out. Here I am fulfilling my promise. Just send me an email via Abraham@AbrahamAdekunle.com and I'll forward you the book in PDF format with instructions on how to review the book on Amazon.

Meanwhile, here's an excerpt from The Chase:

Oremeji Street, Shogunle Bus Stop, Oshodi, Lagos. Wednesday, April 19th, 2017. 9:00 AM.

Peter and Simon strolled down the street adjacent to Agege Motor Road. The sun had risen from the east and it shone directly on them in its yellowish radiant beauty. The street was almost deserted except for occasional pedestrians.

Simon shielded his eyes from the sun with both hands. His not-fitted-but-not-oversize red T-shirt stretched taut over a pair of brand new black jean trousers that hugged his ass and a pair of sparkling white trainers with few red stripes. He felt more athletic than ever. “Should have bought sunglasses, too.”

Peter threw him a glance from behind his multi-color sunshade. He had a smirk and he lifted his eyebrows and lowered them almost simultaneously. “That’s where my supercomputer brain beats yours.”

And it was true. Donning a purple polo top on a pair of dark blue jean trousers and completing the equation with a black pair of sneakers could guarantee a day or two of not changing clothes and still looking presentable. In fact, had Simon not swooped the last stock of black jeans at the boutique, he would’ve gone for it. “I give you just six hours. Your shoes would be looking like my ass. And that shirt— Ah, we’re even going to a mechanic workshop. Black oil stains won’t be bad.”

“Don’t worry,” Simon said. “You’re still going to need me.”

“You bet. How about now?”

They had reached a one-story building with fence as low as half the height of the ground floor. Over the fence, Simon could see his dad’s mechanic standing outside, in front of his open dark garage, wearing a sleeveless top and a pair of shorts with lots of protruding pockets. His name was Afeez. The Toyota Corolla sat inside the garage, back facing outside.

Afeez was approximately six feet tall, sported a trimmed beard, and was overly blackened by engine oil and mechanical dirt that it’d be hard to guess his age. He owned the house and worked from home. So, as he stood upright with arms crossed before his chest, standing at the back of the Corolla, Simon knew the boss was talking and something was definitely amiss.

It took Simon about a minute to become animated again while Peter looked on.

Afeez gestured with his hands for them to come in. They entered the gate and approached him.

Peter put on his best look for the past twenty-four hours. “Good morning, sir.”

“Morning,” Afeez answered disinterestingly. He appeared not to be blinking. He turned, gestured with his hands for them to follow him, and walked into the garage.

The two followed behind, Peter careful enough to put a reasonable distance between him and Afeez.

“Some people don’t like you,” he said, reaching for a switch on the wall a couple of meters away from the car.

As Afeez flipped the switch, the garage lightened up. There was a table in front of the Corolla with a calculator-like device on it. Only the device had a huge screen instead of buttons, and it was several inches deep. Beside the device were three tiny black boxes—the size of a phone camera.

“What does it look like?” Afeez pointed to the big device.

Peter squinted and took a few minutes of hard look before it hit him. He slowly mouthed the words, nearly inaudible. “Ka… boom.”

Afeez frowned. “Kaboom? This is kaboom?”

Peter stared at him and formed inaudible words. “A bomb.”

Simon read Peter’s mouth, took a hard look at the device, and then his jaw slackened.

“Finally,” Afeez said, “some people are talking sense. Let me save you the stress of figuring out the remaining three. One of them is a tracker. Two are wireless cameras.” He leaned back on the Corolla’s hood on the left side, Peter and Simon to his left.

“Simon,” he began, and Simon did flinch, “I don’t work in my garage anymore. Apart from emergency, I only accept cars here from special customers. Your dad is one of them and to me, since you’re his son, you’re also a special customer.

“But look what you did. You bring a car with a bomb here and a friend I’m sure you don’t even know. Me, my wife, and my children sleep directly up.” He pointed to the ceiling. “You came here to find out if your plan has worked, eh?”

He stood upright and faced them. Peter and Simon entered pleading mode. They positioned themselves as if to genuflect, their hands stretched forward like a goalkeeper.

“No, no, no,” Simon said. “We didn’t rig the car, but we know who.”

“You want me to believe that?” Afeez’s eyes had reddened and Peter had a gazillion reasons that the mechanic was looking for any scrap metal to hurl like a projectile.

“If we’re lying,” Peter said, “why would we rig a camera inside the car?”

“Outside the car!” Afeez yelled. “Very obvious. You want to see when I’ll be very near the car so the bomb can tear me to pieces first.”

“Wo, wo, wo,” Peter said. “You said you found the cameras outside the car. What about the bomb and the tracker?”

“Outside the car! Don’t play games with me.”

“We’re not.” Peter looked at Simon. “If Jones rigged the car outside, that means he couldn’t get in.”

“What are you talking about?” Afeez asked.

“Or maybe he didn’t want us to suspect anything,” Simon said.

Peter turned to Afeez, no more pleading, his eyes hard and cold. “Mr. Afeez, put emotions aside. Were you able to disable the devices?”

“Uh-huh. Mission failed. You happy now?”

“For you, yes. But for us, no.”

“Oh, so you’re not happy your plan failed?”

Peter lurched forward a couple of steps. “No!!! Jones meant to kill us, not you.”

Afeez flinched but didn’t move. Simon grabbed Peter’s hand but Peter yanked it off. Simon looked outside and saw that the noise hadn’t attracted neighbors.

“I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Afeez. Nowhere we can run to because you’re ex-military. You’ll smoke us out or even jail our families till they produce us.”

Afeez lifted his eyebrows and cocked his head.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you he told me.” He pointed to Simon. “But before you do the smoking out and jailing and torturing, could you please hear our side of the story?”

Afeez stood still for a while, maybe a minute or two. To Peter, it seemed like forever, like it wasn’t going to end. Finally, Afeez went to the table, perched one of his buttocks on it, and said, “You’ve got five minutes.”

When Peter hesitated to talk, he said, “Four minutes fifty seconds.”

