The story is taking shape now. Still cooking though.

Good night everyone

CONTINUED



Twenty-eight minutes ago, Tabori Henson made the grim discovery. Francis was off duty, his leave stretching another three weeks. A startling revelation.

It meant Francis had broken protocol—a move that could lead to his indefinite suspension, or worse, his firing.

Francis had taken out a weapon without checking it in. He’d been called in briefly to assist with an investigation, but never mentioned the weapon.

Not a word about returning it. Henson frowned. If he wasn’t worried about being implicated, he’d march straight to his superior. He’d draft a detailed complaint about Francis’ unprofessional conduct, recommend the right punishment.

And yet, how could he ignore it? His frown deepened. Only one option. He locked his office and drove out of the station, glancing at the officer’s file for an address: 27 Colonel Rhodes Street, Ketu.

He’d go to Francis’ house, demand the weapon, inspect it. If there was any sign of misuse, he’d leave Francis with some harsh words. He felt certain. He’d resolve this.

The drive wasn’t long. When he arrived, the sight of the fenced-off duplex startled him. A place like this? For an inspector? Henson couldn’t afford something like this on his salary. Francis, living beyond his means, was already on the path to ruin.

The type of officer that ends up on the wrong side of the law.

He got out of his car, walked to the gate. It wasn’t locked. Odd. He pushed it open, the hinges groaning. Hesitating for a second, he stepped inside.

The duplex was impressive—far beyond what Henson expected. It was the kind of place he hoped to retire to someday. He knocked on the entrance door.

Silence. Knocked again. His eyes flicked to the windows—shut tight. Was anyone home? He knocked a third time, harder. Listened. Was that a shuffle? Or was he imagining things?

“Is anyone home?” he called, uncertain.

Inside, Francis had heard the first knock. Weapon in hand, he’d found a place to hide. But why was Henson at his door? Of course—the weapon.

That explained it. Francis could handle him now. But it was risky.

Three bodies lay cold and still in his living room, blood pooling beneath them. Francis had made up his mind the moment the gun was back in his hands—he wasn’t giving it up.

He’d keep it for protection, especially now, before the deal would be finalized. No one would outsmart him again. He swore it.

The knocks continued, insistent. Henson wasn’t leaving. Francis cursed under his breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his back damp under his shirt.

Then, relief—the sound of the gate slamming shut. Henson was gone. Francis exhaled, his pulse slowing. Just as he started to relax, a phone rang. Skipper’s phone.

He cursed again, if Henson had still been outside, the ringtone would’ve given him away.

He grabbed the phone. The caller ID was just two letters: “SA.” Francis hesitated, then answered.

“Have you got the drugs back? Are we in the clear?” The voice on the other end was tense, impatient. Familiar.

Francis felt like he’d heard it before, but couldn’t place it.

“Hello? Who is this?” His voice cracked slightly.

There was a pause, then the caller hung up. Francis stared at the phone, the screen dimming. None of this mattered. Not right now.

He needed to leave. He grabbed the drugs, threw them into a small travel bag, and headed for the bathroom to clean up.

He’d disappear. Once he was overseas, he’d sell everything back home. Start fresh.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked out of the house. Fresh clothes. Hair slicked back. Calm. He flagged down a taxi and gave the driver instructions.

He didn’t notice the car that followed him from a distance. Someone had already started tailing him.


TO BE CONTINUED

My boy Francis is having an adventure of a lifetime, will he succeed to live out his dreams?



Hello Everyone, Please kindly show some love and follow me on Instagram @Henry_Inketh thanks. I will be dropping updates, chapter insights and commentaries. Thanks.

CONTINUED



The lie hung in the air. The tension between them was thick, but Francis could see the doubt creep into their eyes. They didn’t like it. They didn’t want to believe it, but it was better than the alternative.

Before Skipper could respond, the door swung open again. Hafsat. She walked in, her face freezing the moment she saw the gun.

“Who are these people?” she stammered, her voice shaking.

“Shut up!” Skipper snarled. “Go sit with your husband.”

Hafsat shot a confused, frightened look at Francis before she obeyed. Skipper’s eyes flicked between them.

“You’re going to get those drugs, or your wife gets it.” His voice dropped low, dangerous. “I don’t care how. You find a way.”

Francis’s mind raced. He could feel Hafsat’s eyes on him, accusing. She knew he’d sell her out if it came to it.

He didn’t care about her, not really. She was just another loose end.

“I’ll go,” he said, standing slowly, his hands raised. He had to play this right. “I just need to change and make a few calls. The station will be locked up by now. I’ll have to—”

“Don’t care about the details. Just get it done,” Skipper snapped, impatience creeping into his voice.

Francis saw his moment. In one swift move, he lunged at the gunman. The element of surprise worked in his favor.

His hands closed around the gun, twisting it toward Skipper. Skipper barely had time to react before the silenced shot went off.

Skipper’s body hit the floor with a dull thud.

Skipper gasped, his face contorted in agony. His hands gripped his throat like a vice as he crumbled to the floor. Fast. Silent. Dead.

The gunman lunged. Francis sidestepped, but the two men tangled, crashing hard into the ground. Dirt kicked up around them. The gunman's finger twitched on the trigger.

Francis ducked, felt the bullet whip past his ear, close enough to feel its heat. They grappled, each struggling to wrench the weapon free from the other.

Francis moved quick—too quick for the gunman. A sharp chop to the neck. A gasp escaped the man’s throat, his grip slackened, a second’s hesitation.

Fatal mistake. Francis grabbed the gun. A single shot to the head. The fight was over.

Francis rose to his feet. He wiped the sweat from his brow, checking the gun in his hand. Still in perfect working order. He allowed himself a small, cold smile. Battle won.

“Francis…” a voice—soft, weak. He turned sharply.

Hafsat stood behind him, her hands pressed against her stomach, fingers slick with blood. Her eyes—pleading. She staggered, collapsed at his feet, a pool of crimson spreading across the floor.

