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Chapter Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit!” he said.

“Why?” Simon asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“We got another tail.”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “Oh-ho.”

“Not yesterday’s guys. Different people.”

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

“Don’t get caught,” Peter said.

“Seriously?”

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

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

“Change of plans?” Simon asked.

“No. Follow my lead.”

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

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

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

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

“Can you run, Simon?”

“Wouldn’t hurt to lose some weight.”

“Then let’s do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Motherfucker!” Simon yelled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But what I need is there, abi?”

“Yes, Papa.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hailed Papa unenthusiastically and licked his overly black lips.

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

“The usual?”

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

“Anything is okay by me, Papa.”

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

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

***

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

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

“Hotels have restaurants—”

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

“You will like a crowdy place, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How would it digest?” Peter asked.

“It would digest in my sleep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait!” Simon ordered.

The lady stopped and turned.

“Where is the bar?”

***

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

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

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

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

Abomination! Who could be using his server?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Racheal,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t—”

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

“I ca—”

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

“You want to print?” the lady asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Work-conscious? Why?”

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

“I have a phone—”

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

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

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

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

The lady looked at him. “What favor?”

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

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

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

“For you and Mr. Smart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The security roused but did not wake up.

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

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

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

Peter stopped and turned.

“I mean at the same time.”

“Uh-huh.”

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

“Oh, Smart!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, but—”

“Are you as good as he is?”

“Good in what?”

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

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

Peter ignored him. “Where is he now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you, too?” Peter asked.

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

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

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

Although I didn't mention when I'll be having new updates, I'm going to make one available tomorrow.

Also, I'll be updating twice a week on Friday and Saturday. If I can't make it on Friday, I'll update twice on Saturday.

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

Sorry about that. I'm new here, but I'll take note as from now on.

Creeza:
This last chapter, you succeeded in writing a very passive scene. At best you made me hungry, not for more (figuratively) but for Chin-chin. Now my question is this? IS THE CHIN Chin any way important to the plot? If yes, fine but if no, you just wrote your favorite 'pampered' scene that should have been 'CUT ' OFF.. . And the information that peter revealed, should have had a huge impact if a lot of suspense was created and maybe in the course of an action., now that my friend is a vitamin of ACTION thrillers... And at the end again, you showed how fustrated the characters were by saying 'lets get a proper meal' .

Hell yea, Gv us a proper meal.

in all it was a good read, but as a reader, a very honest one at that, and a Thriller genre writer, I only shared my criticism.

DIFFERED OPINIONS from other readers are welcome.

That's a huge critic you got up there for me, honestly. And I appreciate. As I said, this is my first time and I'm trying to avoid writing passive scenes at the beginning. More action to come.

Thanks for your criticism once again.

Adesina12, Aitee1, soleski01, Creeza,
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omamush, Twinkle004, debra101,
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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


Here it is again, people. Sorry that this is coming late. Better late than never.

Chapter Three

Third Mainland Bridge, Lagos Island, Lagos. 7:00 PM.

The Toyota Corolla sped against a speed bump, jerked up twice, and roused Simon from his short nap.

He sighed noisily, wiped his face with his hand, and sat upright. “Where are we going?” The first two words came out slurred. He presumed the question was inefficient, so he repeated it, more clearly.

“Somewhere far,” Peter said without looking at him. He was manning the wheel. “Somewhere different.”

“You’re a motherfucker. You know, right?”

Peter made no reply.

They rode in silence until they got to and descended the Obalende Bridge. A little traffic held them at the roundabout below the bridge for some minutes.

While Simon stared at the “Welcome to Lagos Island” billboard mounted on the roundabout, Peter wound down the driver’s side glass, said “Hssss” to a boy of about fifteen hawking chin-chin, and bought four.

He tossed one to Simon and kept the other three by his left side. Simon didn’t stir, but the pack of chin-chin landed between his legs, space having been created there by his sitting uprightly.

Peter took the car through a dirty, busy street, examined the adjacent streets, and finally turned into a lonely narrow street. It looked more like a car park than a street, and you could count its hourly pedestrians.

Peter parked between a Toyota Highlander and a Toyota Frontier. He turned off the engine, but left the key in the ignition and the AC still on. He took one of the three chin-chin packs, tore it open, and began to chew noisily at each finger-wide grain. He chewed rapidly, hunger evident his face.