Peter sighed. “Okay, here’s how it began.” And he told him a modified edition of the original story.

The story was that Peter and Simon met in a hotel near a crime scene. They decided to go out together. Unknowingly, Simon parked his car opposite the crime scene to pick a call.

Bad news, soldiers were in charge. They would’ve killed them had they not swiftly open and car and surrender. That didn’t stop them from peppering the car with bullets, though.

They took them and the car to Ikeja Cantonment where the lieutenant in charge of the investigation lied against them that they barged into the building they were investigating. That building would be Nnamdi Tech.

A superior officer, a major, somehow discovered the truth and set them free. That lieutenant must have rigged the car and who knows how many people he must have rigged a bomb in their car.

Afeez swallowed the story, hook, line, and sinker. But he asked, “What is the name of that major?”

“Major Mark Muhammed,” Peter replied.

“You said the name of the lieutenant was Jones, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know his last name?”

“No. We just heard his colleagues calling him Jones.”

“And your name is?”

“Peter Adewale.”

Afeez sighed for the first time since they arrived. “I’ll deal with that officer. Meanwhile, I had to put up the ruckus to get this from you. I hope you don’t mind?”

“No. I understand.”

Afeez nosed around in one of his pockets with a hand, extracted a key, and tossed it to Simon. “You’re lucky I had finished fixing the car before I found those stuff. Otherwise, you would’ve had to wait for some hours.”

“Our luck, then,” Simon said. Truth be told, he was glad that they wouldn’t endure another three-hour conversation with the mechanic. He opened the car, leaned on the door, and pointed at the table. “You sure you can take care of that?”

“Leave it to me.”

“Of course, you’re ex-military. You know those stuff well more than us.”

“Do me a favor, Simon. Whenever you feel like talking about me, seal up your mouth.”

~ ~ ~

By the time Simon wheeled out the Corolla onto Agege Motor Road, he asked Peter, “What do you have to say about that stunt you pulled back there?”

Peter laughed. “Once bitten, twice shy.”

hadow:
pls take care of urself and I wish u a quick recovery pls mention me when THE CHASE is out

I will.

A Hunt's cover is now re-branded. Let me know how you like the new cover.

hadow:
I was watching u I thought u wouldn't update

You know I can never forget the story. And most importantly, you guys. In fact, I'm on a sickbed right now. But because it's in the blood, I had to do what I can't not do. I appreciate your patience. I'm now working on book two, The Chase.

[quote author=Abra4real post=62107185]Adesina12, Aitee1, soleski01, Creeza,
Lawlahdey, sexybbstar, jagugu88li,
ADECULATE, Amenaghwon, okorro1,
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Chapter Eight ...cont'd.

Jones led the way in a long narrow hallway, Peter and Simon following behind. It wasn’t time for the usual gist long-time friends engage in. Peter knew there would still be time for that. For now, the job at hand must be finished.

“I don’t want us to file charges against two of the remaining four suspects,” Jones said. “I think they will be an asset to the agency. And besides, they were not that involved in the whole bad business. You can start in the agency with them as your junior agents.”

“What are their names?” Peter asked.

“John and Qazim,” Jones replied. “I heard you know most of the boys’ names or nicknames. Did you forget these two?” Jones stopped and opened a door.

Peter followed Jones into the room. “I didn’t know their names. They weren’t really in the picture. They were puppets and we’re about to find out why.”

Simon had followed Peter in. There was a door opposite the one they’d come in through.

“Okay, gents, you have fifteen minutes.” Jones motioned them to the inner door and he stood in front of the glass that was transparent outside but otherwise inside.

The two men came in. One made to stand. Peter said, “Please, sit. Easy.”

John and Qazim sat at one end of the table in the middle of the room. Peter and Simon took the other two seats opposite them, Peter on the left and Simon on the right.

“You are?” Peter pointed to the one on the left.

“John.”

“No surname?”

“Arogundade.”

“And you?” Peter pointed to the one on the right.
“Qazim Emiola.”

“Alright, guys,” Peter began. “My name is Peter Adewale. My friend here is…”

“…Simon Coker.”

“We’re no threat. I believe you understand my level of English, don’t you?”

“I have an OND in mechanical engineering,” John said.

“I have an HND in accounting.”

“Good. Because I don’t want grammar to be a barrier between us. Believe me, you won’t account for the sins of Papa. On one condition.” Peter leaned back on his chair.

The room became quieter, so much that Peter and Simon could hear John and Qazim breathe. They had stiffened.

“That you answer all the questions we ask you. Otherwise, the Army will charge you as an accomplice in kidnapping, extortion, blackmail, assault, and cyber hacking. Are we clear?”

The men nodded.

“John, how did you end up in Nnamdi Tech?”

Without much ado, the two men took turns, without interrupting one another, to explain how they ended up as Papa’s puppets.

Someone had given John a flyer somewhere in Oshodi advertising a job vacancy in Victoria Island. Many passersby collected, too, but when John called the number on the flyer and was directed to AdeolaOdeku, it seemed that he only called the number on the flyer.

Not until he met Qazim, one of his high schoolmate, in that building. Both were the only applicant for undescribed positions.
Nnamdi liked them and went extra miles to show it. He gave them jobs instantly.

“‘Give me your account numbers,’” Qazim quoted Nnamdi. Before they got home that day, Nnamdi had transferred five hundred thousand naira each into their accounts. He called it some vague employee bonus.

That was how they started. They’d resume on Monday and leave on Friday, except there were spillover jobs in the weekend.

Qazim managed accounts for Nnamdi. Some were for the Federal Internal Revenue Service. But majority were for Nnamdi and his clients.

“Where can we find those records?” Simon asked.

“Jerry always save them himself. I work on the computer in the middle. After I finish, Jerry will come and save the file himself.”

“As what filename?” Peter asked.

“I told you. I don’t know. Jerry do everything always.”

“Think. Guess. Do anything. But give something to work with.”

Qazim sat still for a while, and then he jerked and said, “Wait. Jerry copied one of the files in a flash drive for me one day. I don’t know if he changed the filename before copying.”