“Please… call the ambulance. I’m dying,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, hollow, her beauty drained.

She looked like a shell of her former self—old, haggard, pale.

Francis crouched beside her, his voice urgent. “Where is it, Hafsat? Tell me where it is, and I’ll call. I’ll get you help.”

Her breaths came shallow, ragged. “Please… help me…”

“You’re wasting time.” He grabbed her by the shoulder, shaking her gently. “Where is it? Tell me where it is, and I can save you. Otherwise…”

She blinked slowly, realization dawning. Her lips trembled, a ghost of a smile forming. “You… monster… you’d watch me die…?”

Her head lolled back for a second, slipping in and out of consciousness. Her body shuddered as she fought to hold on.

“You’d do the same to me. I know you would,” Francis said. His voice was cold, empty, devoid of sympathy.

Hafsat’s eyes flickered open, full of pain, full of hatred. “You… you’ll rot in hell…”

“You first.”

For a moment, their gazes locked, two killers bound by betrayal. Hafsat’s tired eyes shifted. They flickered toward the freezer. It was subtle—just a glance. But it was enough.

Francis stood, crossing to the freezer. He yanked the door open. A wave of cold air rushed out. Inside, neatly packed and wrapped—three bundles. His fingers twitched. The prize.

He turned to Hafsat, but her face was still, her chest no longer rising.

Her body lay twisted, her mouth frozen in a final grimace of pain. She was gone.

“Good riddance,” Francis muttered under his breath. He wiped his hands on his pants, a smile tugging at his lips. It had worked out better than expected.

He needed a drink. To celebrate. Cool off. Then it’d be time to see Adenuga, make sure everything stayed wrapped up nice and tight.

But just as he stepped toward the door, a knock shattered the silence.

Francis froze. Heart pounding.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


Francis stepped out into the night, the cool breeze whipping his face as he mounted his bike. His breath came in heavy bursts, matching the pounding in his chest. Ten million.

The number echoed in his head. It made his hands tremble on the handlebars. Ten million! It wasn’t just a sum.

It was a promise, a shiver running down his spine. He frowned, shaking off the thought. The air was doing him good, cooling the sweat on his neck. He needed clarity, not panic.

Then there was Hafsat. That witch. Greedy to the core. She had to be dealt with, but carefully. He couldn’t afford to let her mess things up.

She had hidden the stash, or so she claimed. The way she said it, though, it stunk of a lie. If she was bluffing, he’d have to force her hand. But not before he could sell it.

No way she was seeing a cent of the money. The thought of her getting away with any of it was like bile rising in his throat.

He arrived home just before two. Hafsat would be at work, and he had time. The house was his to search. He went to the freezer and opened it. There was just packs of left over food and a bottle of beer.

He got the beer. poured a glass of beer, letting the cold liquid steady him. The phone rang. Omoh. Of course. The last person he needed to hear from.

“What do you want?” Francis snapped, irritation sharp in his voice.

“Hey, hey! Is that how you greet an old friend?” Omoh’s voice was oily, too casual. “Just wanted to talk business. Thought I could stop by—”

“I’m not interested.” Francis lied, his pulse quickening. “I’m at the office.”

“Office? Thought you were on leave. You sure you’re not home?”

“I said I’m busy. Don’t call unless I call you.” Francis could hear the agitation in Omoh’s voice, but he didn’t care.

He needed him gone, out of the picture. “You’re not someone I should be seen with right now.”

“Okay, okay, that’s rough, but sure. Maybe I’ll catch you later?”

“Maybe,” Francis muttered before ending the call. Omoh. The fool. Soon, he’d cut ties with him for good.

Once he had the money, once he was far away. He had a guy who could get him a legit passport, quick. Australia, maybe France. A fresh start.

He grinned. Focus. Time was ticking.

The kitchen was his first stop. It had to be somewhere. A kitchen was a woman’s domain. Maybe she thought it was safe there, out of his reach. He tore through cabinets, drawers, even the fridge. Nothing.

Just as he was about to give up, he heard the front door creak open.

Damn. Hafsat.

He tensed, every muscle in his body tightening. Did she know he’d be searching? Was she onto him? He called out, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Honey?”

No answer. That’s when he heard the footsteps in the living room. He stepped out cautiously, his heart hammering in his chest.

Two men stood there. Strangers, but dangerous-looking. One was tall and lean, covered in tattoos, the ink crawling up his neck to his chin. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, locked onto Francis.

The Beretta in his hand, with a silencer attached, was pointed straight at him. Francis recognized it. His own gun. The second man, shorter but built like a brick wall, sat calmly on the couch, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes.

A nasty scar ran down the side of his face. He smiled, and it sent a cold chill down Francis’s spine.

“We finally meet, Inspector.” The shorter man’s voice was rough, like gravel. “I’m Skipper. Sit.”

Francis didn’t move at first, weighing his options. The tall one, the one with the gun, wasn’t a professional. He could tell by the way he held it. There was a chance.

“I said sit!” Skipper barked. The gunman twitched, waving the barrel menacingly.

Francis sat, his eyes narrowing. He needed to think fast. These were what was left of the gang he stole the drugs from.

The last two of the gang. He clenched his jaw, realizing the bitter truth. Omoh. That rat had sold him out.

Skipper leaned forward, removing his glasses. His left eye was a mess of scar tissue, making him look even more grotesque. But Francis saw something else—fear. He could use that.

“I’ll ask once. Where’s my stuff?” Skipper growled.

“I don’t have it,” Francis lied, surprised by how steady his voice was. He had to stall.

“Bullshit. It’s here.”

“Listen, that drug bust wasn’t a coincidence. It was part of an eight-month operation. We were after your suppliers, the big fish. The drugs? They’re already turned in. They’re gone.”


TO BE CONTINUED

Updates coming in.

Happy Sunday Every one!

