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CONTINUED



The black gate of the quiet house on Adowude Street flew open, clanging against the wall. Whoever was in such a hurry left no room for subtlety. The midday sun was high; it was twelve minutes past one.

Mrs. Abiri Ruth, not easily startled, ignored the racket as she rushed to her metallic red Venza. Her fingers fumbled, searching frantically for the car keys. The air seemed thick with pressure, as though time itself was glaring down on her, punishing her lateness.

“Gift, have you seen my keys?” Ruth asked, her voice a mixture of irritation and worry as she hurried back inside the house.



Her daughter, lounging on the settee with a bowl of ice cream, shrugged nonchalantly without taking her eyes off the TV.

But Ruth had no time to wait for a response. She dug through the pillows, toys, and stray items on the settee until her fingers found the cool metal of the keys. Relieved, she turned briefly to Gift, forcing a smile.

“You’ll be okay, right? Mommy’s going to work. I’ll be back by 8 p.m., not a minute late.”

She planted a quick kiss on Gift’s forehead, then hurried back out, leaving no room for further conversation. It was the third day Gift had been home alone, kept from school after Ruth’s ex-husband threatened to take her by any means necessary.

The restraining order was yet to come through, and Ruth’s new house was still a secret from him—a calculated step to keep her daughter safe.

Ruth drove out, hurriedly hooking the gate shut without padlocking it. There hadn’t been time to settle fully into the house; they’d only moved in five days ago. Padlocks were on her list of things to get soon.

Inside, Gift continued watching her favorite kids' show on JimJam, savoring each sweet bite of vanilla ice cream.

The coolness of the room, the rhythmic hum of the fridge, and the light chatter from the TV created a cozy bubble around her. She would probably nap soon and, by noon, rummage through the fridge for something to eat—maybe the leftover pizza. She disliked its cold taste, though, as she wasn’t allowed to use the microwave.



Gift placed her bowl of ice cream on the table, feeling the pressure in her bladder. She had been holding it for far too long. She hurried to the bathroom, her small feet pattering on the tiled floor.

The door slammed behind her, the noise too loud for an empty house. Gift paused, her hand on the doorknob. Was that her mother back already?

It would make sense. Mom was always forgetting things. A notebook, her wallet, sometimes even her phone. Gift had seen her fumble and curse under her breath so many times. She smiled a little to herself. Daddy always said Mommy’s forgetfulness was their biggest problem. Maybe that's why they fought so much.

Suddenly, the TV’s volume shot up. Gift’s heart jumped. The sound was way too loud. Mother would never let the TV blare like that. She hated noise. Even when Gift played with her toys, her mother would scold her for making too much racket. Gift frowned, wiped her hands on her dress, and flushed the toilet. Something felt wrong. Very wrong.

Three years ago, she’d had a nightmare about a six-headed tree monster chasing her through an abandoned school. She had woken up, screaming and drenched in sweat. Daddy had comforted her, laughing softly, saying monsters didn’t exist. "You're just imaginative," he’d said. "It’s a sign of how clever you are."

But as she stepped out of the bathroom and called out, “Mommy?” the silence that followed gnawed at her. No reply. The hall leading to the living room seemed to stretch forever.

Her heartbeat quickened, each step heavier than the last. The shadows around her twisted. She stopped dead in her tracks when something—no, someone—darted past the passageway.

Her breath caught. She had seen it. The six-headed tree monster. It was real.


The metallic red Venza screeched to a halt in front of the gate. Ruth cursed under her breath. Her phone slipped from her hand, clattering onto the pavement. She bent to grab it, gritting her teeth. Of course, the sales documents were still in the house. She could kick herself.

There was no time to waste. She pushed the gate open and rushed inside, barely noticing that it wasn’t locked properly.

If she’d been paying attention, she might have realized something was off.

Inside, the killer froze at the sound of the door slamming. His weight pressed down on the still body beneath him, his breath coming in short, harsh bursts. He wasn't finished yet, but time had run out. Her voice echoed through the house.

"Gift, where are you, baby? Why is the TV so loud? And your ice cream is all over the floor!" Ruth’s voice was puzzled, but not alarmed. Not yet.

The killer cursed under his breath. He had to leave. Now. There wasn’t enough time to finish up. He frowned, this was out of order, out of plan. He got up, silently cursing his rotten luck.

Ruth wandered into the living room, her confusion deepening. The pillows were scattered, the floor sticky with melting ice cream. Something cold gripped her stomach. She moved toward the passage.

The door had been locked when she left. Gift couldn’t open it on her own. How had this happened?

“Gift!” she screamed, her voice cracking as she ran down the hall. The sound of her shoes echoed in the eerie silence. She pushed open the bathroom door—and there, on the floor, was Gift. Her little body, stiff and pale.

Ruth’s mind screamed, but no sound came out. Her hands shook as she reached for her phone, fumbling to dial the emergency number. Her chest felt like it would explode.

“Please... don’t die... don’t leave me...” she whispered, her voice trembling as she knelt beside Gift, pressing her ear to her chest. Silence. Then—a faint thump. Her heart jumped. There it was—a heartbeat. Small, weak, but there.

Ruth screamed into the phone, her voice frantic. “There’s still time! Help her! Please, God, help her!” She sobbed, clutching her daughter’s lifeless hand, praying for the ambulance to arrive.

THE END

Incoming updates, everyone! Let's go!

CONTINUED




At exactly 9:30 a.m., ASP Edward strode into the police station. By his standards, he was late. But considering the favor he’d managed to secure earlier that morning, the lateness didn’t bother him.

No sacrifices had been made; the exchange had gone smoothly. He had made the journey, and now he was back in his office, clutching what he hoped was tangible information.

Edward unceremoniously dumped the contents of the brown parcel onto his desk. Dusty, old files slid across the worn wood. His heart skipped as he thumbed through them. Reports from the Magaji Orphanage Home—the site of so many unfortunate, unspoken horrors from decades past.

The orphanage had been a dilapidated building buried in the heart of Ojoba on Lagos Mainland. Abandoned by time. Forgotten by society.

Two, maybe three decades ago, it had barely scraped by, surviving on the meager, irregular donations from the public. Yet, despite its squalor, it was never without children. Forgotten children. Abandoned, unwanted by the world.

Children rained into the place, sometimes infants, barely a year old. Others were nine, maybe ten. They trickled in, like debris from a flood, swept away by the indifference of the city.

Edward flipped through the brittle pages, hoping to find detailed records of the management. But there was nothing. Not a single name, not a hint of the individuals who ran the place. He frowned, the expression deepening the lines of his face.

The management had kept everything under wraps. Quiet. Hidden. The reports, however, told a darker story. Allegations of domestic violence, beatings, neglect. Whispers of physical abuse, sexual abuse. But there was no action. Just stories.

The statements came from street people, passersby who claimed to hear cries in the night or see bruised faces during the day. None of the children ever said a word. Except for one. His name scribbled in shaky handwriting at the bottom of a forgotten statement.

That case had been dropped. Of course it had. No one had stood by the child. The claims faded into the background noise of a corrupt system.

Edward could almost feel the suffocating weight of silence pressing down on the papers before him. Threats. Coercion. These cases were never followed up. Never prosecuted.

Then came the fire. Eight children. Four staff members. Dead.


The tragedy had unfolded during one windy Harmattan season. The orphanage had gone up in flames before help could reach them. The cause? Officially, no one knew.