“What’s the filename?” Simon asked.

“I can’t remember, but there was a month in the filename. It can give you a clue.”

“Thanks,” Peter said.

John started working on generators—big MIKANO generators. And then he graduated onto cars and motorcycles. He helped Nnamdi and his boys install cameras on cars, remove and disable trackers, give cars a complete overhaul, and things of the sort.

Recently, he’d been designing and installing machine guns on imported cars.

“Where?” Simon asked.

“The building has five more levels underground.”

“It’s not in the elevator. How do you get there?”

“There’s an hidden elevator on ground floor.”

“Okay, continue,” Simon said.

Nnamdi had promised to send him abroad so he’d be able to work on helicopters, too.

“How long have you been working for him?” Peter asked.

“Close to a year,” John replied.

“Eleven months,” Qazim said.

“Now, don’t lie to me,” Peter said. “How much do you have in your bank accounts?”

“Seven million,” John said.

“Eleven,” Qazim said.

Simon whistled.

“Since you’ve made that much,” Peter said, “why didn’t you leave sooner?”

“Honestly, we tried,” Qazim said. “They suspect us every time we were about to escape.”

Peter frowned. “And you just gave up?”

***

Jones led the way in the hallway again.

“I’m sure you heard all they said,” Peter said.

“Not everything,” Jones said. “The Army has handed the Nnamdi Tech case to my agency, but they are prosecuting the suspects minus these two. So, what about the deal?” He stopped in front of a door, opened it, and went in. Peter and Simon followed him.

It was a small office furnished with satisfactory gadgets. Jones went behind the desk and sat on the only chair there. Peter and Simon stood behind the chairs they were supposed to sit on.

“There was no deal, Jones,” Peter said. “Also, I don’t want those two dummies as my agents.”

Jones gave a short laugh. “Aw, Peter. You were a dummy, too.”

“Not as dummied up as you.”

“If I’m what you claim, then you won’t be standing in front of me as your employer.”

“To hell with your employment, Jones. We’re not begging you. In fact, if you want to go that route, I’m going to see Major Muhammed and tell him you mean to place us on salary.”

Jones leaned back on his chair and placed an index finger on his mustache.

Peter locked eyes with him. “If smartness got you where you are, then your smartness is as dumb as waiting for our own smartness to catch up. I’ll make you a deal, Jones. You know the former employer-employee relationship you had all visualized in your mind? The deal will be the other way round. We are employing you. We’ll determine the pay, orders, and work hours.

“Speaking of orders, I’ll only take recommendations from you on this Nnamdi case. No orders. Of course, we’ll give you reports every two weeks. All that means is that your agency will assign the case only to us. No third party.

“Your agency will provide us every weapon we need. Guns, ammo, armored vehicles, choppers, vests, agents, all must be delivered without question. Of course, we will be responsible for what we do with them. Your agency can hold us accountable if she finds any chargeable offence in use of those weapons.

“For your info, everything I’ve just said will be documented and signed by me, my colleague, and you. We will provide a notary public seal while you apply your agency seal.

“Now, don’t worry how we’re going to cope with all the stress. My family lawyer will contact your agency if you will please give us a complimentary card each. Do we have a deal?”

Peter took his seat. Simon followed suit.

“Or,” Peter continued, “we throw everything inside the trashcan?”

Jones sighed. “They have told me you guys are very intelligent. I don’t think I have a choice. But there’s one caveat.”

“What?” Peter asked.

“You will fix the cantonment’s server now and anytime anything happens to it.”

“Oh, I can’t promise that.”

Jones made a disappointed face.

“I will promise to fix it now, but I can’t promise I will be able to fix it after that. The phrase is, I promise to fix it now. After that, I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“And the work hours?”

“No weekends,” Simon said. “Six hours at the maximum, if we have a case at hand, unless it requires more.”

“If there’s no case,” Peter said, “we can pop in two or three hours a day. We can also make exceptions for the weekends if there’s an emergency.”

“What about your pay? Name your price.”

“Per week,” Peter said. “Payday on Saturday, max. And in dollars.”

“Five hundred won’t be too much,” Simon chipped in. “To pay us for a start.”

“Absolutely,” Peter agreed. “However, we’ll be open to negotiations initiated either by us or you, but nowhere will we accept lower than the current pay as at the day of negotiation.”

Jones sat still, thinking. “Deal,” he said reluctanctly. He handed them two complimentary cards.

Peter gave Jones a firm handshake. Likewise Simon. It sparked ominous memories for the three guys.

“You do understand what we aim to achieve with this case, don’t you?” Peter asked Jones.

“No, but the agency is looking at claiming the building and turning it into one of our bases. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea. We’ll do that.”

“You haven’t told me what you aim to achieve with the case.”

“Oh, you’re smart.” Peter laughed. “And I mean it. We plan to achieve the same thing. Just slightly different.”

“And the difference is?” Jones asked.

“I’m sorry, Jones. I can’t tell you until we’ve signed the deal. Once we sign it, I promise to tell you.”

“Will you document that, too?”

“As you wish.”

“Alright, gents. This is the agency’s policy. Before you become an agent…”

“More like super agents,” Simon said.

Jones ignored the interruption. “…you have to undergo a three-week training before the agency can issue you a badge and an ID.”

“As far as we get paid,” Simon said, “immediately after signing the deal.”

“How many hours per day for the training?” Peter asked.

“Six hours, minimum, including weekends.”

“What if we spend all day during the weekends?” Peter asked.

“Depends on how many hours you use and how you cope. We can shorten it to two weeks, considering you will have lectures.”

Simon’s jaw slackened. “How—”

“They are an intelligence agency, Simon. They know a lot.” He faced Jones. “Anything else?”

“As soon as the deal is signed, you address me as Director or Director Jones.”

Peter chuckled. “Okay, Mr. Director. As soon as the deal is signed, we are Agents Peter and Simon. Not gents. Are we clear?”

“You keep surprising me, Peter. We have a deal.”