CONTINUED


Obasi Hendrick, self-proclaimed chief of Lagos, came across as a friendly, sociable businessman.

He owned a string of legitimate businesses: bars, taxis, a supermarket, a fuel station. But there was a darker side. Strip clubs. Gambling rooms.

Brothels. And a drug network responsible for 15% of the heroin circulating in the city. Obasi was pushing fifty-eight, but his boyish features, square head, receding hairline—cleverly dyed black—and small, disarming eyes gave him the appearance of warmth.

It was a warmth he never truly possessed. Nobody knew where Obasi had come from or how he'd made his fortune, but he was a fixture in Lagos, especially in the heart of Ikorodu.

One of his most prominent businesses was the Soul Search Bar in Ilegah, a high-end establishment that oozed luxury.

It thrived under the watchful eye of Adenuga, Obasi's number two. Adenuga, a former army man with a short fuse and a keen business mind, was the one who kept things running. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

He was the enforcer, the problem-solver. No one saw Obasi unless it was serious. Adenuga handled it all.

That afternoon, Adenuga was in his office at Soul Search, sifting through discrepancies in the weekly profits. He didn't appreciate being interrupted.

A knock came at the door.

He growled, "What is it?"

"Excuse me, sir," a waitress stammered. "There's a man here. Says he has business you'd be interested in."

Adenuga frowned, annoyed. "Business? Doesn't it have a name?"

"The other business, sir. You know..." she trailed off nervously.

Adenuga's frown deepened. He understood now, but the situation required finesse. "Tell him to wait at the bar. I'll be there in three minutes."

He reached for a bottle of scotch, downing three quick shots. It steadied him.

Then, he popped a couple of mint gums into his mouth. This was his routine before every business deal—especially ones that smelled of trouble.

At the bar, Adenuga found his guest nursing a beer. The man looked nervous. Eyes darting, hands twitchy. Adenuga didn't like it.

"Sorry for the wait," Adenuga greeted him with a firm handshake, his eyes scanning for clues. The man, Francis, had the rough hands of someone who'd been through some tough times. Another red flag.

"They say you’ve got something I might be interested in," Adenuga said, cutting straight to the point.

Francis hesitated, glancing around. "I need to speak with Chief Obasi. Get him for me."

Adenuga chuckled, amused. "You don’t get to see him. He’s a busy man. You deal with me, and trust me, it’ll be handled properly."

Francis looked uneasy. He didn’t like the public setting. Adenuga caught on. "There are no rats here, I can assure you," he said. "Now, tell me—what is it you're offering?"

Francis swallowed, glancing around again. "It’s the white stuff," he said, voice low.

Adenuga showed no reaction. "What do you want to do with it?"

"Sell it," Francis muttered, clearly out of his depth.

Adenuga observed him closely. This guy wasn’t an independent operator, and he wasn’t seasoned in the game.

Something was off. But curiosity kept him in the conversation.

"How much?" Adenuga asked.

"Three kilos," Francis said. His voice quivered. He was way out of his league.

"Three kilos?" Adenuga repeated. He leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "Where'd you get it? Wait... who exactly are you? Kroc’s boy? Kaneda’s? Or are you a cop?" His words were calm, but his gaze never left Francis.

Francis stiffened, the pressure clearly getting to him. "I have three kilos, ready to sell. You want it or not?"

Adenuga raised an eyebrow. This was risky. Too many red flags. But he played along. "How much are you asking?"

Francis hesitated for a beat. Then, nervously, "Thirty million."

Adenuga burst out laughing. "Thirty million? For three kilos? You must be joking. That’s three times what it’s worth."

Francis swallowed again. "I’m serious."

Adenuga shook his head, amused but cautious. "I’ll give you four million. Cash. Right now. You can walk out of here with it."

Francis frowned. "No. Fifteen million."

"Six million. Still a generous offer," Adenuga countered.

He watched the sweat bead on Francis’s forehead. This man was panicking, and it showed.

"Ten million. Final offer," Francis shot back, a little too quickly. He was desperate, and Adenuga could see it.

Adenuga paused. He didn’t like this. The greed was too obvious, the nervousness too raw.

But the deal was tempting. "Eight million," Adenuga said, his tone firm. "Final offer."

Francis shook his head. "Ten million, or I go somewhere else."

The two men stared at each other, a silent battle of wills. Adenuga hated to admit it, but Francis had him pinned.

The deal was too good to pass up, but something felt off. Still, business was business.

"Alright," Adenuga said finally. "Ten million. Be here by eight. I’ll have the cash ready. You bring the goods."

Francis nodded, visibly relieved. "Deal." He took one last swig of his beer and left.

Adenuga watched him go, eyes narrowing as the man slipped out the door. He waited a few moments, then pulled out his phone.

"Get to my place in twenty minutes," Adenuga said into the receiver. He hung up, already planning his next move.

Something about this deal didn’t sit right, and he wasn’t going to be caught off guard. Not tonight.

The game was on.


TO BE CONTINUED

Good night to you dear readers

CONTINUED


The gates of Ikoyi Prison groaned open. Heavy black metal, slow and reluctant. The sound—harsh, creaky—made the skin crawl. A place like this had a way of getting under your skin. The buildings inside, all the same dull ash and cream, blended into each other.

Six-foot barbed wire coiled around the perimeters, as if daring anyone to think of escape. The air was thick with stillness. It even smelled different, carrying an odd mix of stale concrete and fear.

Kunle parked outside. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were watching. The security tower stood tall by the main entrance, officers in white and brown khaki pants loitering nearby, keeping a sharp eye on everything that moved.

It was his third time here, but the feeling never changed—this place didn’t soften.

Maurice Olawole, Assistant Superintendent of Prisons, waddled over. Tall, sturdy, with a belly that pushed against his belt, his eyes lit up when he saw the paper bag in Kunle’s hand.

“I guess that’s for me?” Maurice asked, his gaze glued to the bag.

