₦airaland Forum

Thanks for waiting, happy reading!!

CONTINUED



GRRRRHH!


The buzzing of his phone yanked ASP Edward out of his post-lunch daze. He glanced at the screen—Detective Hassan.

Odd. Hassan had been unreachable for days. Edward raised an eyebrow, curiosity pricking at the back of his mind as he picked up the call.

The voice on the other end was frantic. Hysterical.

"ASP, there’s been a development! Send a patrol team now!" Hassan’s voice cracked, the urgency clear.

Edward's grip on the phone tightened. "What’s happened? Hassan, speak clearly."

"It’s... it's Francis, sir! There are bodies. People are dead here!"

Edward’s stomach dropped. The air in the small restaurant seemed to thicken as dread wrapped around his throat. "Stay where you are. I’m on my way."

Within minutes, Edward arrived at the scene with a team of uniformed officers.


The stench hit him first—blood and rot, thick in the humid air. Flies buzzed in and out of the open doorway. Inside, the scene was pure chaos. Bloody handprints streaked the walls, lifeless bodies strewn like discarded dolls, their twisted forms barely recognizable.

Hassan stood by the door, his face pale, drenched in sweat. He looked like a man who had just stared into the abyss.

"What happened here, Hassan?" Edward asked, though the answer seemed obvious from the carnage.

"Sir, I—I don’t know," Hassan stammered. "I got here and... found this. It’s like a slaughterhouse. I think... I think it’s been like this for at least a day."

Edward didn’t respond. He moved deeper into the room, careful not to step in the pools of congealed blood.

The metallic tang of death clung to his nostrils, sharp and invasive.

His eyes scanned the floor—empty bullet casings. Edward bent down and picked one up, rubbing it between his fingers before pocketing it.

His thoughts whirled. Francis. The name echoed in his head like a bad omen.

Behind him, another officer entered, Tabori. He looked shaken, guilt clouding his eyes.

"I... I was here yesterday," Tabori confessed quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Edward's head snapped toward him. "What do you mean? Yesterday? Why didn't you report this earlier?"

"I didn’t know, sir. I came by, saw nothing. I knocked and when no one answered I left But—" Tabori hesitated. "Now I think something was already wrong when I left."

Edward stared at him, piecing together the timeline. "So, something must’ve happened after you left, or maybe right before. Either way, we missed it."

His tone carried the weight of a reprimand, but it wasn’t time for that. Not yet.

Hassan’s eyes landed on one of the bodies, his breath catching in his throat. "She’s here," he murmured, his voice breaking. "Hafsat. He loved her. How could this happen?"

Edward swallowed hard. He turned toward the men in uniform, barking out orders.

"We need a Person of Interest bulletin on Francis. Now. I don’t care how far he’s gone—get his face out to every checkpoint in the state and beyond. Intelligence, too. If he's already crossed state lines, I want to know about it."

"Sir, what if he is in trouble, he could have been attacked?" Hassan protested.

"Suspect or POI, he and only he alone can really tell us what happened here, so we need to find him, ASAP!" Edward declared, only tabori agreed with this view but he didn't care, he had given an order.

As the officers scrambled into action, one of them returned with evidence bags.

"Sir, we found these on the others." The officer held out several items—cigarettes, matchboxes, and cell phones. Then, the most damning—a stash of narcotics.

Edward felt his blood run cold. The rumors had always floated around Francis—dirty cop, chronic gambler, maybe even deeper. But Edward had never believed it. Not until now.

"What the hell has Francis been up to?" Edward muttered to himself, shaking his head. His mind raced through the possibilities. Drugs.

Dead bodies. Disappeared. It didn’t add up. Or maybe it added up too well, and that’s what terrified him.

He handed the narcotics to Hassan, who was still trembling but trying to keep it together. "I need IDs. I need to know who these men are. Can you handle it?"

Hassan nodded weakly, eyes glued to the wreckage of what was once a woman he knew. A woman Francis had sworn to protect when he took the vows during his wedding day.

Edward glanced toward the door, the sunlight outside a sharp contrast to the dark reality inside.

His mind flashed back to Francis. A seasoned intelligent inspector. But now, this? Edward couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal twisting in his gut.

"Francis, what have you gotten yourself into?" he whispered, walking outside to clear his head. The sun beat down on him, a sharp, relentless reminder that the day wasn’t done.

But Edward felt done. He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around him as he stared at the horizon, unsure of where to go next.



TO BE CONTINUED

CHAPTER SIX



Ado-Ketu. Hidden away from prying eyes. A crumbling face-me-I-face-you building, tucked in a filthy corner, fenced off like a secret.

The walls, unpainted, cracked, stared back at anyone who dared to look. Four rooms. All occupied. A yawn, a fart, a belch—Omoh was waking up.