Simon rubbed his nose, putting his index finger on his mustache. “So, what next? Say our last prayers?”

Peter didn’t answer. He chewed on.

“You’re a motherfucker and you know it.”

Seeing that his obscenity wouldn’t bulge Peter, he came to his senses that he was hungry, too. It had been three hours of excitement. Although he had some quick naps, his heart was in his mouth.

He tore his chin-chin pack open, too, and began to chew at each big grain. As he ate, he complained, but Peter didn’t answer.
He complained about the assignments he was supposed to have finished had someone not tailed them at Ikeja, about Peter turning him into an accomplice in God knows what, about the damage done on his car, about, as he put it in one of his complaints, “…every Goddamned thing.”
Peter listened on, tore open the second pack, wound down the glass, dropped the empty chin-chin pack, wound up, turned on the radio, and resumed chewing.

Bob Marley’s One Love echoed from the speakers and, as Simon’s brain processed the song’s wordings, he hissed and continued chewing at the chin-chin from a pack that hadn’t been half-emptied.

Peter was on the third now while Simon was still complaining with his first chin-chin pack. As Peter finished the third pack, wound down the glass, dropped the empty pack on the asphalt, and wound up, Simon complained again about Peter turning him into an accomplice.

“How sure are you that you’re not the one they want to kill?” Peter asked him.

Simon froze, started to say something, paused to think, and then said, “I have never been traced while driving in my life, even if it were midnight.”

“So?” Peter spread out his hands sideways, elbows glued to his sides. “There are first times for everything.”

Simon introduced the assignment angle.

“Swear to God you didn’t come to the General Hospital because of a girl.” Simon didn’t stir but frowned. Peter continued, laughing,

“Assignments, my ass! Don’t you read the news?”

The Association of Student Union of Universities had begun an indefinite strike more than twenty four hours ago. It was announced on TV, radio, and the internet, sparking a lot of debate.

Quite defeated, he complained about the damage on the car.

“Brake lights, possibly. But let’s go out and check where a bullet hit the roof if it wouldn’t be where you sat, then.”

Simon wouldn’t go out.

“I’ll get your car fixed. I’ll even give it a new bodywork, if you want. What else do you want?”

Simon shrugged and looked away.

“Look, Simon,” Peter started, sober and sounding as persuasive as he could, “I know all this is my fault, but you should be thankful. Some people don’t have the chance you had—the bad guy shielding you and all. Something as common as a stray bullet could have hit you just by virtue of being present at the scene.”

Moments passed in silence. Simon was still looking away.

“I know why some assassins could be chasing me,” Peter admitted, “but I don’t know why anybody would want me dead.”

Simon turned to look at Peter. The words he uttered came out honestly. “Why are they chasing you?”

Peter sighed and leaned back against his chair, looking at the roof of the car. “I was involved with a colonel’s daughter after I left school. And I broke up with her.”

Simon flinched and looked sidelong at Peter. He wore a frown of surprise. Peter? Involved with a girl? After they graduated high school? Not possible.

“I know it sounds impossible, but it’s true. She was nice and pretty and was all over me. I had to man up and tell her I loved her.”

Simon smiled slowly and then laughed. Peter laughed, too.

After a while, Simon asked, “Why did you leave her?”

“Her father—the colonel—wanted to overpamper me like her. And you know… if I had accepted the advances, I would be indebted to him. He would want me to marry his daughter in return. All for a few bucks.”

“Accepted, you left her. Why are they chasing you about with—” he paused abruptly, angrily trying to find a suitable word, “—kidnappers, or assassins, or whatever?”

“She must have lied to her dad. My best guess is that I took her virginity.”

“Did you?”

“I would have, but the day never came. Her dad made the advances to me before she told me point black she could hold herself no longer. I didn’t even know if she was a virgin or not. But she told me so.”

“She could be lying. What kind of advances are we talking about? Hope the dad is not gay?”

Peter chuckled. “He’s not. He liked buying her gifts. You know… phones, clothes, shoes, wristwatches, chains, all sort. He wanted to be buying them for me, too. He started with some trainers—about four or five of them. I rejected them. I went to buy a new one after I left their house that day. You know… just suppressing my greediness.

“I think he wanted to impress me. The next time I went there, he took me to their garage. There were twenty or so cars there. He pointed to a Lexus Jeep and said, ‘You like this one, my in-law?’”