Kunle handed it over, the bottle of Johnny Walker disappearing into Maurice’s hands like it had a home there.

The man loved his bribes almost as much as he loved his booze.

"Follow me," Maurice grunted, leading Kunle down a maze of dimly lit corridors. They walked in silence. Maurice moved fast for a man his size, eager to get back to his private party with the bottle.

Kunle kept up, noting the tension in the man’s shoulders. He was eager to be rid of him.

They stopped at Block A4. This one was different. Newer, cleaner. This was where they housed the special ones—the political prisoners, the ones with connections.

The ones like Tobi Larry, who didn’t belong here, yet somehow found themselves locked up anyway.

“He’s in there?” Kunle asked, though he already knew the answer.

Maurice nodded, smirking. “Yeah, threatened to sue the Federal Government for ‘unhealthy conditions.’ Got roughed up a couple times. Prisoners didn’t like his type. Too quiet, too smart.”

Kunle shook his head. “So, you moved him here to avoid the lawsuit?”

“Gotta keep him happy. Cops love these smartasses.”

Maurice swung open the door to Cell 9. Kunle stepped in and came face-to-face with Tobi. He was a mess. Bruised, swollen. His eyes darkened, lips split.

The cell was nice by prison standards—small bed, armchair, reading table, even a partitioned-off toilet. Yet the look on Tobi’s face said it all—he wasn’t enjoying the perks.

“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” Maurice said, eager to get out. He didn’t wait for a reply, already halfway back to his whiskey.

Tobi grimaced. “Look at that. If you were here to kill me, that’s how easily he’d abandon me. Such loyalty.”

Kunle sat down in the armchair, grinning. “Good thing I’m not an assassin, huh?”

The two had history. Old friends from school, though their paths had diverged sharply. Kunle had become a cop.

Tobi had become a whistleblower, the kind that took down big names, spilled secrets that were better left in the dark.

Their paths had crossed before, once on a kidnapping case where Tobi had come through with information. But things had changed since then.

“To what do I owe the honor?” Tobi’s tone was sharp, his face betraying the pain beneath.

“I need your help,” Kunle said.

Tobi raised an eyebrow, the bruises on his face stretching painfully. “My help? With what?”

“There’s a case. We need it cracked wide open. You’re the guy who can do it.”

Tobi snorted, leaning back, wincing as the movement pulled at his swollen skin. “Not interested. Got my own problems. And this is police business. You know I can’t touch that.”

Kunle smiled faintly. He expected the resistance. “I talked to your lawyer. Out of the 23 charges they have on you, 12 are flimsy. You’d need someone on the inside to make the rest go away, though.”

Tobi’s eyes flickered, but he kept his voice flat. “Twelve, huh? Let me tell you, all 23 are garbage. Government lies. They have nothing.”

Kunle didn’t buy it. Tobi had a trail of collateral damage behind him. There was the girl, the senator’s mistress, who had hanged herself after Tobi leaked her private affairs.

Then there was the ex-governor’s son, who had fled after Tobi exposed his corruption, only to plow his car into a family, killing two innocent people. The man had a talent for chaos.

“Sure,” Kunle said, voice tight with sarcasm.

Tobi ignored the jab, leaning forward. “I’m here because one person was too cowardly to get the evidence needed to pin down a murderer. Instead, she turned on me.”

“The charges aren’t all flimsy. The cops have a case,” Kunle replied, his tone dead serious. “I could help you. But only if you help me.”

Tobi scoffed. “I’m not scared of a forty-year stretch. They can try.”

“They’ll move you back to your old cell by the end of the week.”

That hit a nerve. Tobi’s eyes widened for a split second. “That’s a lie. I almost died there. I’m going to sue.”

Kunle leaned in, voice low. “The cops figure that if they rough you up right next time, there won’t be anyone left to sue.”

Tobi paled. His voice wavered. “You won’t let that happen. You said you needed me.”

“I do. But there are other options. People who might be more… motivated.”

Tobi’s bravado cracked. “I can get your story to the international press if you want. CNN, BBC. Just don’t let them send me back. Those guys are monsters.”

Kunle smiled, satisfied. “We have a deal, then. I’ll put in a word for you.”

Tobi exhaled, relief washing over his battered face. They talked a little longer, laying out the plan, before Kunle stood to leave.

He walked out of the prison with the deal he came for, pleased with how easily Tobi had caved.

TO BE CONTINUED

Good night everyone

CONTINUED


Two days had passed since her nine-year-old son vanished without a trace from her shop. The days were long and cruel; the nights were plagued with nightmares that twisted her anguish into mockery.

She was a widow, and Junior, her only child, had disappeared into Lagos’s unforgiving labyrinth.

The city seemed to mock her suffering, as if some dark curse had wrapped around her life, twisting tighter with every passing hour.

In the morning sun of Owedo, Ketu, she sat on a mat outside her apartment block.

The heat was a relentless wave, the kind that made everything stick—sweat to skin, worry to mind. People came and went, offering empty words of sympathy, but none of them had the news she craved. They knew nothing of the hollow ache that consumed her.

“Mama Junior, they’ve found him,” Mama Sabor’s voice cut through the haze of her despair. It was a jolt, sudden and sharp.

“Eh, you say?” Mama Junior’s voice was barely a whisper, her body jerking upright. She looked at Mama Sabor, whose face was streaked with hot tears.

Behind her, Mama Kate and Mama Nice, fellow shop owners, and Papa Nice, the community’s vigilante leader, followed solemnly.

“Where is he? Where did they find him?” Her voice was strained, barely holding together.

Mama Sabor couldn’t muster the courage. The boy’s body had been discovered the previous night, dumped among refuse by the roadside, just three streets from Owedo.

A bike man had stumbled upon the body while seeking relief. Upon realizing it was a child, he had made the call at first dawn. The identification process was a grim formality, but it led to this moment of stark reality.

Mama Junior crumpled to the ground, overwhelmed.