Peter and Simon left the office. Peter branched the investigation room the soldiers had kept them, took his backpack and chin-chin carton, and left with Simon.

Outside the building, Jones was waiting for them. “I want to show you something.” And he led them to the car park where Simon’s car sat. Its right brake light and right side mirror were gone. It was still riddled with bullet holes. “We towed it from VI.”

Simon glanced at the car, at Jones, and said, “Thanks,” but it was without emotion.

***

In the car, Simon drove.

“You made a mistake, Peter. You should have taken those two guys. Now we don’t know what Jones will do with them.”

“Understood. Jones will probably train them to be agents. He thinks we will come back for them, then he’ll use it against us.”

“We will need them, Peter.”

“I know. Jones is some people’s puppet. They mandated him to sign us on. And once he signs the deal, he’ll be obliged to send us any agent we want. Go to your mechanic’s place. We’ll leave the car there and go to our family lawyer’s place together.”

“What do you aim to achieve with the case?” Simon asked.

“Create other bases for the agency. You see… um, what’s his name? Er… Papa. He had clients who gave him jobs and supply him weapons. We find those people, we find their bases, and we will claim it.”

“How?”

“Catch them redhanded. The agency will prosecute them. Nobody will be left to operate the base. Then we will take over. There are procedures for that.”

“In other words, we are going to be snatching bases.”

“No,” Peter said. “In other words, we’re gonna be chasing bad guys.”

THE END

Peter and Simon would be The Jones’ agents in three weeks. Jones, a high schoolmate and everybody’s bully, is the director of the agency.

Find out how the two agents, the director, and the director’s puppeteers will battle it out in the second book in the series The Chase.

To be the first to hear about its release, please click here to get on the waiting list.

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heema, stez, cooleo, bummybummy, ,
missyadorable, Vikthor, Kamelot77,
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Chapter Eight

Ikeja Army Cantonment, Ikeja, Lagos. 6:00 PM.

Peter and Simon stood, stretched, paced the length of the room, made small talks, ate tons of chin-chin, and became thirsty.

Simon went to the door and knocked. It slid open and a uniformed fellow peeped in. “Yes?”

“Water.”

“What?”

“We need some water.”

“’Be back.”

Simon went back to his seat. “This place sucks.”

“Really?”

“We’ve spent over four hours here and they can’t even offer us a drink.”

“I’d like to concur in a different way,” Peter said. “You know the saying, ‘It’s in the blood’? This one is, ‘It runs in the barracks.’”
Simon laughed.

“A little of very many bad things runs in this cantonment. Did you see how confused the Staff Sergeant looked?”

“Well,” Simon said, “I didn’t conclude that way. But I knew she was frantic.”

“Exactly the symptoms of confusion. I mean, she didn’t know that you can use any monitor with any CPU. I wonder what she must have done to her computer operators when the server was hacked.”

“I have an idea. One slap each and…” Simon then mimicked her in a low tune. “…‘IT IS NOT FIGHT, LITTLE BOY!!!’”

It was Peter’s time to laugh now. “She left a hacked server and ran after the hacker all the while. Very dumb thing to do. I—”

Just then, the soldier who had peeped in earlier opened the door and came in with a plain, blue nylon. He set it on the table. “The commander says you have thirty minutes.” And he left.

Peter unraveled the content of the nylon. Two bottles of Coke and two bottles of water.

***

In Major Mark’s office, Peter and Simon stood at the back of the chairs they were supposed to sit, hands behind their back, on full attention. The boys didn’t blink.

“Take your seats, gentlemen,” the major said.

The boys remained unmoved.

“As you wish, gentlemen.” A tinge of Hausa accent sprinkled his words. “It will make it fast, anyway, because I have just thirty minutes.

“For the record, I want to recap your part in this case. Someone hacked our server, communications went haywire, and a junior officer had to issue commands to superior officers. According to the Nigerian Armed Forces constitution, that act is equal to mutiny. The hacker takes almost all the blame, but the junior officer would be sanctioned, too. If his actions are found to be geared toward a coup, he may be sent to the firing squad. If his actions are not for a coup but rebellious, he will be demoted. Off the record, I’m telling you so you can know how grave that offence is.

“For the record. Our IT person profiled the hacker and it appears to be you. Logically, the next step is to find the hacker so we can squeeze out his links. While the IT department does that, our headquarters in Maiduguri initiated a lockdown on our server. By the time it would take effect, most of the files on the server had been copied to the hacker’s server—your server.

“Next, you came in with an email to the IT head. Subsequent emails included evidence that some other person cloned you. We located you in the real hacker’s den.

“And for you,” the major said and pointed at Simon, “your part is that we found you with him.” He removed the table telephone’s receiver from its place, put it to his ears, and pressed some numbers on the dashboard. “I want Lieutenant Abodunde and Staff Sergeant Okeke here,” he said into the receiver and placed it back in its place.

He turned to the two boys and continued his speech. “I’m happy to announce to you that the management has decided to exonerate you provided you help us uncover additional information about the five suspects we have in custody.”

The door opened. John and Rachael filed in. The two boys moved to the right and stood adjacent to the major. Lieutenant sat on the left chair and Rachael sat on the right.

“I believe you know these two officers,” the major said. “This is Lieutenant John Abodunde and this is Staff Sergeant Rachael Okeke. Briefly, officers, what more have you found out?”

The lieutenant went first. “Our attorney gave me reports some minutes ago. Of the five people we have in custody, only the leader will likely be served a life-imprisonment term. The others will have limited terms.”

“Can I say something?” Peter asked.

“Go on,” the major said.

“You heard they shot down a chopper, sir?”

“Yes.”

“How much is one soldier worth to you, sir?”

The major’s mouth widened in astonishment. “You have a point.”

“Contact Dodan Barracks. I’m sure that chopper came from there. One they affirm they lost a chopper, we can have Nnamdi set up for the firing squad in no time.”

“You must be joking,” the major said.

“Yes, sir, I’m joking, but you get my point?”

“Which is?” Racheal asked.