Simon chuckled. “Eighteen-year-old in-law.” And he chuckled some more.

“I said no. He pointed to another one, I said no. Another one, I said no. So, he said, ‘Which one do you like?’ I said no one. He thought I was joking or maybe shy. He took a bunch of car keys from his pocket. He pressed a button on each of the keys and the rear light of the right car would blink. I still said no.

“The man was stubborn, so, I said I would think about it.”

“Which one did you choose?” Simon asked.

“The next time I went there, he told me a story of how he’s afraid I would leave her daughter, and that if I did, he would always find me, blah blah blah. He said, ‘You are always tied to my daughter.’”

Simon’s laughter rang through the car roof.

“Hey,” Peter cautioned, looking about to see if Simon’s laughter attracted anyone. When he was sure nobody was around, he said, “Easy.”

“I’m loving this,” Simon said, still laughing, but the volume of his laugh had reduced. “Is he an herbalist? Please, tell me he’s also an herbalist.”

“I got tired about six months ago and I broke up with her. I’m very sure he’s keeping to his words that he’ll find me.”

“Does he know your house?” Simon asked.

“They don’t. She was too busy being pampered to worry about it. And he was too busy pampering her, too.”

“Small Peter always looking for trouble.”

“Simon, don’t worry about me—”

“Nonsense! Do you think you would have gone this far if I wasn’t there to help your sorry ass?”

“Fine,” Peter said.

“Just like old times.” Simon was all smiles.

“But by tomorrow, I’ll make sure you’re fixed up all right in Unilag.”

“Including—?”

“Including your car,” Peter assured him.

They sat there in silence for a while. Peter stared at his chin-chin-stained hand. Simon cleared his throat as if he wanted to deliver a speech. His countenance was sober.

“I’m sorry that I acted that way, too. I didn’t know what you just told me.” He fumbled with his budding mustache. “You were also right. I was at the General Hospital because of a girl. She’s a doctor in the making. Her friend was a friend of one of my campus buddies.”

“How far with her?” Peter asked.

“I haven’t cracked her yet.”

Peter dusted his hand with the other, sprinkling fragments of chin-chin on the footmat. Simon wound down the glass beside him and dropped the chin-chin pack with insignificant fragments of chin-chin on the curb.

“Let’s go running from bad guys, shall we?” Simon said. “It won’t hurt to lose some weight.”

“Wo-o, wo-o!” Peter exclaimed. “Hollup. I’m fixing you up tomorrow morning.”

“Uh, c’mon!” Simon made a disgruntled, disappointed face. “I’d like to meet your asshole girlfriend and her douchebag father, at least.”

Peter sighed and leaned back on his seat.

“Ex-girlfriend,” Simon corrected himself.

“Look, you don’t know how ter—”

“Nonsense! I know. It happened in Ikeja, no big deal.”

“But—”

“I promise I won’t whine again.” His face had turned apologetic.

Peter looked thoughtfully and slanted an index finger at Simon. “One condition, Simon.”

“Any condition,” he replied, excitement all over his face.

“I’m the boss. If you want to tag along, you follow the rules. Or I’ll boot you out.”

“Yaaaay!!!” Simon’s two fist hit the car roof before he realized that he wasn’t in an open field.

Peter unstrapped his seatbelt, took the key from the ignition, alighted, took his backpack from the backseat, and strapped it on his back.

When Simon alighted, the car increased in height and bounced as if it had been doing a pushup. He strapped his backpack on.

Peter locked the car, tossed him the car key, and said, “Let’s go eat some proper food.”

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


Here comes another episode, people.

Special note: I'm writing this book as a section of a novel. For example, A Hunt would be book one, a section of the novel, while the next book in the series would be the next section. As expected in a complete novel, the story plot must build up to the point where soldiers had to start bombing and shooting and leveling. One major turn off for story lovers is reading a story that feels like the character just decided to spring up something in a few hours. So for a few beginning chapters, the plot would build up and then the action would kick in.

What do you think?

Chapter Two

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

Sergeant Usman ushered in Lietenant John Abodunde into Major Mark Muhammed’s office with a salute.

He was a light complexioned man, twenty-something years old, about six feet tall, wore his full regalia, and walked with an air of authority. He looked straight whenever he was walking, usually briskly, and made sure each step he took made a resounding impact. His averagely-shaped nose sniff and tears welled up in the corners of his eyes.