The news had hit her like a freight train, and it took several minutes to revive her. She lay there, her tears mingling with the dust.

Papa Nice, with a heavy heart, said, “We’ve called the police. This is murder. I need to get back to the scene. Someone should stay with her. Don’t let her go alone.” His voice was thick with emotion.

He took off on his bike, racing back to the scene. There, a police pickup van was parked, the scene cordoned off.

Three uniformed officers stood, their faces etched with the weariness of their duty. Edward, a high-ranking officer, was already there, a grim acquaintance.

“You don’t look surprised. Why?” Papa Nice joined Edward, his tone edged with frustration.

Edward greeted him curtly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? The mother is in agony. Real agony.” Papa Nice’s voice was a mix of anger and sorrow.

“I just wrapped up one murder case, and now another. It’s like a nightmare that won’t end.” Edward’s gaze remained fixed on the lifeless body among the refuse.

He remembered the recent case—the boy, Musa, charged with murder, the subsequent reprimands, and the unsettling call to Musa’s uncle, Sanusi.

The case had barely settled when this new horror emerged.

“Two kids, one eleven and one nine, murdered within a week. Coincidence?” Edward’s mind was far away, wrestling with the implications.

“Are you saying someone’s targeting children? That’s madness,” Papa Nice dismissed the thought.

“Two young victims, a week apart. One found here, the other’s killer is behind bars. It’s more than coincidence.” Edward’s eyes were intense, focused on the scene before him.

His phone rang, snapping him from his thoughts. “Hello?”

“Mr. Sanusi, it’s ASP Edward. I have news.”

The response was a flat, emotionless, “Oh, I see.”

“We’ve apprehended the killer,” Edward continued, met with a similarly devoid tone. “I’ll inform the parents.”

The call ended abruptly. There was no time for reflection. Mama Junior was brought to the scene, her face a mask of grief and disbelief. Edward prepared for a grueling day ahead.


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


They rolled into the crime scene in a blue metallic Yaris, the car inching through the gloom. The drive was slow, the air thick with unease.

No one spoke. The jostling of other cars, the occasional honk from impatient drivers, was ignored. Edward’s nerves were on edge.

It wasn’t just the quiet that gnawed at him. It was Shorty.

Shorty. The name echoed in Edward's mind. He sat in the back, a menacing silhouette. His face was a canvas of scars and grime, his eyes blood-red and unblinking.

They seemed to pierce right through him. The man looked like he’d clawed his way out of a gutter, but there was something more—a ruthless intensity.

Those eyes followed him with a cold, unwavering stare, like a hawk sizing up its prey.

“That's Salawu,” Nasiru said, breaking the silence as the car jerked to a stop. “He doesn’t talk much. Useful at the market, keeps the boys in line. Don’t mind him too much.”

Nasiru’s tone was dismissive, and Edward could sense the tension crackling in the air. The area looked grim and unsuitable for anyone’s taste.

Edward’s eyes scanned the surroundings, seeking something—anything—to focus on.

“We’re here, Officer. What do you need Musa to do?” Nasiru asked, his voice flat. He seemed eager to wrap this up.

Edward gestured for Musa to come forward. The boy shuffled hesitantly.

“I need him to walk me through what happened that day,” Edward said, directing the conversation with a sweep of his hand. Nasiru interpreted, and Musa mumbled something in his local tongue.

Fear and confusion flitted across his face, but Salawu’s bark cut him off, silencing him. Edward noted his growing dislike for Salawu.

Musa spoke rapidly, his words a jumble of local dialects. Nasiru translated. The boy lived four rooms away from the scene.

Given the layout, it was unlikely Musa could have reached the victim directly. Yet, his room faced the well. The well—a gaping, ominous presence.

“You said you heard the well being opened and shut,” Edward said, studying Musa intently. “I find that hard to believe. No screams, no shouts. Did you see anyone?”

Nasiru relayed the question. Musa’s face contorted through a range of emotions—fear, anxiety, confusion, annoyance. Finally, he dropped his head. After clearing his throat, he spoke again.

Edward didn’t understand the language, but he saw defeat in Musa’s eyes.

It was the same look he’d seen in countless criminals before their confessions. Was he staring at the murderer?

“And?” Edward pressed, eager for clarity.

Nasiru’s voice was grave. “It seems our boy wasn’t truthful from the start. I’m sorry.”

“He admitted to being on drugs that night,” Nasiru continued. “He said he’d gotten some from the local dealers. He was tired and needed something to unwind.”

Edward’s brow furrowed. “So, this was a drug-related crime?”

Nasiru shrugged. “He doesn’t remember much. Maybe he blacked out. He only knew he woke up in his room, sweaty and exhausted. The well was open. When he looked, he found the body. It adds up, doesn’t it?”

“Who sold him the drugs? What kind were they?” Edward pressed. The case seemed too haphazard, too random.

Yet, he feared that sometimes, the simplest explanations were the truest.

Nasiru asked, but Musa had shut down completely. His gaze was distant, eyes averted.

“He won’t say anything more,” Nasiru said. “We’ll take you to the station if you’re ready.”

Edward sighed, frustration simmering. It seemed his investigation had reached an end. It wasn’t the resolution he had hoped for. He took one last look at the scene. It was all OVER. yet this was not the victory, he had hoped for. too bland, too random.

TO BE CONTINUED

Hello everyone, kindly beer with me at the moment, it's been quite a week. I will be putting up new parts tomorrow by his special grace thanks.

Updates coming in!

CHAPTER FOUR


ASP Edward stood amidst the clatter and hum of the Ketu Garbage Market.

The heavy stench of rotting refuse assaulted his senses, mixed with the dry, suffocating heat of the morning. It was a place where life thrived amidst decay, where scavengers and collectors toiled for survival.

His feet shifted on the uneven ground, strewn with waste. Flies buzzed, circling hungrily over the heaps. He adjusted his jacket, though it did little to shield him from the grime that seemed to permeate everything.