Unofficially, no one cared to ask. It was chalked up to bad luck, another misfortune swallowed by the winds of apathy.

Edward leaned back in his chair, the squeak of the old leather breaking the stillness of the room. His fingers drummed absently against the desk as he reviewed the facts. No management details, no follow-up on abuse reports, and a fire that no one investigated.

He caught sight of a small blue envelope tucked between the files. He hadn’t noticed it before.

Carelessly, he tipped it over, sending a handful of old photographs scattering across the desk and onto the floor.

“Damn,” he muttered, bending down to retrieve them. The photos were faded, some of the faces blurred beyond recognition. He picked them up, one by one, until a particular image caught his eye.

It was a group picture, the kind taken at an end-of-year party. The orphanage staff, he guessed.

He studied it closely. Most of the faces were lost to time, washed away by years of neglect. But one face, standing in the center, was different. Sharper. Familiar.

Edward turned the photo over. Scrawled on the back, in faint ink, were the words: M. O. Mohammad, Magaji Orphanage Home.

A chill ran down his spine. Mohammad? He stared at the name. Could this be Salawu? The same Salawu whose lifeless eyes had stared back at him from the picture.

His pulse quickened as the realization began to set in. This Mohammad—whoever he was—was more than just another name buried in the orphanage’s dark past. He had been at the heart of it. At the center of those faces. At the center of the tragedy.

He needed answers, and fast. The kind you didn’t find in old files and forgotten photos. The kind you had to dig for. Relentlessly. Edward sat up straight, his eyes narrowing in determination.


TO BE CONTINUED

I am so glad to announce I will be dropping the entire chapter seven today. It will also be the last major update.

As the remaining two chapters will be a part of the BOOK put up on sale.


BOOK SALES OFFICIALLY BEGINS 27 (SUNDAY) OCTOBER 2024

I WILL BE POSTING THE LINKS HERE. THANK YOU ALL. FOR BEEN HERE.

IT'S BEEN AMAZING.

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THIS SUNDAY!!! SERIAL KILLER NINE COMES T A GRIPPING AND MIND BLOWING END!!


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CONTINUED


First, it sounded like drums—offbeat, dissonant, a relentless pounding in Francis’ head.

He winced, mumbling incoherent words under his breath. A slow crawl out of the darkness.

The stench hit him first—rotten, stale, like something had died here long ago. He blinked. The room was chaos. Dirty clothes scattered around, empty bottles.

The floor sticky. His body sagged against the mattress, heavy and useless. He tried to move, but pain ripped through his shoulder like a hot knife.

“Don’t move. Bullet’s still inside,” came a voice. Omoh. He was standing by the window, staring out. He didn’t turn around. “Couldn’t get it out.”

It all came flooding back to Francis—the gunfight, the screams, the frantic call for help. Now here he was, lying in this filth, drained, miserable.

His eyes locked onto a half-filled gin bottle near some blood-soaked cotton buds. His blood. He reached for it, gulped it down. It dulled the edge of the pain. Just a little.

“Why?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice. “Why did you save me?”

Omoh shrugged, still looking out the window. “I don’t know. Not for the money, that’s for sure. Maybe you should be grateful instead of grilling me.” He finally turned, eyes hard and distant. “I only stopped the bleeding. That bullet’s still lodged in there. We don’t get you to a doctor soon, you’re finished. Fever will set in.”

Francis could see Omoh brooding over something. “What is it?” he asked, his voice strained.

He pulled himself up, groaning with the effort. Weak. Too weak.

“Your face,” Omoh said, pacing now. “It’s plastered on every security outpost. You’re a wanted man. They think you’re working with A drug syndicate. They say you killed your buddies, took out your wife.”

Omoh paused, then added coldly, “I don’t care. I don’t want to know about your mess.”

Francis felt the room spin. His thoughts raced. This was worse than he expected. He hadn’t counted on being branded a traitor so quickly.

He hadn’t thought about Omoh and how he’d take the news. Omoh looked torn, his face unreadable. Dangerous.

Francis’ hand instinctively twitched. His gun—where was it? He glanced at Omoh, who caught the movement and smirked.

“It’s under the pillow,” Omoh said, his voice dry. “I’m not one for face-to-face violence. I kill in the shadows.”

Francis pulled out the gun. The cold steel in his hand steadied him, gave him a fleeting sense of control.

A flicker of assurance.

“You need to rest,” Omoh said. “Don’t push yourself. You’ve lost a lot of blood. I’ll go get some food, supplies. Don’t do anything stupid.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Omoh was out the door before Francis could say another word.

The silence in the room settled thick around him. He exhaled, a heavy sigh of relief. But his mind was spinning again.

Omoh wasn’t here out of kindness. There was always an angle with him, always a game in play.

Francis’ gaze fell on the bag behind him—the drugs. Untouched. Omoh must have seen it. Of course he did.

Francis knew he had to act soon. He couldn’t trust Omoh. Not now. Not ever.

But his body was rebelling against him, every muscle aching, pain throbbing in his head, in his shoulder. He couldn’t move yet. Couldn’t think straight.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, let the exhaustion take him under.

His grip on the gun loosened as sleep dragged him down, deep into a restless, feverish dream.


Meanwhile, Behind the hot frying pan, past the sizzle of sausages that morning, Tony stood frozen, staring at something he hadn’t seen in a long time.

A small cut on his left index finger. He had been chopping onions with the sharp precision of a pro when the blade nicked him.

The sight of blood held him in a trance. It wasn’t the pain—barely a sting—but the slow bloom of crimson welling up from the cut, sliding down his finger, dripping into the sink. Something about it felt new. Foreign.

“Tony? Is that a cut?” Catherine’s voice jolted him from his daze. She appeared behind him, worry lacing her tone.

He blinked, flexed his hand. “Yeah, just a nick. I was thinking, and it happened.” His voice had life in it, a rare thing these days.

It had been this way since his layoff. The sack hit him hard, harder than either of them expected.

Catherine knew Tony was well-off, enough savings to last for years if needed. But something about the job—something unsaid—had left a mark on him.


He had withdrawn, lost in his own head most of the time.

He wasn’t out getting drunk, wasn’t cheating, but he wasn’t the same either. He’d stay out late, wandering, coming back quiet. She figured the job must have meant more to him than he let on. Maybe this was his way of grieving.

“I want to ask you something,” Tony said, turning to her. His gaze was intense, eyes searching hers for something.

“Okay, but first, let’s clean that finger up.” She pointed to the blood still dripping from his hand.

“It’s fine.” He rinsed it off quickly under the tap, brushing it aside. Then he turned, knelt on one knee, a ring in hand.

Catherine’s breath caught in her throat. She knew what was coming next.




TO BE CONTINUED

Updates coming in

CONTINUED


Korede hit the brakes hard in front of Del Armando Winery. The building stood out, a two-story structure washed in pink, white, and red. Clean lines, vibrant colors. It was the kind of place that stood out in the dull Lagos heat. Korede liked it. As he led his team out of the car, he wondered why he hadn't come here more often. He'd remember soon enough.

"Nice spot, huh?" Korede tried to share his enthusiasm, flashing a grin at his team.

None of them shared his sentiment. They were younger, more jaded. He sighed inwardly. “No taste, these kids.”

"Let’s go," he said. "If that bottle was ordered in Lagos, it had to come from here."