“That Nnamdi will eventually be executed with the firing squad.”

“And the remaining four?” Rachael gazed at Peter.

“Charge them with kidnapping, extortion, blackmail, and assault on us,” Peter said. “I heard kidnapping now carries a death sentence in Lagos state. If you want to make it worse, I’ll like to charge them with cyber hacking.”
Smile lined the major’s face and gradually affected that of the two officers.

“It is settled, then,” the major said. “Before I round up this meeting, I want you to meet someone.” He nodded to the lieutenant who went to the door and knocked on it.

The door slid open and the all familiar face of Jones Davies appeared.

His face changed immediately. Eyes round and widened, brows raised to the Heavens, surprise was an understatement. Peter succeeded to some degree in masking his amazement, but he smiled. Simon froze and his mouth opened a little too much.

“Here is Jones Davies,” the major said, “the director of The Jones, an undercover intelligence agency recognized by the presidency and the Nigerian Armed Forces. Director Jones, here is Peter Adewale and Simon—”

“Coker,” Jones cut in. “I know them, sir, more than you do.” He smiled. “We schooled together.”

“Oh. Enough of introductions, then,” Major Mark said. “Off the record, the lieutenant and the staff sergeant think you will be a good agent for the budding agency. If you ask me, I agree. The investigation you just did is the only one I’ve seen in this magnitude that utilized the least amount of manpower. So, take my advice, gentlemen. It may be the only opportunity of its kind.”

“Let us talk to Jones, first,” Peter said.

“As you wish, gentlemen. Dismissed.”

hadow:
at last the long awaited update

My brother, life got in the way. I hope to update chapter eight more faster.

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


Nice story
#fromYourNewestFan

ladyverere:
I love Peter already. Smart and no coward.

But come update na Abe.

Ikdbabie:
Interesting. More update please.

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

Oya o. Food don done. Just a chapter to move on to the next book in the series.

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Epberezi, Matrix001, Nathblessing,
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Ofez, Queensiju, dominique, donteanz,
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Chapter Seven ...cont'd.

In the chopper, Simon sat beside the lieutenant. Peter, his backpack, and the chin-chin carton took the opposite two-sitter chair. The doors had been closed and the pilot’s cabin entrance locked. The only noise that penetrated the passenger cabin was the hum of the chopper’s engine.

“So,” Lieutenant John began, “why did you order so much chin-chin? Can you finish them?”

Peter laughed and looked out the window at the beautiful bird’s-eye view of Victoria Island. There weren’t many skyscrapers, but the view was better than that of the ghettos. In a few minutes, they would be leaving the sight behind. Peter decided to make his replies succinct and never to ask unnecessary questions.

“One, I did under duress. Two, I was very hungry.”

Simon winced.

“Okay, we were hungry. They didn’t give us food.’

“Who were the ‘they’?”

“The man who owns the building goes by the name Nnamdi Mbagwu. He said he is the CEO of Nnamdi Technological Services. He introduced seven of his boys to me and I saw two other ones.”

“I’ve checked with the Corporate Affairs Commission. He truly registered the tech company as a limited liability and he and his wife are the only shareholders.”

“He was using it as a cover. Sergeant Rachael has all the emails. You’ll see it there.”

“Why did you kill those men?”

“Self-defense. I knew they shot down a chopper. So, when they tried to put a gun to my head, I knew I had to do something.”
Lieutenant John sat upright. “Okay, run me through how it all happened.”

“Officer,” Peter said, “they hacked your server, framed me for it, abducted me, and the man still wanted me to work for him. Only that, officer, and any judge would acquit me.”

“Suppose I’m a judge now, what would be your story? How would you describe the situation that needed your self-defense?”

“I guess you just have to wait until I’m standing before a judge to find out.”

“Hmm.” The lieutenant brushed his empty mustache. “Do you know where that first chopper that was shot down came from?”

“I don’t know many things, officer, including that.”

“Or rather, where do you think it came from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Common, Peter. This is a man-to-man talk. Nobody is here except…”

Simon mentioned his name.

“I want you to guess.”

Peter hesitated and thought about the consequence before telling the lieutenant who listened carefully to the story he had told Simon about his ex-girlfriend and her father. When he was done, no one spoke for a while.

The lieutenant finally broke the ice. “We’re touching down. I will direct some men to take you to a safe place while I go talk to my commander. By you, I mean Peter, Simon, and your chin-chin carton.”

The lieutenant, Peter, and Simon laughed.

***

“I hope you don’t mind,” Simon told Peter. “I want to start my own investigations, too.”

They sat in an empty investigation room facing each other, leaning their hands on the desk that separated them. The carton of chin-chin lay under the desk and Peter’s backpack sat on his lap.

Apart from the adequate lightning, the room lacked something in everything. The hot air and the smell of burned paper wafted into their nostrils in torrents. The room echoed.

“I’m just afraid they could have set hidden mikes somewhere,” Simon concluded.

“Who cares?” Peter said, leaning back on his chair. “They can decide to shoot us dead, if they want. Doesn’t make any difference. I’ll advise you to proceed with your investigation.”

“Let’s start with why you ordered a carton of chin-chin.” Simon leaned back on his chair, too.

“Or where the receptionist you were giving one corner eye lied about the CCTV.”

Simon frowned. “What CCTV?”

“Or where some gunmen decorated your car.”

“You know my car’s still on that street, right?”

“Yes, I know. It’s not that long, Simon. Not even up to twenty-four hours. I still remember my promise to repair your car.”

“Whatever.” Simon waved a hand to dismiss it. “I still insist. Let’s start with why you ordered a carton of chin-chin.”

“Hunger. Duress. And an escape plan.”

“Tell me how you planned to escape with a carton of chin-chin.”

“Okay, you win. The dispatcher comes. The receptionist on ground floor would call the top floor. I will tell them I ordered it since they didn’t give us any food. I will send you downstairs. I know you can’t be that dumb to come back. Even if one of the boys follow you, your gun is there.”

“Awesome. That’s me out of the way. How did you plan to escape yourself?”