He had come here alone, paying off the bikeman and deciding against a patrol van. The last thing he wanted was to stir up trouble or appear as though he was making a scene.
Ketu was a melting pot of ethnicities, and tensions were already simmering across the state. One wrong move, and a riot could break out.

He glanced around, watching the faces staring back at him. Eyes followed him warily. Distrustful. Curious.

His gaze settled on a tall figure emerging from the crowd. Towering over everyone else, the man approached with long, deliberate strides, his cream-colored kaftan swaying slightly. He was well-fed, his face clean-shaven, save for a carefully groomed beard, white as snow. His eyes held a shrewd glint, sharp and calculating.

Edward didn't need an introduction. This had to be Mallam Nasiru, the man who controlled the garbage market.

A well-known figure who had built a small empire from scraps and refuse. Edward had heard enough to know that this man was not to be underestimated.

"You are Mallam Nasiru?" Edward asked, voice firm but steady, still feeling the weight of the eyes on him.

"I am," Nasiru replied in perfect English, his voice carrying an edge of authority. "You are a policeman, I see. What brings you here?"

Edward quickly flashed his badge, his mind still playing over the events that led him to this market. Robinson's tip had been vague at best, but it was all he had.

A young man, nameless, faceless, but likely connected to the disappearance of the boy. Mallam Nasiru might know something—or someone—who could lead him closer to his goal.

"I'm looking for someone," Edward explained, eyes narrowing slightly. "A young man. He might be one of your boys. I was told he’s been around here.

Dark-skinned, dreadlocks, dirty green singlet, and khaki shorts. Well-built. Short, maybe around five foot three."

Nasiru closed his eyes briefly, thinking. Then, without a word, he beckoned to a short, stocky man nearby. The man looked as if he had been carved from stone—his face set in a permanent scowl. Edward sized him up immediately: squat, toad-like, yet agile. Nasiru exchanged words with him in their native tongue, and soon after, five boys were brought forward.

The boys stood uncertainly in a line, their faces devoid of expression. Each one fit the vague description Edward had given.

They looked identical in their shared poverty, their gaunt faces shadowed by the hardships of their trade. He observed them carefully, pacing up and down the line. None of them dared to meet his gaze—until the second boy in line caught his attention.

The boy shifted uncomfortably, staring down at his boots with intense focus. Edward felt a sudden jolt of recognition.

The boots were scuffed and muddy, the same ones he'd kicked out from under the boy in the alley last night. It had to be him.

"There," Edward said, voice low but decisive. "The second one. He's the one."

Before the boy could react, Shorty lunged forward with surprising speed. His thick arms encircled the boy’s torso, yanking him off balance and pinning him to the ground. A small gasp rippled through the crowd as they watched, but no one moved to intervene.

Nasiru, watching with mild amusement, let out a dry chuckle. "I see you used a bit of psychology on him, eh? Quite effective, I must say. But you should know, Inspector, none of my boys are killers. I will bring a lawyer for this one if needed. However, if you’d prefer, I can have him talk right here. I think he knows more than he’s letting on."

Edward hesitated. He didn’t relish the idea of interrogating the boy out in the open, but he also couldn’t afford to waste time. Every minute that passed was another step away from the truth.

"Go ahead," Edward nodded, keeping a sharp eye on the boy as Shorty hauled him back to his feet.

Nasiru spoke to the boy in their language, his tone steady, though not without a hint of menace. The boy stammered out a reply, shaking slightly, his eyes darting nervously toward Edward.

When the boy finally finished, Nasiru sighed and turned to Edward.

"His name is Musa. He’s new here. Only been around for three months. He says he was at the site where the boy disappeared, but he didn’t see much. He heard something—a well opening and closing. He thought it was just the usual troublemakers who hang out there at night.

But then he heard a woman calling out for a child, and that’s when he ran. He was afraid something bad had happened."

Edward processed the information quickly, piecing it together in his mind. Six days ago, the boy went missing. Musa had been there, in that building possibly. The well… a woman’s voice - the mother?

It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start.

"Six days ago," Edward repeated, more to himself than anyone else. His mind raced, connecting dots, weighing options. The mystery was far from solved, but at least now, he had a thread to pull on.

"We'll take him in," Edward said at last, straightening his posture. "But like you said, Nasiru, no one's pointing fingers yet. We just need to know what he knows."

Nasiru gave a satisfied nod. "As you wish, Inspector. But remember, I’ll be there to make sure justice is done, not just assumptions."

TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter four coming in

CONTINUED



Edward angled his flashlight toward the well, its rusty hinges creaking from the years of neglect. Since the body had been discovered, no one had bothered to lock it up again.

The crime scene still exuded a cold, oppressive air. The kind of place that made your skin crawl. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Why was he even back here? Was this a mistake? Maybe.

But experience had taught him that returning to the scene sometimes revealed what had been missed the first time. Shadows of the past had a way of whispering their secrets.

He stepped into the cold night air, scanning the area with slow, deliberate movements. The beam of his flashlight cut through the darkness, bouncing off the walls of the dilapidated building like a ghost searching for peace.

The night felt thick, suffocating, as though it had swallowed all life whole.

Earlier that day, his conversation with Mr. Obah had been a dead end. The man was all bark and no bite. He was angry, sure, but his hatred for the victim’s family was rooted in religious and tribal differences—not personal. Ugly, yes. Dangerous? No. They were bad neighbors, but not killers.

Edward’s eyes traced the walls as he circled the scene.

His feet crunched over broken glass and metal scraps littered across the ground. Empty cans, metal parts—this wasn't random debris.

It was junk, but it wasn't discarded. It was collected. Someone had been gathering these things. A scavenger, maybe.

He moved deeper into the crumbling structure, his breath growing heavy in the thick, stale air.

The place reeked of decay, but that wasn’t what had his heart racing. Something felt wrong. The kind of wrong that sticks to your bones.