Inside, the air was different—cool, heavy with the aroma of aged wine and polished wood. Shelves stretched in rows, stacked with bottles, each more expensive-looking than the last. Even the air tasted rich. Kunle let out a low whistle.

“Bet it’d take a lifetime to finish all this,” he said.

A high-pitched voice interrupted their thoughts. "Ah, customers! Welcome, welcome!"

They turned to see the owner. Armando Abel. Korede suddenly remembered why he avoided this place. Armando, a stout man with Spanish and Portuguese roots, looked like a human disco ball. He wore a flashy, silver suit that sparkled like he belonged on a 1980s music video set. His presence was ridiculous, yet somehow, he owned it.

“If it isn’t the ASP himself! And with friends!” Armando’s accent betrayed his appearance. Despite his heritage, he sounded more British than anything else.

Korede’s memory kicked in—Armando was a chatterbox, a man whose enthusiasm for gossip knew no bounds. He tried to get close to Korede more than once, but Korede had kept his distance. The man had a habit of nosing into everyone’s business. Korede couldn’t afford that.

Swallowing the urge to frown, Korede extended his hand. "Mr. Armando, my friend. The best wine expert in Lagos."

Armando’s face lit up at the compliment. "Oh, such fine words! But I prefer the term ‘liquor connoisseur.’ So, what brings you? Wine for a wedding? Birthday? Burial? Promotion? Demotion?"

Korede cut him off. “We’re here on official business, Armando.”

Armando’s eyes flickered with curiosity. His smile faltered for a second, but quickly returned. “Business? Oh my, how thrilling! The intrigue! The suspense!” He clapped his hands, childlike excitement bubbling up. “You must come to my office! We’ll have wine and chocolate! My treat!”

The detectives exchanged glances but followed. Armando’s office was exactly as Korede had feared—overly lavish, drenched in shiny art, gaudy ornaments, and absurd décor. The whole room screamed Armando’s flamboyant personality. “My little paradise!” Armando declared, waving them to sit. “Home away from home!”

The detectives sat stiffly, trying their best not to stare at the overwhelming decor. They didn’t get the chance to protest as Armando was already pouring wine. “Drink up! It’s my finest!”

For forty-five minutes, they endured Armando’s endless chatter—cheap gossip, wine trivia, and exaggerated stories. Korede felt the weight of every minute. Finally, he cut in.

“Armando, we need your expertise,” Korede said, leaning forward.

A flicker of excitement crossed Armando’s face as Korede mentioned the real reason they were there. The bottle. The green cord. It had shown up with the second murder victim, and though it seemed irrelevant at first, Korede’s instincts told him otherwise.

Armando took the bottle, his fingers tracing the cord. “Ah, yes. Estas Mi Cielo. That green cord decorates the wooden cork. It preserves the wine’s taste,” Armando confirmed.

"Is it common?" Korede asked.

“Not at all,” Armando said. “Only ordered on special occasions. What’s this about?”

The detectives exchanged glances. They knew letting Armando in on the case would spell trouble. The man couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it.

“It’s a confidential investigation,” Fumi said smoothly. “We’ll give you the inside scoop when we’re done.”

Armando’s face tightened, disappointment clouding his eyes. He wasn’t happy about being kept in the dark, but he let it go, for now. “If I may ask,” Danjuma chimed in, “I’ve heard some wines have stories. Does this one?”

Armando’s eyes lit up again. “Ah! You, my friend, are a man of taste! The story behind Estas Mi Cielo is pure tragedy, like something out of Shakespeare!”

Kunle leaned in. “Tell us.”



Armando swung into action

"Mario Esteban had never been lucky. A failed winemaker, that’s what they called him—poor Mario, always just a step behind fortune. In 1923, he was still trying. Still hauling his barrels to the market under the unforgiving sun, six daughters waiting for him at home, up on the hilltop. His last hope sat in those dusty bottles, the wine he prayed would sell. But the dry season was cruel, and no one was buying.

That day, he noticed smoke. It rose lazily at first, curling in the distance. Too far, too thin to matter. Not his problem. His mind stayed focused on his bottles. “Not today,” he muttered, shaking off the creeping sense of dread that tried to settle in. But then a voice. A voice he recognized. “Mario!” someone shouted, breaking through the market's haze. “Your home—it's burning!”

His legs moved before his mind caught up, running full speed toward the hill. Breath labored, feet stumbling, heart pounding in his chest. By the time he got there, it was too late. Ashes. His home, a charred skeleton of what it once was. And his daughters—gone. The fire had swallowed them whole.

In the wreckage, there was almost nothing left. Except one thing. A single jar of wine, untouched, as if the flames themselves had respected its presence. And somehow, the heat and smoke had altered it. The taste changed, matured, improved in a way Mario could never have managed on his own. That jar became a legend. A cursed legend. A wine born out of tragedy.

Armando clapped, the sound cutting through the heavy silence. “Hell of a story, huh?”

Fumi shifted uncomfortably. They had all heard some version of this tale, but hearing it from Armando, with the smoke still in their minds, made it hit harder.

None of them protested. It was just part of the day’s work.

A dark twist in an already strange case. Danjuma scratched his chin, his thoughts swirling.

“Could be trauma. Whoever we’re chasing, they might have a past like this. Something buried. Something that’s festered.” His voice was low, as though speaking too loudly would make the theory feel too real.

“Yeah,” Fumi muttered, staring out of the car window, her voice flat. “Or maybe it’s just a bad wine story. I don’t know. I’m just glad we’re out of that goddamn disco ball of a shop.”

She wasn’t wrong. The wine store had been suffocating, with its tacky, overdone lights and the incessant hum of something electrical in the background. It was the kind of place that felt like it was pressing in on you from all sides. The kind of place you escape from, fast.


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED



Datura Quarters stood in the middle of nowhere. ASP Edward grimaced at the sight. The air was thick with a stench that seemed to coat his throat as he inhaled, bitter and sour. The roads were a mess—broken, muddy, clogged with erosion.


A slum, barely standing. Datura was the last stop for the poorest, a borderland between Lagos and nowhere. It had survived threats of demolition and the constant flood from the sea channel nearby.

Yet it stood stubbornly, like a festering wound on the city's edge.

That cold morning, when the motorcycle dropped Edward off in front of a cluster of rusted zinc and rotting wood structures that passed for houses, he knew he had arrived. This was Musa’s home. The place where answers lay hidden.

Old man Bello had led him here. The grizzled inmate had asked to see him, saying he had something important.

Edward hadn’t expected much, but when Bello mentioned Musa, his interest piqued. "The boy won't talk," Bello had said, "but his family—they're the key. He's protecting them."

Edward listened carefully. Musa had been tight-lipped during interrogation, but Bello believed his silence wasn’t for himself—it was for his family.

The old man promised to help locate them. And here Edward was, standing at their doorstep.

The house, if it could be called that, was worse than Edward expected. Rusty sheets of metal and splintered wood barely held together. He knocked and introduced himself to the weary, suspicious faces inside.

A frail mother, barely able to sit upright, her right side stiff from a minor stroke. Two young sisters, who should’ve been in school, sat on the floor, their wide eyes darting between him and their mother.

They whispered rapidly in a language Edward recognized—an odd mix of Hausa and something else, maybe Nigerien.

"Do you speak English? Pidgin?" Edward asked, watching their reactions closely. Their nervous glances confirmed his suspicions. They were hiding something.