The major’s office was warm and brightly lit. John had learned from some privates that Major Mark had once done twenty four hours inside the office without realizing it. Although located on the fourth floor of a five-story building, the windows were slammed shut, blinds drawn, so that even if the sun was spitting fire, you wouldn’t know.

The bright light reflected on the office’s white walls. There were pictures in frames hung up on them—about seven of them. One was the picture of the Commander-in-Chief; another of the Chief of Army Staff; another of the Division Commander; while the rest were pictures of nature.

But on the wall behind Major Mark’s chair, a black round clock with Jesus’ picture on its background read 6:03. John wouldn’t have known whether it was AM or PM if he wasn’t just coming from his office.

The major stood up as John entered the office, returned his salute, and asked him to sit. The lieutenant did. The sergeant closed the door from outside.

“I’m sorry if you find this place a little hot or stuffy. I just like being warm when I’m in my office.” He glanced at the air conditioner that hung on the wall to his left just below the ceiling and when John didn’t say anything, he said, “I might turn it on if the meeting takes longer than expected.”

Finally, Major Mark took his seat. John cleared his throat.

“Let’s get straight to the point, Lieutenant,” the major said. “What happened?”

John sat upright and cleared his throat some more. “After you handed over the ICT building into my care, everything was going fine until two hours after you went for the briefing at Dodan barracks. A corporal manning the entrance on the side of Maryland sent two privates to me. They had some combatants from Bon Cantonment who were tailing one boy, at first.

“They later got directives from a supposed General—so I was told—to extradite the boy and have him over in Dodan as soon as possible.”

“How many were they?” Mark asked.

“Four. One drove their Toyota Camry. I invited them to my office, monitored by some escorts. They told me that they lost the boy and would need some men—some of my men—to increase their search coverage.

“Normally, it was logical, but they didn’t follow protocol. There was no directive from a superior officer stationed here. I stood my ground and sent them off after some frisking.”

“Get to the part where the server breakdown happened.” Major Mark rested his elbows on his desk and supported his jaws with his hands, listening attentively.

“Yes, sir. All of that happened in ten minutes or less. Five minutes after I sent them off, I went back to my office and that was when I noticed that the server had been shut down. All the information on the server couldn’t be accessed. Interrogations had to stop. The artillery department had to shut down, too. There was no access to official emails but general internet still worked.

“So, everybody started using walkie-talkies. The phone had stopped working, too, sir. I had Staff Sergeant Rachael over in my office before you arrived in the chopper. She told me ninety-nine out of hundred, some—if not all—of the files on the server may have been copied to another server—a private one owned by a civilian, and I’m guessing the four ex-men did it. The server had been shut down when I thought of looking their profile up in the military database.”

“But not all the Nigerian Army server was attacked. I believe we use a central database.”

“Yes, sir, but we can’t access the central database without our login credentials, and it is stored on our server. Rachael knows more of those stuffs than I do.”

“Why invite them to your office without verifying their authenticity?” the major asked between hands holding his jaw together.

“Corporal Segun assured me their IDs weren’t bogus. I examined them myself.”

“What are their details?”

“One Staff Sergeant, Two Warrants, and one Sergeant. The Sergeant was the driver. They were from the Commando Combat Battalion in Bon Cantonment.”

“What security measure did you take, Lieutenant? The barracks was messy for a while, I presume.”

“Yes, sir, it was. I radioed department heads and got them to organize their unit one-by-one. In squads and teams.”

Major Mark sighed and removed his elbows from the desk, his hands from his jaw. “First, you took a risky method, Lieutenant. I understand that communication is key, mostly at this terrible time we’re placing more people on the wanted list. But the ranks could have been broken, did you think about it that way? Just because you’re in charge of the communication medium doesn’t mean you could dish out orders to captains and majors stationed in other units.

“You could have gone the normal telephone way. I understand the telecos would have sensitive materials at their disposal, but we would have fired them and made them destroy it.

“Second, some superior officers thought the ranks have been broken, truly. The sever breakdown happened, the telephone stopped working, and now someone different from me is giving them orders. You were just dishing out orders around the cantonment. Have you forgotten that you’re not a superhero?

“God helped you you didn’t promote yourself on broadcast. They would have turned the barracks upside down before I arrive. Any casualty due to the server breakdown?”