A faint noise—a snap, a shuffle—broke through the oppressive silence. Edward froze, his grip tightening on the flashlight. His fingers brushed instinctively toward his hip, where his gun should have been.

But he had left it behind, figuring this was just a quick check-in. Stupid mistake. His pulse quickened, echoing in his ears. He swung the flashlight in an arc, sweeping over the empty room.

Nothing.

The darkness swallowed everything whole again, mocking him with its stillness. He switched off the flashlight and crouched behind a pair of broken pillars, using the shadows as cover.

His heart pounded against his ribs. He listened, ears straining. Silence.

Then—a blur. A figure bolted past him, the movement so fast it was almost inhuman. Instinct took over.

Edward stretched out his leg just in time, tripping the intruder. There was a satisfying thud as the man hit the ground with a heavy crash.

Edward winced, his own leg protesting the impact, but he was already on his feet. The flashlight flicked back on, revealing a young man—dirty, gaunt, probably in his twenties—scrambling to his feet.

He was dressed in a torn singlet and muddy boots. The kid looked like he hadn’t seen a proper meal in weeks.

The young man bolted again, slipping into the maze of rooms and corridors that made up the ruined building. Edward cursed under his breath and gave chase, ignoring the throbbing in his leg.

The night closed in around them, and soon he found himself alone, lost in the silence again. The kid had vanished.

Somewhere, a few miles away in Ketu, a different scene played out.

It was just after 2 a.m., and the bedroom was dimly lit by the streetlight that peeked through the drawn curtains.

Anthony and Catherine lay side by side, but only one was asleep. Catherine watched Anthony in the dim light, her eyes filled with concern.

He twitched and mumbled, lost in the grip of a nightmare. His brow was slick with sweat, his body jerking in fits of fear. She’d seen this before. It was the second night in a row.

She leaned over and nudged him gently. “Anthony... wake up.”

He gasped awake, eyes wide and unfocused. For a moment, he looked like a child—scared, confused, vulnerable. He pulled away from her touch, edging toward the far side of the bed as though something was still chasing him in the dark.

"Another bad dream?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, running a hand over his face. “Yeah... just a dream.” His voice was shaky, unconvincing.

He flicked on the bedside lamp, casting a pale yellow glow over the room. The shadows retreated, but the fear lingered in his eyes.

“You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. It’s the promotion, isn’t it?” Catherine ventured, searching his face for some sign of openness. But Anthony just shook his head.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” He wiped at the sweat clinging to his forehead. “I’ll be fine. Go back to sleep.”

She wanted to say more, to reach out and pull him back to her, but something stopped her. It was like a wall had gone up between them, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t break through.

Instead, she nodded and lay back down, though sleep was the last thing on her mind.

Anthony, on the other hand, was already on his feet, padding toward the door.

“I’m getting some water,” he said, his voice distant, as though he were talking to himself more than her.

Catherine stared after him, her heart heavy. She knew there was more to his nightmares than just the new job, but she didn’t push. Not yet. She’d wait, give him time.

They had only been together for a short while, but she’d never felt this way about anyone before.

He was everything she’d hoped for—kind, caring, and so different from the string of failed relationships that had left her jaded.

But as the night wore on, and Anthony’s shadow disappeared down the hallway, she couldn’t help but wonder: was this just a nightmare? Or was there something darker haunting the man she loved?

END OF CHAPTER THREE

updates coming in, today!

NNEKA THE EYE OF A GHOST


It seemed more likely she was drawn by a force she herself could not tell. The scene was dreary, cold ad damp like wet blood on tiles.
She took the steps forward like one dragged to the hang man's noose.
She couldn't resist it though she fought. The scene was the Same like it had always been in her nightmarish dreams.

A wooden stool on its side by the left, up above a broken window glass and it's shards refracting what she felt was foggy and lazy, light rays.

The bamboo bed turned on its side so it faced the wall, a baby play thing carved and fresh - it was a head of a monkey with human figure laid on at the corner of the room.

Who did this room belong to, what had happened here, why was she so afraid, Nneka wondered as her heart pounded violently against her ribs, and her breath tightened in her lungs.

This couldn't be a dream, she knew this much. This scene was from the story read to her by her grandmother, the very day she had disappeared. This scene, was her kidnapper 's den. This was where she had been killed.



LOL DIDN'T KNOW IFITS UP TO HUNDRED SHALL

I will be dropping more updates soon, my Sim has been barred so working on it. There are edits needing proofreading a d corrections. Once I get online. Massive updates will come in. Thanks for your patience.

CONTINUED



In the early hours of the next day, Francis slowly opened his eyes. The room was dim, but he could just make out the silhouette of Hafsat.

She was watching him intently, her gaze piercing through the darkness.

The sight of her staring made his skin crawl with discomfort. Memories of the previous night flooded back, filling him with self-loathing.

“What are you staring at?” he asked hoarsely, his voice rough from sleep, as a wave of vulnerability washed over him.

“The drugs,” she replied, her voice dry and devoid of emotion. “What are we going to do about them?”

Francis tensed. This was the real Hafsat—the woman he had married, not the one who had feigned affection the night before.

The stark contrast in her demeanor was jarring, a reminder of how easily she could shift from softness to cruelty.

“What do you mean, ‘we’?” Francis protested, sitting up, trying to regain some control of the situation.

“The drugs, Francis,” she repeated, her tone growing sharper. “I asked you a question. What are we going to do with them?”

Her voice carried a dangerous edge, and Francis felt a knot of unease tighten in his stomach.

“They’re not mine,” he lied, the words tumbling out hastily.

Hafsat snorted in disbelief. “Oh, please. I know you’re lying.”

She paused, then quickly got out of bed, wrapping herself in a robe. She crossed the room and sat on the settee, her eyes never leaving him.

Even under the dim light filtering in through the curtains, he could feel the weight of her gaze, the way it seemed to strip him bare.