He didn’t press further. There was no need. He had the information he came for.

Edward nodded politely, offering a quick farewell, and stepped out of the house. As soon as he left Datura Quarters, a wave of relief washed over him. He dialed his phone.

The call connected after a few rings. "I need a favor," Edward said firmly. "I need a report, and I can’t take no for an answer. Someone’s life depends on it. I'll send the details shortly." He hung up, exhaling slowly.

Datura Quarters had given him what he needed. Now, the real work would begin.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED



The clock on the dashboard read a little past one. Francis frowned, cursing under his breath as the suffocating heat inside the black-and-white-striped Range Rover pressed down on him.

The stale air felt thick, clinging to his skin. He crouched in the cramped backseat, the leather sticking to him like a second skin as beads of sweat trickled down his neck. His whole body felt like it was being slow-cooked. The setup, now, felt like a bad idea.

The thought gnawed at him. What if Adenuga decided to leave with someone? A guard? A friend? Francis wasn’t equipped for that kind of complication. It was critical Adenuga was alone.


He tapped the gun at his side, trying to draw confidence from the cold weight of the Beretta in his hand. Omoh had assured him Adenuga would be solo, but could Omoh be trusted? He could’ve sold Francis out. Led him straight into a trap.

Francis shook his head, wiping the sweat from his brow. The heat was messing with his thoughts. Paranoia slipped in, but he forced it down. Focus.

The lot was nearly empty. A lone black Camry pulled out and disappeared into the night. He noted it. That meant the SVR was now the last car here.

His fingers tightened around the gun’s grip, a sliver of steel that gave him a flicker of courage.

Then he saw them—Adenuga and three bodyguards. They moved in sync, like shadows under the pale streetlights. Armed. Alert.

Francis gritted his teeth. He opened the magazine. Six bullets. A shootout was the last thing he needed. His stomach twisted. Chances of surviving this? Slim.

The bodyguards moved closer, their footsteps barely audible against the asphalt. Silence thickened the air.

The tension buzzed in Francis’s ears, a low hum that matched his heartbeat. Then, the unexpected.

"Find your way home," Adenuga said, his voice flat. "The wife doesn't appreciate how the car smells whenever I give you all a ride."

The bodyguards exchanged glances, nodded, and walked off without another word. Francis held his breath, eyes wide, trying to process the stroke of luck.

Adenuga stood alone now, watching the night sky as a plane crawled noisily overhead, cutting through the stillness. He sneered and slipped into the SVR, locking the door.

Francis moved. Swiftly, silently, he rose from his hiding spot, pressed the Beretta’s cold muzzle to the back of Adenuga’s head.

"Don’t move," Francis growled. "One twitch, and you’re dead."

Adenuga stiffened but didn’t panic. "We had a deal," he said, anger lacing his words. "I gave you your money. What else do you want?"

"You cheated me. You knew exactly what you were selling. I was played," Francis hissed, pushing the gun harder into Adenuga’s skull.

Adenuga let out a low chuckle, bitter and hollow. "I was never going to get the full worth. Kroc and his boss—they don’t mess around. My boss is scared stiff of Silas.

You think you’re in a bad spot? He’s about to throw me under the bus. Ordered me to return the stuff and disappear. So now, I’m screwed. I’ve got nothing left but the drugs as my way out. You want the balance? Too bad. It’s all going to hell anyway."

Francis’s face twisted in disgust. "I don’t care about your problems. I want my balance or the drugs. Now."

Adenuga exhaled slowly. "You don’t get it. We’re both dead men. Silas is everywhere. Knows everything. You think you’re tough? He’ll bury us both, and no one will even know we’re gone."

Francis’s patience snapped. "I’m not afraid of anyone. Now give me the drugs or the money."

Adenuga went quiet. Then, almost too casually, he sighed. "Alright. The drugs it is. Dead men don’t need cash."

Francis didn’t notice the subtle movement. The low light in the car cloaked Adenuga’s hands as they slid toward the dashboard.

He moved quickly, too quickly. Before Francis could react, a black Sig Sauer appeared in Adenuga’s grip.

Bam! Bam!

Two shots exploded through the silence.

Francis screamed. Pain tore through his arm, the shock paralyzing him. His weapon slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly to the car floor. His vision blurred as he clutched his bleeding arm.

Adenuga wasn’t so lucky. Slumped over the steering wheel, blood streamed down his chest, pooling in the dim light.

Francis groaned, his body shaking. The pain was unbearable. He knew Adenuga was gone, but that was the least of his worries now. He dragged himself to the car’s backseat, forcing his fingers to search through the compartments.

Blood trickled down his side, a slow, steady reminder of time slipping away.

His hand found it—the stash. Drugs. He stared at the bag for a moment, his vision darkening around the edges. He was losing too much blood. Fast.

He pulled himself out of the car, barely able to stand. Every movement felt like dragging his body through quicksand.

He stumbled, his breaths shallow. He didn’t need to be a doctor to know he wouldn’t make it if help didn’t arrive soon.

Fumbling with his phone, he dialed.

"Come get me… still at the club…" His voice trailed off as the phone slipped from his fingers.

Darkness enveloped him. It was quiet. Peaceful. Too peaceful.



TO BE CONTINUED

Let's get some updates coming

Nightstorm:
good evening boss please check your email

Boss, good morning, got your email and I really appreciate your response. I am still in the process of getting the entire story together. There are three more chapters, I will drop chapter 7-8 here and those who will be supporting me by purchasing will get the chapter 9 and a bonus Epilogue read which I will try to tidy up as the week rolls up.

It hasn't been an easy one for me. Trying to write and hustle same time. Lol thanks once again. I will respond to your mail once I get the entire book sorted together.

TAKE A SNEAK PEEK AT THE NEXT UPCOMING PROJECT AND IT'S EPILOGUE


THE S. C. A. M : BLOOD, WATER AND WINE


https://www.nairaland.com/8200410/c-m-blood-water-wine#132415484

S.C.A.M." is a dark and intense crime thriller that follows the return of Stanley, a mysterious ex-con, to Nigeria after years in exile. Reconnecting with his younger brother Mark and two old friends, Adeniyi and Christian, Stanley proposes a high-stakes scheme that promises both excitement and danger. The group, now operating under the name "SCAM," is soon drawn into a complex and morally ambiguous mission involving a powerful billionaire, Eric Chukwuemeka.

Eric's proposition seems simple but twisted: the gang must entangle his wife, Stella, and daughter, Sonia, in scandals within a month. As they dive into this murky world, they find themselves navigating a web of manipulation, betrayal, and psychological tension. Each member of the gang grapples with their own demons, and as the mission progresses, alliances begin to crumble and loyalties are tested in ways none of them anticipated.

What begins as a seemingly straightforward con spirals into a dangerous game where nothing is as it seems, and the stakes are higher than they ever imagined. Stanley’s true motives remain shrouded in mystery, even as he leads the group deeper into peril. In a world where trust is scarce and betrayal is inevitable, the line between friend and foe blurs, leading to a gripping and unpredictable climax.

"S.C.A.M." delves into themes of power, corruption, and the psychological toll of a life steeped in crime. With its relentless twists and moral complexities, the story keeps readers guessing until the very end, revealing just enough to hint at the dark secrets that lie beneath the surface.