“I’ll tell them I want to go see the Johns. Clever as… um, what’s his nickname? Papa. Clever as he was, he didn’t construct a toilet on top floor. At most, he’ll say one of his men should escort me. I would drop whoever it is with my gun and drag him to level two before escaping.”

“That reminds me. The elevator downstairs uses a passcode. How—?”

“You don’t understand how the elevator worked. The purpose of the security system was to keep external forces from gaining entrance. Once you’re in, you can leave at any time without a passcode. Or did you see a passcode machine inside?”

“What about CCTV?”

“I’ve hacked their system, then. They won’t have access to all their CCTVs. Even the receptionist wouldn’t know how we escaped.”

“Wait, Peter, how did you know there was a receptionist?”

“The more you look, the less you see. I guess you were looking at more than your brain could process in that front seat. Anyway, tinting a glass blue does not mean one can’t see inside. You just have to look well.”

“What if there were some of Papa’s boys on ground floor?”

“As far as I know, he only had nine boys working for him. Maybe the last two he didn’t introduce were new. If there were more, I would have seen them one way or the other. I could be wrong, but if he had more boys, they would be either out working some dirty jobs for him or stationed in another base. My instinct also told me men like that like to keep their business matters private.”

“Ah, Peter.” Simon laughed. “I have to give it to you. You’re a homemade detective.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” And he laughed.

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, dimeji877, bossy512,
yinkaellamz, tonye72, domido,
mendel04, remiseyi, pricelesslove,
Profmaojo, Sparkles003, tyreal,
Emmayur, ToluLolu0122, Daniyomex,
anasbeaut, saraphina, Ansasan, CherylM,
miriam1868, Fadamb, Niwdog,
JohnGainsville, pweetyz, Jsaviour,
abefe99, 1marking, Ayoomolabake,
Ayamconfidence, Hadampson,
rachealfst, Stephengee12, jane1234f,
mhizgap, naetocm, lord3plex, Slimbae,
SammieLowkey, Tinaflux, darkid1,
domido, hyuga, Olusojisorunmu,
Supizino, princ007, Topscoque,
olaoreofe, stez, maran1983,
smokeydrinky, greatface, mhizv, omoere,
Owulufelix147, Afz9095, Domance,
greeeneyes, nimat158, boldnbeautiful,
heema, stez, cooleo, bummybummy, ,
missyadorable, Vikthor, Kamelot77,
RoyaleR, Hman92, 1marking,
johnkennedy18, Zackari, iamadonis2,
yettielicious, Teespice, prisiliveth,
preciousuweh, Igweminho, janetade,
imranMotunrayo, priestchurch, surddick,
mutuality, tiffanyfan, marvwhite, Tinu02,
Epberezi, Matrix001, Nathblessing,
MrShine, , heatflux, uniknet, donobecs,
tijehi, queenitee, meneski, missmossy,
Ofez, Queensiju, dominique, donteanz,
iamharkinwaley, Ayoshewa12,
maran1983, Olusojisorunmu, Olubee22,
Lexxyla, stephmiracle, heemah, ftosino TiffanyJ Kimkardashain bibijay123
Chumzypinky petermuller Chipappii
stephenGee12 EvaJael ghostwritter
marianneada SheWrites Lleigh Clemzy16
Jagugu88li, ladysuperb, queenitee, Lleigh,
hadampson, haramedee99, girlhaley,
creeza, ikombe, biafrabushboy,
TheBlessedMAN Adesina12
jagugu88li lawlahdey allylic nmaglit hadampson, divepen1 deji124 ayambae nikz abeffe99 bimberry1307 olubee22

Chapter Seven ...cont'd.

“No problem. Be fast with the order.”

“What’s the address of this place?”

“Who cares? Just put ‘Nnamdi Technological Services, Adeola Odeku Street, VI.’”

Simon laughed. “Oh-ho. That’s clever.”

The floor counter read level four. Then three. Then two. Peter was expecting it to open. It didn’t. Instead, it descended more and stopped at level zero.

“That’s ground floor,” Peter said.

“Done.” Simon handed the card back to Peter. “They will deliver it in forty minutes. What’s with ground floor?”

“Someone is coming in from outside.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Fake being afraid. Got your gun?”

“Hmm-mm.”

“Don’t act like you’re in GRA at Ikeja with mad cows. This time, when the show begins, don’t miss.”

They hid their guns behind their back.

The elevator started ascending. Simon pressed the button and it stopped on level two. Peter had started shaking and breathing restlessly when the elevator opened. Simon had frozen as usual.

Paul the supercomputer was in the elevator.

“Please, sir,” Peter begged. Before he could say another word, the impact of an explosion rocked the building. Although they couldn’t see the fire, they recognized the sound.

“Come in, come in,” Paul said.

They did. He pressed number six on the elevator’s control dashboard. Simon opened his palms absentmindedly, letting Peter see it. The sign was, “What next?”

Peter shook his head as if lamenting. That is to say, “No” or “Not now.”

Some seconds later, Paul, Peter, and Simon emerged from the elevator. Fear lined Peter and Simon’s faces. Amidst the fake emotion, Peter scanned the area. None of the men had a gun. No bulging waistline, no holster, nothing. The weapon chest hung inside the left wall, the boys were scattered on the right before Nnamdi who sat on a sofa.

Jerry sat at the central computer. “Thank God you’re here, Paul. Our computer has been hacked.”

Peter espied Paul whose supercomputer brain had detected the USB drive plugged into the central computer’s CPU. As he headed for the drive, Simon unhooked his pistol and fired. A bullet rocked Paul’s head and he dropped on the floor like a bag of rice.

“You bastard!” Scorpion made for Simon. Peter pulled the trigger and the bullet sent Scorpion crashing on the floor. Simon fired four times in the remaining boys’ direction, purposely missing them by twenty or more centimeters. Just for scare.

The two boys approached the remnants. Slowly. Menacingly. Peter moved left toward the weapon chest and shot Nero who thought his wide chest and big muscles were necessary in the situation. He held his chest where the bullet had hit, gasped for air, before kicking the bucket.