“Two dead toward the end of the cantonment. No trace of killers found, sir. And we have several injuries down at the clinic from senior-to-junior-officer brutality.”

“Due to a server breakdown? Are you hiding something, Lieutenant?”

“Actually, sir, we had more than a server break—server shutdown. According to Staff Sergeant Rachael, after the server was attacked, every computer connected to it contracted a virus. Rachael said it was highly likely that the bad guys initiated the server shutdown with the virus.

“Computers started malfunctioning. We couldn’t monitor much without CCTVs and most senior officers were busy organizing their department to worry about some senior officer beating up a junior officer. Rachael had to initiate an SOS, on my command, to the Nigerian Army Headquarters in Maiduguri to lock down our server temporarily.”

“I need the full report before tomorrow morning, Lieutenant?”

“All reports have been forwarded to your secretary, sir?”

Major Mark wiped his forehead with his hand. “Where is Staff Sergeant Rachael now?”

“Fixing the computers in groups over a Local Area Network when you called for me, sir. In—” John glanced at the clock opposite him, “—five minutes, the computers should be up and working, sir. Including yours.”

Major Mark looked at the monitor of his computer placed to his right with a compact keyboard below it and a portable mouse by the keyboard’s side. He punched the spacebar key and the monitor became dimly lit. “Is the telephone working yet?”

“It’s working now, sir.”

“How did you get it to work?”

“When we saw that it wasn’t working and the Nigerian Army policy states that official matters involving remote parties—”

Major Mark waved a hand disinterestingly. “Get to the interesting part.”

“We didn’t have to do anything to get it working, sir. It is as if it was waiting for the whole cantonment to patch up.”

Mark took the receiver, pressed some keys, waited some moments, and said into the phone, “Major Mark speaking. . . . Send Staff Sergeant Rachael Okeke up here immediately.”

Mark was brushing his mustache and beard as they waited. John endured the awkward silence until Sergeant Usman ushered Rachael in with a salute.

She gave a salute. Mark nodded and asked her to sit on the chair beside John.

Staff Sergeant Rachael was a fair-complexioned lady in her late twenties, about five feet five tall, with carefully shaved eyebrows, make-up face, and a short braided hair. She was fully kit up in dark green uniforms, donned an officer’s cap and her rank medals, and she carried some files. Sergeant Usman closed the door from outside. Sweat trickled from her temples and she twitched her small nose at the office’s stuffiness.
Mark fished his drawer for the air conditioner’s remote control, found it, turned on the AC to the lowest degree, and dropped the remote on his desk.

The first handful of air that the AC blew into the office was hot, then it became warm, and then colder as gas kicked up in it.

“I called you up here because of the server breakdown,” Mark told Rachael who glanced sidelong at John and looked away. “I want to ask you some questions,” the major continued.

Most of it centered on what he’d ask John initially, and so, John went through the ordeal of listening to a similar interview with reworded statements.

Rachael was good. As Major Mark dropped his questions, she sent them back hot immediately.

Toward the end of the interrogation, Mark asked Rachael, “Have you made any attempt at finding the personality behind the server breakdown and any progress so far?”

Rachael stood up, searched through her files, found the right one, pulled it out, and dropped it before the major.

Almost covering the front page was a clear, shoulder-length picture of a young dark guy on low haircut, polo top, and a silver wristwatch on the hand that supported his chin. He had large brown eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a wide flamboyant nose.

She dropped the rest of the files on the desk near her. As she began to speak, her eyes sparkled and she spoke with confidence and finality.

“His name is Peter Aderanti Adewale, twenty years old, a programmer, a 200-level student at the National Open University of Nigeria. He knows how to hack computers, servers, programs, and the likes. He knows more than five programming languages.”
Lieutenant John frowned.

“I have reasons to believe he is the one the four ex-men were chasing,” Rachael continued. “Their description of their boy and the one I have on him tallies. Sir, with all his abilities, all fingers point to his direction.

“Apart from that, I spoofed his IP address and ran it against the offline log file I had on my official computer. He has been visiting our website since exactly a month ago. He has also tried to break into the website’s control panel by guessing login credentials.

“I’m worried about what he could do next. He didn’t announce anything on the website after he gained access to the server, and it’s unlike hackers to keep quiet at that stage. He is dangerous and he would do more if he has the chance. I say we find him as soon as possible, sir.”