Copyright © 2024 by Henry Inketh

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Self-Published by Henry Inketh

CONTINUED



“Want? You misunderstand, Senator. We’re not here to want anything. We’re here to help,” Mr. X said - Mr. x, been the name she had decided to call him, his voice calm, unwavering.

Each word landed like a hammer.

Carol's gaze shifted to Jay. He sat across from her, impassive, his fingers fiddling with the pendant around his neck.

From it, he produced a small chip, handing it over to Mr. X without so much as a glance at her.

“It’s all there, boss,” Jay muttered, his voice now stripped of charm, sounding more like a hustler in a back alley than the smooth-talking man she knew.

Her stomach churned. The bile crept up her throat. She knew exactly where this was heading.

“Judging by that look on your face, you’ve already guessed half of what I’m about to say.”

Mr. X dangled the chip in front of her like bait before a starving dog. His grin was sharp, predatory.

She clenched her fists, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “And you think that scares me? That I’d just roll over and let you ruin me? You’re wrong.” Her voice rose, strength returning.

She wasn’t just any woman. She was Senator Carol—powerful, untouchable.

Mr. X leaned back, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You want to gamble on that?”

Carol’s laugh was hollow, but confident. “Release it. Go ahead. You think I care? Two months from now, my re-election campaign kicks off. I’ll spin it. ‘Rising female face of Nigerian politics caught in a storm of scandal, emerges stronger.’ It’s a headline. Good PR.” She laughed again, louder this time.

“I’ll turn it into my launch pad. You’ve got nothing.”

Mr. X paused, then started clapping slowly. His grin widened, but it wasn’t admiration. It was something colder.

“You’re good. Very good.” His tone dripped with mockery. He tossed the chip onto the table in front of her.

She hesitated before picking it up. Her eyes flicked to Jay, who had moved to the mini-fridge, pulling out a drink. Without a word, he poured her a glass and slid it across the table. “You’ll need this.”

Carol scowled, but she took the drink. Her hands trembled, and she hated that Jay saw it. She hated that he had betrayed her so easily, so thoroughly. Jay was small-time, though.

She would deal with him later—if she made it out of this.

“So, you win the first round,” Mr. X said, his voice carrying an air of casual amusement. “But don’t get too comfortable, Senator. This is far from over.”

“You’ve got nothing else,” she snapped, her confidence cracking. “You’re bluffing.”

Mr. X chuckled, the sound dark, ominous. “Oh, we’re just getting started. Tell me, Senator... how’s Bobby doing?”

The name hit her like a punch to the gut. She stiffened, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Of course you do. Bobby is what his friends call him. You know him as Bakare Abiodun—your son.”

The room seemed to shrink around her. Her heart pounded in her chest. How did he know about Bakare, not even her husband knew about her estranged son? And what was his angle?

“I haven’t spoken to him in years,” she said, her voice quieter now, betraying the fear bubbling beneath the surface.

Mr. X leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Your son, like you, is gunning for power.

He’s poised to be the next mayor of Auburn, New York. First Afro-American mayor, to be precise.

His campaign is strong, backed by some very influential people. But what he doesn’t know is that 45% of his funding comes from you—indirectly, of course.”

Carol’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected this. Not Bakare. Not now.

“You’ve been funneling money to his campaign, hidden through a web of donors and offshore accounts. You thought he wouldn’t find out, didn’t you?” Mr. X’s grin widened.

“Imagine if he did. Imagine if his party found out that the Nigerian mother he despises is behind nearly half of his funding. His campaign would implode. His career would be over before it even began.”

Carol’s chest tightened. The room seemed to spin.

“And that’s not all,” Mr. X continued, his voice unrelenting. “We have every detail. Every transaction. Every name. Your little operation will be exposed, and when it is, you won’t just lose your son—you’ll lose everything. Your career. Your freedom. You’ll be publicly humiliated, tried for laundering and fraud.”

She was trapped, and she knew it. Her mind raced for a way out, but there wasn’t one. Not this time.

“How much?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Her earlier bravado had vanished, replaced by desperation.

The room felt colder than it should have. Shadows lingered in the corners, heavy and thick, despite the artificial light overhead. Carol sat back, her eyes narrowing as Mr. X signaled to his partner.

The girl—tall, sharp eyes, businesslike—produced a sleek tablet from her bag. She moved with the precision of someone who had done this before.

"One hundred million," Mr. X said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Right here, right now. You’re worth over 1.3 billion naira as of yesterday. One hundred million is pocket change. We’re not greedy. We could ask for more. But this... this will do."

The words hung in the air. Carol’s heart hammered in her chest, but her face stayed cold, impassive.

She gave a curt nod, and in less than five minutes, the transaction was complete. The screen blinked confirmation, and the girl gave a brief nod in return.

Mr. X smiled. It wasn’t warm. "See? No harm done. You’re free."

Carol’s eyes darted between them, her mind racing. Something didn’t add up. "You could’ve asked for more. Why didn’t you? What’s this really about?" Suspicion bled through her voice.

Mr. X just chuckled. "That’s a question for you to figure out, Senator."

He straightened his jacket. "Don’t bother looking for us. Don’t tell anyone. Call your people.

Tell them you’ve had a small accident and won’t make the conference. Grab a drink. Sleep it off." He winked, his voice smooth as oil. "Have a lovely day."

With that, they were gone. Just like that. The door clicked shut behind them, and Carol was left in the suffocating silence. The air seemed thicker, more oppressive now that they were gone.

Her chest tightened, and she realized she had been holding her breath.

She let out a shuddering exhale. Her hands shook. Her breath came in uneven bursts. Her mind raced, replaying everything. She had faced political threats before, scandals, smear campaigns.

But this? This was something else. They had come prepared, knew every move she would make before she made it.

For the first time in years, Carol felt small. Like a pawn.

She gritted her teeth, fury bubbling under her skin. Her eyes dropped to the bottle in her hand. The grip tightened without her even realizing. Until it shattered.

Glass cut into her palm, blood spilling over her fingers in tiny rivulets. She gasped at the sharp sting.

A curse slipped through clenched teeth as she stared at her hand. But the pain barely registered compared to the growing storm in her chest. Anger. Helplessness. Shame.

Mr. X’s words echoed in her head, cold and mocking: "...Tell them you had an accident..."

Her mind reeled. How had he known? How could he have possibly predicted this? She looked down at her bleeding hand, feeling a chill run down her spine.

The timing was too perfect, too calculated. She shuddered again, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling.

Was this the accident he meant?

No. There was no way. Her logical mind fought against the creeping paranoia. He couldn’t have known. He couldn’t.

She fumbled for her phone with her uninjured hand, blood dripping onto the floor as she dialed her assistant.

"Cancel the conference, I have met with a little accident, I need some rest,"


EPILOGUE END

CONTINUED


The voice cut through her like ice. It wasn’t loud, but it held power. The kind that makes your blood run cold.

Her mind raced. Who were these people? How did they get in? Was Jay with them? The questions stacked up like bricks in her head. She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

The powerful, unshakable Senator Carol was slipping away, replaced by a woman on the edge of panic.

She wasn’t going to let that happen.

She splashed cold water on her face, steadying herself. "You’re a senator," she muttered. "You’re not some scared little girl."

She tightened the towel around her body and stepped out, her chin held high.

Jay was dressing now, buttoning his shirt with slow, deliberate movements. He didn’t even look at her.

She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach.