Jerry made to stand up. Simon shouted him back down. “Your hands in the air,” Simon said. “Bring ‘em down one inch and that’s your end. Do you understand?”

Jerry’s brow knitted in a V. He held his hands up slowly and gave a reluctant nod.

“No, I want to hear it.” Simon pointed the pistol at Jerry’s forehead. “Understand?”

Jerry didn’t reply.

“Understand?” Simon repeated.

“Say it.” Nnamdi’s voice was low and cold, but underneath it lay a threat and a menace.

“Understand,” Jerry said.

Peter was examining the weapon chest.

Simon turned to Nnamdi. “Thanks for the pep talk.” And he emptied the remaining bullet in the chamber into his left leg. Nnamdi’s scream cut through the roof. Jerry flinched.

Simon replaced the magazine with the spare they’d gotten early that morning and fired a shot past Jerry’s shoulder. “It seems you don’t understand our agreement. That’s the last warning shot. No more warning shots.”

Peter unhooked an M16 rifle, plugged a magazine into it, and cocked it. “Better.”

Mosquito suddenly grabbed the bazooka Scorpion had dropped and, knowing it was empty, hurled it toward Simon. Peter peppered the man with the M16. Mosquito shook as if practicing a choreography dance and dropped to the floor with a thud.

Simon had evaded the weapon and fired at the monitor before Jerry. The place smelled of burned electrical panel. The monitor lay facedown on the keyboard.

“When he said no more warning shots,” Peter said, “he meant…” and hesitated, and then continued, “…no more warning shots.”

“Your hands in the air,” Simon ordered Lanre, Alpha, and the two men with them.

“Look what they got,” Peter told Simon, taking a circular iron chain from the weapon chest. “A wristband bomb with a remote.”

“Don’t do this,” Nnamdi said amidst groans.

“Oh, I’m not bombing the place,” Peter said and fired over Lanre’s head. “You heard the man. Your hands in the air.” The four men quickly raised their hands. And then Peter turned to Nnamdi. “And I’m not bombing anybody, too. You need to understand what all this is all about.”

“What-e—” Nnamdi coughed. “Whatever it is, Peter, don’t do this. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Peter laughed. “Quite ironic, eh… what is it you call yourself? Um… Papa. I have whatever I wanted now, Papa.” He nodded to Simon.

“You.” Simon pointed his gun at one of the men. “Handcuff him,” and he pointed his gun at Jerry, “behind his back to the chair.”

Peter took an handcuff from the weapon chest and threw it to the man. “Be fast with it.”

Simon aimed at the man as he cuffed Jerry to the chair. Simon directed the man to cuff his colleague and then directed Lanre to cuff him. Lanre proved adamant a bit.

“Lanre,” Simon said, “if you want us to continue being friends, handcuff the man.”

Lanre looked Simon straight in the face. Simon fired. The bullet tore a tip of his ear and he stifled a grimace. Finally, Lanre cuffed the man.

Simon shot stubborn Lanre in the right hand and left leg. Lanre dropped on the floor, groaning. Simon went to raise him onto a chair. Peter threw Simon a cuff and that was how Lanre ended up handcuffed behind his back to a chair.

Peter pulled out the first aid box from the weapon chest. He bandaged Lanre’s hand and leg while Simon attended to Nnamdi. Nnamdi tried to shun Simon away. Simon placed the first aid items on the table before the sofa and gave Nnamdi a brain-resetting blow in the face.

“We’re not monsters like you,” Simon said and forcefully bandaged the man’s leg.

Peter and Simon pulled a chair. Simon sat first. Peter unhooked his backpack and dropped it on the floor. He sat on Simon’s left, and they both faced Jerry. They didn’t handcuff fat Nnamdi.

“As I was saying, you all need to know what this is all about. Before that, I would like to let you know,” Peter told Jerry, “that I hacked your computer.”

Nnamdi struggled to stand. Simon fired without looking at his direction. Nnamdi let himself fall back in place. Two inches from him, Simon’s shots drew a hole on the cushion and it smoked.

“And I hacked it,” Peter said, went to the CPU, removed the USB drive, showed it to Jerry, and continued, “with this.”

Jerry’s gaze became stony. He spat toward Peter’s face and hit bullseye.

Peter laughed and cleaned the spittle with his dirty top. “Poor Paul found out too soon. I guess your training didn’t reach that stage, did it?”

Jerry controlled a tear.

Peter went back to his seat. “So, back to the reason for this mess. After hacking your computer and server, Papa, I read the last two of your mails. I must admit that Jerry is very good at cleaning up your email boxes.

“You hacked Ikeja Cantonment’s server, framed me for it, and still want me to work for you. You engage in cocaine deals, rig elections for politicians, and still help greedy business tycoons suck the poor dry.

“And you hide under the umbrella of a tech company. This time, your fine building will not save you. Since you hacked the Army, they have been on my tail ever since. For your information, they know I’m here and they’re coming for me.”

Right then, a loud rumble enveloped the building again.

“Ah!” Peter said and pointed a finger up. “Right on time.”

Peter’s phone rang. It was a number he didn’t recognize, but he picked it anyway. “Hello?”

“Staff Sergeant Rachael speaking,” a calm and confident female voice shouted over a helicopter’s noise from the other end.

“Where did you get my number?”

“My men are coming in through the roof.”

“Coast is clear, ma’am. I’ll send the elevator up.”

Peter went to the elevator, pressed the button, went inside the just opened elevator, pressed T on the elevator’s control dashboard, and left before the door closed.

Five minutes later, twenty men armed to the teeth emerged the elevator. “Freeze!” the squad leader ordered.

Peter nodded to Simon. They both raised their hands in the air and dropped their guns.

“On your knees, hands on your head!”

They complied.

Nnamdi began to cry. “Please help me. They shot me and my boys. They tied them.”

Lieutenant John Abodunde and Staff Sergeant Rachael Okeke came among the next reinforcement that emerged through the elevator.