...to be continued.

The third episode will be available, by God's grace, tomorrow.

pnet22:
Your description of places is great. Keep it coming, is time to HURT

Thank you very much for your comment. When I write, whatever happening around me blanks out, no matter how noisy the place may be. I see the scene on the page and my job is to write what I see and hear.

queenitee:
I'm so grateful for the invite. oya, let's go on this hunt together

Thank you. Of course, we will hunt the huntables together.

Sveen:
Op try to modify and give it proper spacing. It's currently an eyesore.

Thanks, I will.

*modified*
Done.

Table of Contents

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six ...continuation.
Chapter Seven ...continuation1 ...continuation2

duch12:
This is going to be lit. Nice one Abraham.

Thank you, Dutch12. I appreciate. And your criticism is always welcomed.

Sveen:
Patiently ready to devour.

Thank you, man. Chapter one is already up for grab.

Hello, story lovers.

My name is Abraham Adekunle. You can find me over at abrahamadekunle.com I'm beginning my fiction author journey of writing military thrillers.

A Hunt is the first book in the A Hunt series.

A Hunt is the story of a twenty-year-old boy whose police-evading skills was suddenly awakened. Few hours ago, he was a tech-savvy weirdo always stuck in front of computers. But suddenly, he became the hobby of the police and the nightmare of the Nigerian Intelligence Authority.

Please, do stick with me and mention other book lovers to come join the party.

Apologies for the mention, but I'm new here, so I had no choice than to mention you guys:

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Copyright

(c) 2017, Abraham Adekunle. No part of this story may be copied in any way without the written permission of the author.

Dedication

To Elizabeth Adams who found me out and makes me feel worthwhile everytime.



Your critic, suggestions, and comments are welcomed.

Update: I'll be updating this story twice a week, precisley Friday and Saturday. If I couldn't make it on Friday, I'll update twice on Saturday.


CHAPTER ONE

General Hospital, Ikeja, Lagos, Nigeria. 4:00 PM.

Peter Adewale hadn’t walked half the distance to the main gate when he bumped into someone bulky.

The man he’d bumped into staggered backwards and steadied himself. His white android phone hung in the air, attached to a white earpiece that hung round his neck. He grabbed the phone, unhooked the earpiece from it, and tucked it into his right jean trousers’ pocket.

After tending to his predicament, his attention went back to Peter. He tightened his brow and prepared to land some serious blows to Peter’s jaw coupled with some cursing.

But then, he stopped, looked at Peter from another perspective, and recognizing him for the first time in two minutes, exclaimed, “Peter! Is this not Peter?”

All the while, Peter’s head hung low and he shielded his face from the scorching sun with his hand. Wind tossed the stack of papers that had fallen from him about on the asphalt. He was saying, “Shit! I should have put these papers in my backpack” when, like a computer program, his brain finally processed the words of the man he’d bumped into.

He took his hand from shielding his eyes and amidst frown looked at the man standing before him. From the neat pink and white trainers, to the baggy jean trousers that hugged him around the ass, to the extra-large round-neck polo, Peter examined them. And then in split seconds, he was staring at the fat-cheeked man.

“Simon!!”

His exclamation was slightly higher than Simon’s, which made some passersby look in their direction as they walked on.

“You’ve changed, man,” Simon said.

“You changed the most,” Peter replied.

Simon nudged his friend at the elbow and said, “Let’s quickly pack these things.”

They both bent and started picking the papers on the asphalt one after the other. Peter collected the ones Simon had picked up, packed them together with the ones he’d picked, and tucked them inside his backpack.

“What do you do now?” Peter asked.

Simon began walking to the nearest car park. Peter followed suit.

“I am an undergraduate,” the fat man said with an air of authority. To drive home his point, he added, “Two-hundred level, University of Lagos, Chemical Engineering. You don’t expect me to be working so soon.”

Peter smiled. “You have a fat resume.”

They got to the car park. Peter stopped following him and he felt as if he’d been zombified all the while. Simon had walked farther into the park. He turned to Peter, not stopping, and said, “Wait, let me give you a lift.”

He wheeled his ass out in a Black Toyota Corolla. Or so did Peter think. Seeing Simon sidelong exposed the fact that his head was extremely small compared to his stature.

Peter leaned on the window pane of the passenger side. “Where are you headed?”
Simon was going to go through Ikorodu Road en route to Yaba.