The others in the room caught her attention next.

The woman was stunning, the kind of beauty that could silence a room. Fair-skinned, likely in her mid-twenties, with sharp, intelligent eyes.

She wore wine-colored trousers and a crisp white top that accentuated her figure and made her seem even more in control. She looked like she belonged on the runaway, not a hostage negotiation.

One of the men was younger, maybe in his thirties, dressed in denim and jeans.

Cool. Casual. But there was something calculating about him. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He radiated confidence, sitting with his arms crossed, as if he had all the time in the world.

Then there was the last man.

He was the one in charge. It was obvious from the moment she laid eyes on him. Tall. Muscular. Dressed in a sleek black suit that fit him like a glove.

His face was all sharp angles, his expression unreadable. He was handsome in a dangerous, almost predatory way. His presence filled the room. The kind of man who didn’t need to speak to command attention.

But speak he did.

"Senator," he said, his voice smooth, almost polite. "We won’t take much of your time. The conference starts in eighteen minutes. Our conversation will be over in ten. Please, take a seat."

The way he spoke, it wasn’t a request. She hesitated for a moment, glancing at Jay. He didn’t meet her eyes. She was dead to him. Her heart sank. Whatever this was, he was part of it. She had been played.

She walked slowly to the chair across from them and sat down. The four of them watched her like she was a specimen under a microscope. Cold, detached, curious.

"Who are you people?" she demanded, her voice steady, though she could feel the panic bubbling beneath the surface.

The man in the black suit smiled slightly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "That’s not important right now. What’s important is what we need from you." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze locked on hers. "You’re a powerful woman, Senator Carol. You have connections. money, Influence."

Her heart pounded in her chest, but she kept her expression neutral. "And why would I help you?"

The woman in the wine-colored suit finally spoke, her voice as smooth as silk. "Because if you don’t, the life you’ve built for yourself… all the power, the wealth… it’ll crumble. And we’ll make sure of it."

Carol’s breath caught in her throat. She glanced at Jay again, hoping for some sign that this was a mistake, that he wasn’t part of this.

But his face was impassive. He was a stranger now. He looked unamused and bored.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.


TO BE CONTINUED

PROLOGUE TO CHAPTER ONE



Carol stepped away from the bed, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The cool air of the room kissed her skin, sending a ripple of goosebumps across her arms. She shivered slightly but not from the cold.

She glanced back at Jay, sprawled lazily on the bed. His deep brown eyes followed her every movement. A predator’s gaze. She liked that. It thrilled her.

"I need to take a shower," she murmured, her voice soft, almost tender.

She leaned down, brushing a quick kiss on his cheek. Her lips lingered for a moment longer than necessary before she pulled away. She took a step toward the bathroom.

Jay wasn’t ready to let her go. His hand shot out, catching her wrist in a firm yet gentle grip. She stopped, heart racing.

He pulled her back to his side, his breath hot against her skin. His lips grazed her temple, moving with a slow, deliberate pace down to her chin. His mouth hovered just above hers. She trembled.

"Stay a little longer," he whispered, his voice low, rich, dangerous.

Her breath hitched. The sensation was intoxicating, as if every nerve in her body was on fire. She knew she should go—there was the conference, her reputation—but the pull of his touch was too much. Her elite colleagues would understand.

After all, they had their own secrets. And this one, this thrilling liaison, was something she could boast about later. A private conquest in a world of power.

Senator Ogbesie Carol, just shy of fifty but with the body of a thirty-year-old, thanks to high-end cosmetic procedures, was not a woman who indulged in many weaknesses. Except this one.

Her fair skin glistened in the dim light, still firm and flawless, but inside, she felt a mix of excitement and shame. The man before her, Jay, was the embodiment of everything her husband lacked.

Jay was young, athletic, and charismatic, a complete contrast to the man she called her husband.

Her husband was a banker, prestigious, wealthy, but dead inside. Their intimacy, if it could even be called that, was a cold transaction. With Jay, it was raw, electrifying, and forbidden. He wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t just a casual fling. He was… more.

"I really should go," she muttered, her voice barely audible as her legs weakened under the rising heat between them. Her body betrayed her, leaning into his touch.

"Are you sure?" Jay’s voice was laced with amusement, his fingers tracing circles along her spine.

Carol felt her resistance crumble, the familiar ache spreading through her like wildfire. But then, just as she was about to give in again, Jay pulled away.

He sighed, kissed her forehead, and let her go. The sudden absence of his touch left her breathless. She stood there, stunned, waiting for the next move.

"I’ll be here when you’re ready," Jay said, his voice soft, yet filled with a dangerous promise.

Carol shook, her body still humming from the aftermath of his touch.

She kissed him deeply one last time before slipping out of bed. Her nudity didn’t bother her here. Not in this room, with him. She felt powerful, desired.

As she walked to the bathroom, she couldn’t help but take one final glance at Jay. He was sprawled across the bed, his toned body on full display.

Everything about him screamed control. He was only twenty-six, a fact she found both thrilling and absurd. He had the body of a runway model—tall, lean, with perfectly sculpted muscles. His chocolate-brown skin gleamed, smooth and flawless. His sharp features—the clean-cut beard, the piercing eyes—were almost too perfect, as if crafted for seduction.

And that’s exactly what he was. A master of seduction.

As she turned on the shower, the warm water cascading over her, she closed her eyes. Her mind wandered to the possibilities.

A week in Australia, perhaps? She could arrange for a secret trip, far away from prying eyes. Jay would love that. The thought excited her.

"Jay-baby," she called out, her voice echoing in the steam-filled bathroom.

He didn’t respond immediately. She imagined him lounging on the bed, that smug smile of his playing on his lips.

"I was thinking," she continued, the water streaming down her body, "how about a trip? Just you and me. Somewhere far away. I’ll handle all the details."

There was a pause, and she felt her heart race. She wasn’t sure why she cared so much about his answer, but she did.


"Did you hear what I said, baby?" Carol called out, her voice rising slightly. Silence. Not the comfortable kind.

The kind that makes your skin crawl. She frowned. Could Jay be asleep? No. She doubted it.

"Jay, are you there?" she asked again, louder this time. Something was off. The air felt thick, like a storm about to break.

She climbed out of the tub, water dripping onto the marble floor. Her pulse quickened as she wrapped a towel around herself. A bad feeling gnawed at her gut.

She stepped closer to the door, then swung it wide open.

Shock hit her like a freight train.

Three strangers sat in her hotel room. A girl and two men. Jay was still on the bed, calm as a snake, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. His eyes had changed.

They weren’t the soft, playful eyes from earlier. Now, they were cold. Hard. Deadly.

She slammed the bathroom door shut, her breath coming in sharp gasps.

"Good idea," a voice called out. Male. Deep, gravelly, commanding. "Get dressed. Then come out. We need to talk."


TO BE CONTINUED

Updates coming soon, thanks for waiting around!!! Good morning people!!

CONTINUED



The gate creaked as it opened, revealing an elderly Hausa man in an oversized, cheap white and black uniform. The fabric seemed to swallow his slim, short frame.


He looked like a character pulled from a comic strip, exaggerated yet oddly fitting in the setting.

“Oga, you knock, someone will answer you,” the man said, pointing ASP Edward toward the main entrance of the imposing three-story duplex.

The ASP nodded, his gaze sweeping across the surreal estate before him.