John ordered the men to stand down and began to dish orders. They yanked Nnamdi up to one corner on the floor and subsequently sent his boys to him thereafter. Rachael approached Peter.

“I’m Staff Sergeant Racheal Okeke.”

“Peter Adewale. The situation is quite unfit, but it’s nice meeting you, officer.”

“I told you to stand down, Peter. How do you want us to determine you’re not an accomplice?”

“They shot down a chopper, did you hear?”

“IT IS NOT YOUR FIGHT, LITTLE BOY!!!”

“Yeah? So, you’re going to fry me in the same pan with them?”

A resounding slap landed on Peter’s face. Three men nearby aimed at Peter’s head.

“Thanks.” He spat blood on the floor.

Rachael transferred him another slap. The lieutenant joined the scene.

“What happened, Peter?” the lieutenant asked.

“I secured evidence for you.”

“Of?” Rachael asked.

“Drug pushing, election rigging, illegal procurement of firearms, and most importantly…” Peter looked Rachael straight in the eye. “…who hacked your server.”

Lieutenant signaled to the three soldiers and they relaxed their rifles.

“All you need to do,” Peter continued, “is access the ‘Correspondence’ folder on that computer.” He pointed at the central computer.

“The monitor is—”

“Exchange the monitor,” Peter cut into Rachael’s words. “There are a lot of monitors around.”

Everybody in the room watched as Rachael replaced the monitor, powered the computer, and waited. “What’s the password?”

Peter looked Rachael in the eye again. “Arrow underscut box, all small letters.”

Rachael spent fifteen minutes reading the emails, noting things about them in a small diary she carried in her pocket. She took a USB drive from her pocket and began copying the correspondence folder. It was three and a half gigabytes of data.

She stood.

“What have we got?” the lieutenant asked her.

“A five hundred kilos of cocaine was delivered here early in the morning.”

The lieutenant turned to the men. “Search every corner of this building.” And to Rachael, “Send for backup and get Sergeant Usman here.”

“Aye, sir.” She began working on her radio.

“Hey,” he called out to a soldier who promptly appeared before him with a salute. “Get him,” he pointed at Nnamdi, “and his boys up a chopper and transport them to the cantonment.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rachael detached the USB drive and put it inside her pocket. She went to Lieutenant John. “Can we talk?”

The lieutenant raised his eyebrows up and lowered them.

“In private,” she added.

The lieutenant stared at Peter who was looking at them. Rachael looked back and saw that it was Peter and left to a far corner.

Peter mumbled something to Simon. Their guns had been collected. So was the magazine Peter hadn’t used.

At the corner, the lieutenant said, “What?”

“You heard they shot down a chopper, right?”

“Of course, I saw the debris before our chopper landed.”

“I think it’s from Dodan barracks. I have reasons to think he’s been evading them for a while.”

“The boy is a fighter… and a killer.”

“I think he was forced to kill those men. They abducted him. He knew we would come, so maybe he wanted to run before we arrive. What do you think?”

“I think he still has more to tell. And more to do. He will be good for The Jones.”

“I think so, too.”

The elevator beeped and opened. A soldier held a carton and two more led a man on Jumia uniform onto the floor. Two soldiers wheeled in a cart containing ten bags of an unlabeled white stuff.

“Sir, we found this man—”

“I ordered the chin-chin!” Peter cut in. “The man is innocent.”

“Did you frisk him?” Rachael asked.

“Yes, ma’am. We found nothing on him.”

“Escort him downstairs,” John ordered.

“Aye, sir,” and the soldier led the Jumia dispatcher into the elevator.

The lieutenant went to Peter. “What is happening here?”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “I thought I should try a way of escaping before you arrive.”

“Well, it’s silly, because we will still find you.” The lieutenant turned to the two men who’d wheeled in the cart. “What have we got?”

“Hundred of kilos of cocaine in ten-kilo bags each, sir.”

“That’s all?”

“More coming, Lieutenant,” the man said.

“Sergeant Rachael?”

“Sir?”

“Better get the evacuation team with the backup. Peter, you and your sidekick ride with me to the cantonment inside the same chopper.”

“Understood,” Peter said.

“Sergeant, get some men down the building and secure the axis. No one drives through the debris on either side. I want you to get the police and any stubborn reporter off the investigation. Return back to base as soon as Usman arrives.” He turned toward the elevator and stopped abruptly. “Lest I forget, Peter, open the delivered package.”

Peter took the package from the corner it had been dumped and sliced the carton open. He took one chin-chin pack and tossed one to Simon.

“Good. Now let’s move.”

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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.

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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clitx, tusinsola, yusufibrahim,
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chade, bentube, JeffreyJamez, boffinjay,
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Lexxyla, stephmiracle, heemah, ftosino TiffanyJ Kimkardashain bibijay123
Chumzypinky petermuller Chipappii
stephenGee12 EvaJael ghostwritter
marianneada SheWrites Lleigh Clemzy16
Jagugu88li, ladysuperb, queenitee, Lleigh,
hadampson, haramedee99, girlhaley,
creeza, ikombe, biafrabushboy,
TheBlessedMAN Adesina12
jagugu88li lawlahdey allylic nmaglit hadampson, divepen1 deji124 ayambae nikz abeffe99 bimberry1307 olubee22


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.

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iamharkinwaley, Ayoshewa12,
maran1983, Olusojisorunmu, Olubee22,
Lexxyla, stephmiracle, heemah, ftosino TiffanyJ Kimkardashain bibijay123
Chumzypinky petermuller Chipappii
stephenGee12 EvaJael ghostwritter
marianneada SheWrites Lleigh Clemzy16
Jagugu88li, ladysuperb, queenitee, Lleigh,
hadampson, haramedee99, girlhaley,
creeza, ikombe, biafrabushboy,
TheBlessedMAN Adesina12
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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.”

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Two more chapters updated. Enjoy.

sod09:
Present!!!!

Two more chapters updated.

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.

JohnGainsville:
Oga Abra4real come update nah

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