“Perfect. I’ll drop at Palmgroove Estate.”

They took a right turn after they left the hospital, went about two hundred meters, did a U-turn near the Area F police post, and then back the way they had come. A traffic signal close to an adjacent overhead bridge stopped them ahead.
There was a green rectangular billboard glued high to its side with directions. It was facing their direction.

Above an upward facing arrow on the upper center of the billboard, COMPUTER VILLAGE and AGEGE were written in white bold letters in all CAPS. Above a left-pointing arrow on the left hand side of the billboard, MM INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT was written. While above the right arrow on the right side, MOBOLAJI BANK ANTHONY WAY and MARYLAND were written.
Peter was memorizing the directions to save himself from the awkward moment. Simon broke the silence.

“I hope you still don’t bury your head on laptops like before.”

“Ah! It has become a normal thing, buddy. I do programming now.”

“Before I forget, let me ask. Why did you bump into me that way?”

Peter’s brow tightened. “How?”

“You were walking as if you couldn’t see an inch from you.”

Peter sighed.

“But you somehow walked that far without getting inside the gutter. What’s happening to you, Peter?”

Peter relaxed and leaned back on the chair. “I use glasses. The one I was supposed to be wearing became stale, so I came here to get a new one.”

He unzipped the smallest pouch on his backpack, shoved his right hand into it, and brought out a glasses case. He opened it. There was a new pair of spectacles in the case.

Simon moved his brow up and down.

The gist started from reminiscing on their high school days. Five years ago had been like fifty years. They missed almost everything.

The pampered, sluggish, and fragile girls. The overzealous sets of teachers. Especially Mr. Alien. He dressed as if he’d come from Mars. Peter had made the claim.

“How did you know he came from Mars?” Christian, one of Peter’s group of five, had asked.

Peter had launched into a thesis of how the man’s behavior was opposite of what should be normal on Earth. He would kit up as if going into the snowy mountains on a sunny day. He would almost strip naked on a cold, rainy day; he would wear sleeveless, transparent round-neck polo and a pair of shorts. Then he would abandon his shoes and start walking around the windy vicinity.

Peter had put two to two and decided that his hypothesis was that quite possibly, situations on Mars could be nearly opposite of what’s obtainable on Earth.

The group of five had launched into raucous laughter.

Peter and Simon were doing the same now. Every now and then, passengers in commercial buses would look at them, unable to hear any sound because they’d wound up all the windows, and conclude that something had come over them.

They missed the bullies, especially Jones, which Peter’s group stood up to one unfortunate day. They missed the bean cake seller who used to part a portion of her wares, hide them, and then deliver up to Peter’s group whenever they arrived at her shop.

The traffic signal turned green and Simon slapped the car into gear. They took a right turn beside the overhead bridge and onto Mobolaji Bank Anthony Way.

The gist continued and so did the laughter.

A few cars were descending the bridge, but on the forefront, cruising at over eighty miles an hour, was a dark green Toyota Camry. It had no plate number.

Peter could easily see four men inside the Camry—one beside the driver and two at the back. The speed had increased to a hundred miles. Peter looked at their speedometer—they were barely on fifty.

They took a curve. By the time the Corolla was picking up speed, the Camry, full of speed, had almost tagged them.

Peter tapped a laughing Simon. “Look behind us. A car’s tailing us.” It was almost in a whisper.

Simon stopped laughing. He looked at the side mirror, confirmed truly that a car was tailing them, and began to tremble. “W-wha-t…? Why are they following us?” He stared at the mirror again. As if someone had pinched him, Simon blurted out, “Je-su-s! They have no plate number. Any idea what that means, Peter?”

“Kidnappers. The Central Intelligence Department. The secret service. Anything is possible.”

Simon slammed the steering wheel hard. “What does that mean, for God’s sake!” His light-complexioned face had turned pale and his eyes were beginning to water.

The front passenger’s window of the Camry wound down. A head popped out to waist and a trained right hand aimed a semi-automatic at the Corolla in front.

The first fusillade of bullets hit the right brake light while the rest lifted beds of asphalt beside the tire. Simon’s scream pierced the air and produced a smile from the gunman. He popped his head back in.

The next time another set of bullets came, some hit the hood while the others went wide.