The house was an elegant combination of dark brown and cream tones, standing regal in the fading light.

It had to be at least 2500 square meters, and beside it sat a private mosque. The car park glistened under well-placed lights, showcasing five luxury cars: a black Rolls-Royce Phantom, two black Bentley Continental GTs, a red Mulsanne, a yellow-black Mustang, and a Toyota Yaris.

The ASP couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy—everything except the Yaris was beyond his pay grade. The wealth on display gnawed at him, though he quickly buried the feeling.

Tall palm trees swayed gently, casting long shadows over the manicured lawn, which was cut to perfection. In the distance, three illuminated swimming pools shimmered invitingly.

To his left, green hedges created a natural barrier around the estate, and a well-maintained tennis court lay just beyond them. The whole scene felt like something out of a Hollywood set. Too perfect. Too staged.

He followed the cobblestone path leading to the entrance, passing several individuals who walked in and out of the house without sparing him a glance.

His uniform, his badge—none of it mattered here. He was just another outsider in their insulated world.

Salawu appeared at the door as if he’d been expecting him. They exchanged no words. Salawu led him inside.

The interior of the house surpassed the luxury of the exterior. Marble floors gleamed under ornate chandeliers, and every inch of space was filled with art, expensive furniture, and sculptures that likely cost more than his entire yearly salary.


The air smelled faintly of incense, a sweet yet heavy aroma that lingered in the hallways.

Salawu led him through a series of passages before stopping at a massive living room. “Wait here. After prayers, he’ll see you,” Salawu said, closing the door behind him.

ASP Edward scowled. The room felt too opulent, too grand. It made him uneasy. He could be left here forever, and nobody would care. A young boy, likely a servant, appeared with a bottle of wine.

The boy looked clean but carried a crude edge, handling the glass as if it were a burden. Edward took the drink and downed it faster than he should have.

The alcohol hit him quickly, warming his chest and clouding his thoughts. He cursed under his breath. He should’ve known better than to drink in this place.

The door slid open silently, and Nasiru entered, dressed in a simple cream-colored kaftan, prayer beads clicking between his fingers.

He moved with the grace of someone accustomed to wealth, his every gesture deliberate, controlled.

“I’m sorry for the wait. Daily supplications are non-negotiable, as Allah demands,” Nasiru said, taking a seat opposite Edward. His voice was smooth, charismatic. Too polished.

“No problem,” Edward replied, though his head felt foggy. “I just have a few questions about Musah.”

Nasiru’s face remained neutral, though Edward caught a flicker of something—surprise? Annoyance?—before it vanished behind a mask of calm. “Musah? Is he alright?”

“He’s awaiting trial. But something doesn’t add up. I need clarity. Can I ask you a few questions, off the record?” Edward leaned in, trying to shake the light-headedness from the wine.

“Of course. I want to help. If Musah isn’t the one, I’ll gladly assist in proving it,” Nasiru said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Edward nodded, his instincts on high alert. “Tell me about Salawu. What’s his deal?”

Nasiru blinked, the question catching him off guard. He quickly composed himself. “Salawu? He’s... well, he’s loyal. Follows orders. My orders. Why are you asking?”

“He’s been visiting Musah at the station. A lot. More than Musah’s own family. I’m curious why.”

Nasiru sighed, a touch of sadness creeping into his voice. “Salawu does what I ask. Musah’s family... they’re not around. His mother’s bedridden, his sisters—well, we look after them.

It’s a community thing. Salawu’s not fond of visiting Musah, but it’s my duty to ensure the boy’s taken care of, even in these... unfortunate circumstances.”

“Unfortunate indeed,” Edward muttered. “What do you know about Salawu’s past? Rough experience, I’ve heard.”

Nasiru hesitated, then shrugged. “He used to work security for an orphanage. Tragic story. It burned down, and most of the children didn’t make it. He was one of the few survivors. I found him after that. He’s been with me ever since.”

“Anything else?”

Nasiru shook his head. “No. He’s quiet. Keeps to himself.”

Edward nodded, though he wasn’t convinced. Nasiru glanced at his watch, his smile tightening.

“I’m afraid I have business to attend to. Is there anything else?”

“No, that’ll be all,” Edward said, standing. They shook hands, though Edward’s mind was elsewhere.

As he made his way out, the labyrinthine halls twisted around him.

He cursed, lost in the maze of opulence. Voices echoed nearby.

“Thirteen trucks are ready. We’re making arrangements as we speak,” a voice said from behind a door.

Edward’s instincts flared. He approached, his heart racing.

“What are you doing here?” Salawu’s voice snarled behind him. Edward whipped around, startled.

Nasiru appeared, now dressed in black. His eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto Edward. The tension thickened.

“I got lost,” Edward said, feigning innocence. “I heard voices, thought I’d ask for directions.”

Both men stared at him, assessing. Finally, Nasiru smiled. “Salawu, let him go.”

Edward nodded, though the feeling of being watched, of being caught in something bigger, never left him as he exited the house.


TO BE CONTINUED

nurse Mary shall! This is evil of her!

CONTINUED



The evening air carried a subtle chill, the kind that seeps in after the sun starts losing its bite. The orange hue of the sinking sun painted the sky, casting long shadows over the streets. The scent of damp earth and distant car exhausts mingled, filling the air.

Old Man Bello sat down next to Musah on the front steps of his house.


He’d noticed Musah’s silence ever since his return from visiting Salawu. Bello’s joints creaked as he lowered himself, but his voice was steady. "Is everything alright with you?" he asked, eyeing Musah closely.

Musah, who had been staring blankly at the ground, didn’t answer immediately. His fingers nervously picked at the hem of his shirt.

"Yes, sir," he replied, but his voice cracked under the weight of his lie.

"Musah, don’t lie to me. I can see something’s eating at you. Did Salawu say something? Did he threaten you?" Bello’s voice softened, his concern genuine.

Musah shook his head, his face taut with anxiety. He wanted to speak, the words sat heavy on his tongue, but fear held them back. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

"They can't harm you here. You’re safe. If you need me to, I’ll get the police to talk to you again," Bello pressed, hoping to offer some comfort.

But Musah’s fear was more complex than that. "I can't say anything, sir. They’re watching my family. If I talk… if I say anything… they'll be sent back. Do you understand? I can't let them starve." His voice was frantic, barely above a whisper.

Bello sighed, long and deep. He saw it now. Musah was trapped. There would be no prying anything more out of him today.



Meanwhile, at the Supreme Medical Specialist Hospital, the evening buzz was in full swing. Nurses moved quickly between rooms, their shoes squeaking on the polished floors.


The smell of antiseptic lingered thick in the air. Ericca manned the reception bay, a position that gave her a front-row seat to all the hospital's gossip. It was new for her, this job, and the whirl of rumors kept her on her toes.

"Ericca, you look lovely this evening!" A nurse greeted as she clocked in for the night shift. Her smile was warm, fleeting, as she disappeared up the stairs.

Ericca returned the smile, half-heartedly. The interactions were all the same until Nurse Mary showed up. Mary strolled in with a smile that sent shivers down Ericca’s spine. Yesterday’s spat between them was still fresh. They were enemies, it was one of those things, it seemed both accepted wholeheartedly.

"Good evening," Mary said, her voice laced with a false sweetness as she approached the bay.

"Hi," Ericca replied, keeping her focus on the records in front of her. She wasn’t in the mood for Mary’s games.