“Oh, I see how it is,” she continued, a cold grin spreading across her face. “You want out, don’t you? Well, I want out too. This marriage isn’t for me. I want money, and lots of it. I want to enjoy life, ride in the latest cars, wear the most expensive clothes, and those drugs are my ticket.”

“What are you talking about?” Francis began, his voice faltering as the realization dawned on him. She had the upper hand. “Where are the drugs, Hafsat? Where did you hide them?” He shot out of bed, his heart racing with a mix of fear and anger.

“Don’t move,” she ordered, her voice laced with a newfound authority. Francis froze, recognizing that she had outmaneuvered him once again. “So, you thought you could pull a fast one on me? Maybe sell the drugs and run away, probably leave the country and abandon me? Leave me high and dry?” She let out a bitter, mocking laugh, the sound of it grating on his nerves.

“I’ll get you for this,” Francis snarled, his hands clenching into fists.

“Let’s see you try,” she sneered. “I’m the only one who knows where the drugs are. Now, listen to me, Mr. Inspector.” The title was spat out like a curse. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Always trying to have it your way. Well, two can play that game. Here’s what’s going to happen: if you haven’t already started looking for buyers, you’d better start now. I want that money. Once you’ve found someone, I’ll take over the deal. If you play nice, I’ll let you keep 15%. But cross me, just once, and you’ll regret it.”

The venom in her voice sent a chill down his spine. In that moment, Francis saw her for what she truly was—a cold, calculating monster.

He cursed under his breath, feeling the weight of her gaze on him.

There was nothing he could do for now, but he was certain she would slip up eventually.

They always did. And when she did, he would be ready. He would seize his chance and show her that he wasn’t someone to be trifled with.


TO BE CONTINUED

Woman! Francis is in trouble, I think!

CONTINUED



Inside the Keke on his way home, the events of that fateful day replayed in his mind like a broken record.

He had left the compound in a hurry, disappearing into the winding streets until he reached the safety of his home.

Fortunately, Hafsat was still at work, giving him the solitude he desperately needed.

Still trembling, he found a bottle of gin and poured two stiff shots, gulping them down in quick succession.

The alcohol burned his throat, but it had the desired effect—it steadied his nerves and brought a semblance of calm.

As his senses returned, his eyes landed on the bag, now resting ominously on the table. He hadn’t known why he’d taken it; it was a frantic, unplanned act that defied logic. Perhaps it was the gin's influence that heightened his curiosity.

Without further hesitation, he emptied the contents of the bag onto the table.

Three bundles of tightly wrapped one-thousand naira notes, with a half-bundle beside them, lay before him. At a glance, it looked like around three hundred and fifty thousand naira.

But what really caught his attention were the next set of items: three neatly wrapped packs of white powder, each weighing a kilogram.

It took two more shots of gin to steady his thoughts, but the burning question remained—what was he to do? Reporting it to the police would have been the logical choice, but he was already a murderer.

The missing weapon linked him to the crime, making the police a dangerous option. Dumping the drugs somewhere and contacting the owners might expose him to even greater dangers, especially since he was already compromised.

As he wrestled with his options, a memory flashed in his mind. Years ago, back in his days with the Special Kidnap and Rescue Squad, there had been a story about a police officer who had stumbled upon a stash of illegal drugs.

The officer sold the drugs on the black market, amassing a fortune before fleeing the country. Now, it seemed that fate had handed him a similar opportunity.

Driven by the possibilities, he reached out to a contact to inquire about the value of the drugs.

The answer had him reeling. “Twelve million naira?” he yelped, unable to contain his excitement. The plan formed quickly—sell the drugs, resign from the force, and escape the country.

He could start over, with enough money to ensure his safety. Hafsat, of course, would have to remain in the dark the entire time.

When he finally returned home that evening, the noise from inside told him Hafsat was already back.

He frowned. She was home early, an unusual occurrence. He sighed heavily; the idea of home had long lost its comfort.

He opened the door and was met with a scene straight out of a movie.

There stood Hafsat, as beautiful and alluring as the day he met her. She wore a two-piece lingerie set under a sheer, transparent frock that left little to the imagination. It was the most sensual sight of his wife he had ever seen.

A primal hunger surged through him, a raw and intense desire that caught him off guard.

“Welcome home, darling,” she purred, turning slowly to reveal her smooth, soft skin.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice thick with lust and suspicion.

“What do you mean, what is this?” she replied, her tone playful yet laced with intent. “I’m in the mood, darling. A woman shouldn’t be denied her desires, and I know—”

She walked toward him, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes conveying unspoken promises.

“You want it too,” she whispered.

Now close enough to touch, her scent enveloped him—irresistible and expensive. It was odd, this sudden display of affection. The last time they’d been intimate was over a month ago.

He had lost interest in her, repulsed by her presence, and they had started sleeping in separate rooms.

But tonight, she was different. This was all a ploy, he realized. Of course, it was.

The money! The thought hit him like a bolt of lightning.

“Oh no, don’t tell me you—” His words trailed off as he saw the guilt flash in her eyes. He bolted toward the guest room, where he had hidden the bag of money.

Frantically, he tore it open. Inside, the neatly stacked bundles were gone, replaced with empty rubber bands and half a bundle of cash. By his calculations, Hafsat had made off with two hundred and fifty thousand naira.

“You devil,” he muttered under his breath, his temper flaring. He had already killed one person—what difference would a second murder make? Especially if it brought him some twisted satisfaction.

Fueled by rage, he stormed back into the living room, ready to confront her, but he was met by a surprising sight.

Hafsat was on him in an instant, pressing her now-naked body against his.

“Tell me how much you really want me, baby,” she whispered, her lips dangerously close to his ear, stealing his breath away with a long, passionate kiss.

In that moment, the flames of his anger were quenched.

She had him trapped, disarmed, by her allure. He was once again at her mercy and He hated himself for it.


TO BE CONTINUED