“Maybe we should make a U-turn and go to Computer Village. I know someone there who—”

“Cut it out. Bad ide—”

A bullet hit the roof of the car. They jerked. Peter saw no hole or impact inside the car, so he thought it must have skidded away. Then a bullet shattered the right-side mirror. Shards of glass hit the window glass and bounced off.

The next set of bullets went for the left-side mirror, but missed. The nearly lucky shots scrapped the plastic holding the mirror.

Simon tried a Rambo. He began to wheel the car here and there. Peter looked back at the Camry. The shooters were now three—two at the back and one beside the driver.

The fire ceased for a while. From the left-side mirror, Simon couldn’t see any figure pop its head outside the car.

Peter’s breath became rapid while Simon’s hands were shaking on the wheel.

“Breathe, Simon, breathe.”

“You better think of something now before a maniac pops a bullet into my skull.”

They ran past Kingsway Bus Stop now, cruising at one-fifty miles an hour. The Camry had also picked up pace, cruising at nearly one-twenty miles. Like in car racing movies, vehicles were sidetracking the duo as they whizzed past them and whirled in and out of the four lanes.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Peter said, looking back at the Camry.

“Better make it fast.”

“Their speed cannot match ours, so we will outrun them.”

“How?”

“Increase your speed—”

“To four hundred miles?!!” Simon yelled.

“Increase your speed,” Peter repeated, ignoring the yell. “When they see that, they will increase theirs, too. You will run along the last lane and—bingo!—quickly turn right.”

Simon grabbed the wheel as if his life depended on it. Come to think of it, his life depended on it. One mistake would spell doom for both himself and Peter. He stared ahead, his face stony hard.

“Seems like a good plan.”

And it seemed so until the last line of action: turning right.

The Camry was directly behind them now, so that a little application of the brake would make it hit the Corolla. But it was taking forever to turn right.

Even when Peter said “Now!” Simon replied in the affirmative but still couldn’t turn. Three turns had gone that way, and if they didn’t make the one coming ahead, the traffic coming from Maryland would hit them hard. First bad news.

Then the gunmen would only need to step out of their car, walk a few meters, and eject them easily. The Ikeja Army Cantonment was also a stone’s throw to where traffic usually started building up. What if those men were soldiers or secret service agents? They would arrest them and cross over into the army barracks.

Not going to happen.

At the next turn, Peter dragged the wheel sideways and the car whirled to the right into an empty street with cars parked here and there.
Simon screamed again, yelled something about God saving his soul, and began to pant, but Peter paid no attention. While his friend steadied the car, he quickly looked back and saw the green Camry riding past his view.

His guess was a logical one: it would have hit them bad in the face and they would have sped up far to be able to reverse and make them again.
“That was dangerous.” Simon was still panting. “So, what next?”

Peter pointed at the front of a house with a white fence and a big tree with a wide shade. “Park in front of that house and let me drive.”

“What?!!” But he parked all the same.

What’s with fat people and yelling? Peter thought.
“I gave you a lift, Peter,” Simon continued. He drew enough breath in and yelled, “You don’t own the car!”

“To hell with owning the car. If a maniac had drew a borehole in your skull with a gun, would you carry this scrap metal to the Pearly Gates? Do you—”

The gateman of the house they had parked in front of emerged from the small part of the gate carved out for humans. He was probably a sixty-something-year-old man, maybe a decade more. He had gray hairs, a stoop, and he was barefooted. His cream-colored danshiki had turned brown due to wear and tear.

He waved them to go away and said something in Hausa.

Peter ignored him and continued. “Do you have a tracker installed?”

Simon said yes, almost mechanically. Peter unstrapped his seatbelt, alighted, and went to open the driver’s door.

“Why are you doing this?” Simon’s face had gone pale again and his eyes became apologetic.

“I don’t even know why myself, but I have a feeling if I don’t do it, they are going to be frying plantain on our sorry asses soon.” He looked toward the way they had come into the street. “Hurry before they trace us here.”

Simon sighed, unstrapped his seatbelt, and alighted. The old gateman was still standing in front of the gate, furious but harmless. Simon pointed a warning finger at the man as he walked to the other side of the car. The man jerked backwards and hit the back of his head against the iron gate.

Peter revved the car up to five times while Simon settled in. His weight shook the car and compressed it like foam.

“So, what’s the plan?”

“Don’t worry,” Peter said and smiled at him. “You know I always figure everything out.”