Mary’s smile grew, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.


"You know, some of us have been wondering. It’s no secret you and Doctor Charles are seeing each other."

She paused, waiting for a reaction, but Ericca gave her nothing. "We were just wondering when we’d be hearing wedding bells."

Ericca looked up from her work, her eyes cold. "What do you want, Mary?"

Mary’s smile flickered for a second. "I just thought you should know everything about the man you're dating. You know, before things get serious. Some men, they trap women in lies. Pretend to be something they’re not. Like hiding something... important."

Ericca’s brow furrowed. "What are you getting at?"

"Well," Mary leaned in, her eyes gleaming. "Imagine a man lying to his girlfriend. Pretending he’s avoiding romance for formal reasons. But really, he’s hiding something big. Something like… impotence." She let the word hang in the air before smirking.

The room seemed to close in on Ericca. Her heartbeat quickened. Suddenly, everything fell into place.


"You evil—" she spat, standing so quickly her chair tipped backward. She stormed out, heading straight for Charles’ office.

Bursting through the door, she found him buried in paperwork. He looked up, startled at her fury.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Her voice cracked, tears of anger welling up. "You can’t get it up, can you?"

Charles froze. He didn’t deny it. His silence said everything.

"I… I wanted to explain. I thought—"

Ericca didn’t let him finish. She turned on her heel and stormed out.

The hallways seemed to close in on her as she moved, her mind racing. Down the corridor, she spotted Nurse Mary with a couple of other nurses. They were laughing, cackling like vultures over a fresh kill.

"You’ll get what’s coming to you," Ericca warned as she passed them, her voice low and deadly. But the nurses only laughed harder, feeding off her pain.

She walked out into the cooling night air, the hospital's fluorescent lights flickering in her wake.


The weight of betrayal clung to her shoulders. It was all too much. She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew one thing: this was far from over.


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED



The sun was losing steam. The air cooled as the orange hue bled into the evening sky. A soft breeze swept through the city.

Star Hilltop and Suites stood tall, its glass façade glowing under the last traces of sunlight. Inside, the elite drifted in, seeking peace, meaningless conversation, and good food.

The rich discussed things that never truly mattered—filling the air with laughter and pretension.

But back in the kitchen, the mood was anything but light. Pressure clung to the walls like the smell of grease. Cooks scrambled, fire roaring under pans.

Orders came in waves, each demand piling onto the next. The kitchen hummed with barely controlled chaos.

Tony, fresh in his role as head chef, barked orders like a seasoned pro. It had only been a week since he took over from Mr. Xi, but the weight of leadership already felt like an old coat. He kept Mr. Xi's same cold professionalism, much to the surprise of those who expected him to falter.

The doubters among the hotel management had been silenced, for now.

But not everyone was on Tony’s side. Frederick, the Libyan sous-chef, hated him with a passion. Many had pegged Frederick as the rightful heir to Mr. Xi’s kitchen throne.

Yet here he was, working under Tony, a black man. And that, more than anything, fueled Frederick’s quiet, simmering rage.

In truth, Frederick's resentment ran deeper. He wasn't just bitter; he was racist, narcissistic—a storm of pent-up spite.

His pale skin and sharp features gave him the appearance of an American, but underneath he was rotten.

Tony approached him. “Frederick, where are the fries? How long is it going to take?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the noise of the kitchen.

Frederick didn’t answer. He stared down at the sizzling fryer, lost in thought. His mind buzzed from the three shots of whiskey he’d downed earlier.

An idea had taken root, and the alcohol only made it seem more genius.

“Frederick,” Tony pressed, “are you deaf? I asked you a question.”

Without warning, Frederick snapped. “Black man, shut your mouth. You don’t belong here.”

The kitchen fell silent. Eyes flickered between them. A tension, thick and sudden, filled the air like smoke before a fire.

Tony stayed calm, but his expression darkened.

He chose his next words carefully. “You think you can disrespect me because I’m head chef now? Do your job, Frederick. That’s all I’m asking.”

Frederick’s lip curled. He raised his voice, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“You think you're my boss because they made you director? You’re not.

You’re just another black thug. You belong cleaning toilets, not running kitchens.”

A wave of gasps rippled through the kitchen. Tony didn’t flinch. He took a step forward. “Frederick, I can smell the whiskey. Follow me to my office. Now.”

Frederick laughed, his voice grating. “Oh, look at him! Acting all professional. You’re a psycho, you know that? Mad. Everyone here knows it. You shouldn’t be here. You don’t deserve any of this.” He sneered, “Stupid black man.”

Then it happened. Like a switch had flipped in Tony’s brain, his hand shot out, grabbing Frederick by the throat.

The kitchen erupted into chaos. Frederick’s eyes bulged in shock. He struggled, gasping for air, but Tony’s grip tightened. The others rushed to pull him off, three of them barely managing to break the choke hold. They were startled. The power was just supernatural.

Tony’s face remained stone cold, indifferent, as he was dragged away. Not a word left his lips. The kitchen, once alive with frantic movement, stood frozen.

Frederick, pale and shaken, gasped for breath. His voice wavered, but he forced out a threat. “I told you all he was crazy! The management’s going to hear about this. They’ll deal with you. You’ll see!”

He knew how close he’d come to death. The raw violence in Tony’s eyes had been terrifying, unnatural.

He hadn’t expected it—hadn’t expected the quiet man to snap like that. Shaken to his core, he forced himself to breathe, his mind racing with thoughts of revenge.

By the end of the day, Tony was gone. The board of directors didn’t care that Frederick had been the aggressor. They didn’t care that witnesses backed Tony up.

He was out, just like that. Too many had doubted Mr. Xi’s decision to promote Tony in the first place, and now they had the excuse they needed.

Tony didn’t defend himself. He didn’t explain. He packed his things, collected his final paycheck, and left without a word.

The evening air felt cool against his face as he stepped outside. He breathed it in, walking aimlessly. Down the street, the smell of grilled meat caught his attention.

A suya seller was packing up for the night, but Tony ordered a few skewers anyway. He stood there, chewing, Thinking

For a split second he turned his thoughts on the grilled meat, it tasted too salty and the spice was ridiculous. But he chewed on, he didn't care.

Tonight, he would tell Catherine everything. About the dreams. About the flashes of violence that seemed to grow stronger with each passing night.

The dreams were always the same—dark, twisted things that clawed at his mind, leaving him feeling unhinged. And today, they’d spilled over into reality.

How would she react? Would she understand? Would she be scared? Tony didn’t know. But it was time to talk. He had kept too much from her, and it was tearing them apart.

He wasn’t sure what the future held. Maybe he’d find another job.

Maybe he’d start something on his own. But first, he needed a drink. Something strong to numb the storm brewing inside him.

As he walked into the bar, the city lights flickered on, casting long shadows across the streets. Tony lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and exhaled slowly.

Tomorrow could wait. Tonight, he had to face his demons.


TO BE CONTINUED

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Bam17:
I'm a big fan. Really enjoying your book. And I so love how you use your words. You're a great writer

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Updates for chapter six will come by next week. Thank you for the love and support so far it's been wonderful!

Author Note


There will be a free copy by the time the book is done for everyone. Yes! I am sending a free copy to those who have been constantly reading. The updates will come out in better volumes now. To help me finalize the book. While I prepare FOR THE S. C. A. M a romance, crime thriller novel.

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