It was nearly 11 a.m., and Omoh stretched lazily. The sun barely pierced through the grimy window.

His one-room apartment was as shabby and broken as he was. A wooden table, half-collapsed, gathered dust in one corner. An old TV, long abandoned, sat to the side. Cobwebs hung like banners, and the air reeked of stale beer and neglect.

Newspapers, yellowed and crumpled, littered the floor. The bed, if you could call it that, sagged under its own weight. Dirty plates and empty bottles completed the scene.

He was a pig in his sty. No wonder his wife had left. Took their kid and ran back to the village after he lost his job. Omoh didn't care, though.

Never had. His belly was the only thing that mattered. And it was growling now. Breakfast time—way past it, actually.

Money was scarce, but he knew a trick or two to score a free meal at one of the new eateries down the street. He was still thinking about what to order when the knock came.

Sharp. Urgent.

"Who is it?" Omoh grumbled, irritated. He hated distractions, especially when food was on his mind.

"Your neighbor. Open up," came the voice from the other side.

He dragged himself to the door and flung it open. The moment he did, his breath hitched. A gun stared back at him. Cold steel. He froze, pale, eyes wide.

Francis stood there, calm but menacing. "Back up," he ordered.

Omoh complied, stepping away from the door slowly. Francis followed him in, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Before Omoh could even utter a word, Francis slammed the butt of the gun into his face.

Crack.

Omoh crumpled to the floor, hands clutching his nose, blood spilling between his fingers. He whimpered, the pain searing through his face.

"Say anything stupid, and I'll blow your brains out," Francis growled, the gun pointed right between Omoh’s eyes.

"I didn't mean to sell you out!" Omoh wheezed, still clutching his nose, blood soaking his fingers. "I swear, it wasn’t like that."

"Shut up." Francis’s voice was ice. "You betrayed me. That’s all that matters."

"Please, Francis... we’ve been pals for years," Omoh begged, his voice trembling. "You know how it is. I’ve been useful to you."

Francis’s glare didn’t waver. "I need info on Chief Obasi’s right-hand man, Adenuga. His movements. Where he goes, who he talks to. All of it."

Omoh flinched, so he wasn't going to die, he thought. "Adenuga? You want me to spy on him?"

Francis cocked the gun. "You got a problem with that?"

Omoh stammered, one hand still pinching his bloody nose.

"No, no, no problem. But Adenuga... he's dangerous. He doesn't trust anyone."

"Neither do I." Francis's voice was low, steady. "You’ll figure it out. You didn't have any problem selling me out, did you?"

Omoh winced at the accusation. "I had no choice! It's survival out here. You know the drill—everyone for themselves. I’d sell my own mother if I had to."

"Yeah, well, I ain't your mother," Francis snarled. "And you're gonna give me what I need, or I’ll put a bullet in your knee."

Omoh swallowed hard. "I can make some calls... Adenuga’s a tough guy to track, but I can ask around, it would take time."

Francis squinted at him. He knew Omoh was a snake—slippery and sly. But if there was one thing Omoh valued above all, it was money. His loyalty had a price.

"You want to earn 300,000 Naira?" Francis dangled the bait. Omoh’s eyes lit up. Greed. Pure, unfiltered greed.

"300k?" Omoh repeated, licking his lips. "I’d sell my soul for that."

Francis believed him. "You get 100 now. The rest when I’m done."

Omoh’s eyes darted to the door. Francis caught the look. "Don’t even think about double-crossing me, Omoh. You try anything, and I'll blow your kneecaps off."

Omoh gulped, nodding like a puppet. He grabbed an old bottle of gin lying nearby and downed the last of it, the liquor burning down his throat. It barely dulled the pain in his broken nose.

Francis reached into his jacket, pulling out a list. "Here. I need supplies add some sprays to that, this place stinks like hell. Run these errands for me, and keep your ears open. The police might be sniffing around soon. I need to know if they get close."

Omoh glanced at the list. "You in trouble?"

"What do you think?" Francis snapped.

Omoh wisely stayed quiet. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with tension.

Francis paced slowly, eyes always on Omoh, like a predator sizing up its prey.

"Make no mistake," Francis said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "You try to cross me, and I will make sure you never walk again."

Omoh nodded, wiping the blood off his face with the back of his hand.

The gin was wearing off, and the pain was creeping back in. He knew Francis wasn’t bluffing. The man was dangerous, more so now than ever.

"Alright," Omoh muttered, pocketing the list. "I’ll get you what you need. And I’ll keep my ear to the ground."

Francis nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching into what might’ve been a smile. "Good. The game’s on, Omoh. Don’t mess it up. I would hate to leave your corpse in here like I did the others, don't test me!"

Omoh slunk out of the room, clutching the doorframe for support. He was badly shaken.



TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter six coming in

CONTINUED



At that same time, at the Ikorodu Police Division Headquarters, kunle scanned the crowd quickly, his face tense with anticipation. New intel had just come in from cyber.

His heartbeat quickened. He felt the weight of urgency in the air.

"What’s on your mind?" Danjuma’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Kunle inhaled sharply. “We’ve got a case. It came in minutes ago. A girl, nine years old, found this morning in the toilet of an abandoned building in Mofe-Ketu. Neck’s broken.”

He paused, letting it sink in.

Fumi's head snapped toward him. "Sounds like our guy. Nine years old. Broken neck. Probably strangled.”

Everyone’s attention shifted. The weight of the room shifted too. A serial killer. Another child.

Fumi’s voice turned sharp. “Kunle, stay on cyber. We’ll handle the scene. Got ground support?”

“Yeah,” Kunle nodded. “Local officers are still there. I’ll tell them to hold the scene.”

As Kunle left, Danjuma muttered, “He’s getting bolder. You’d think the publicity would slow him down.”

Fumi’s jaw clenched. “Serial killers don’t stop unless we make them. It’s not just killing. It’s an addiction. He gets off on it.”


They arrived at the scene—a rundown building in Mofe-Ketu. Two officers stood near a growing crowd of tenants.

In the distance, someone wailed. The girl’s mother, probably. Grief hung in the air like thick smoke.

One officer approached, relief visible on his face. "We’ve kept everyone off the scene.”

“Good,” Fumi said. “My colleague will ask a few questions. Get the witness statements you’ve gathered.”

Fumi and Danjuma entered the building. The stench hit them first—damp and decay, the smell of death. The girl lay in the corner of a filthy, broken toilet.

Her small body crumpled against the wall, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

Danjuma crouched down. “Strangulation,” he murmured, noting the bruises around her neck.

Fumi scanned the room. Nothing out of place. Except for two cigarette butts, carelessly discarded.

She stepped toward the door, inspecting it closely. “Forced open. He waited here. Smoked. Then struck.”

Danjuma frowned. “Why does he always leave them in places like this? Trash. It’s like he sees them as garbage.”

Fumi’s lips tightened. “Maybe to him, they are trash. Something to be discarded. Sick bastard.”

Black Jack entered, shaking his head. “Nobody saw or heard anything.”

Kunle joined them, frustration in his voice. “The kid just turned nine yesterday. Neighbors say the door’s been locked for days. No one saw or heard a thing.”

Fumi crossed her arms. “We know he smokes. We know Ketu and Ikorodu are his hunting grounds. He’s not afraid of us or the media. He won’t stop.”

Danjuma’s voice was low, thoughtful. “He’s careful. Calculated. He watches, waits for the right moment. This wasn’t luck. He planned it.”

“We can’t keep finding bodies. We have to stop him before he strikes again,” Black Jack said, his tone hard.

“Look for anything unusual on the streets these past few days,” Danjuma suggested. “There’s a woman downstairs—a seller. She might’ve seen something. But don’t ask about the murder, she may feel pressure, just get a bottle of coke and engage her. Ask about anything off. Our killer isn’t a ghost. He blends in.”

Black Jack nodded, impressed. “Good thinking.”

As Fumi stepped out to take a call, Danjuma studied the scene again.

Something caught his eye. He donned gloves, gently lifting the child’s body. Beneath her, a small green cord. His brow furrowed.

Fumi returned. Danjuma held up the cord. “It’s him. Same cord as the last one.”

Fumi nodded grimly. “The cord was not added in the details released to the media, Two cords. Two girls. It’s symbolic. Doesn’t play a role in the murder, though. Just his signature.”

Black Jack reappeared, breathless. “The seller saw something. A new black Camry. Tinted windows. Parked here for a few nights in a row, then gone the night before the murder.”

“Did she get a plate number?” Fumi asked.

“No. She only remembers the car because it looked shiny and new,” Black Jack replied.

“We’ll set up surveillance tonight,” Fumi began.

“He won’t come back,” Danjuma interrupted. “He’s too careful. But he’ll slip up eventually.”

Fumi’s phone buzzed again. She answered, her face serious. “We’ve got a match. New intel from Kunle. Two more victims. A nine-year-old and an eleven-year-old. Same pattern, strangled and dumped.”

Silence fell. The puzzle pieces were coming together, but the picture remained elusive. The pressure was mounting from the media. From the CSP. And the killer was still out there.

“We need to follow up on the new cases, an eleven years old - that's new, ” Fumi said, her voice resolute.

“This has become really interesting, He’ll make a mistake,” Danjuma murmured. “People are going to get more cautious. Fear spreads fast. He’s smart, but soon, his hunting grounds will dry up.”

They stood there, staring at the lifeless body of the child, knowing they were no closer to stopping him than before.

The killer was playing a deadly game, and they were chasing shadows. They’d done all they could for now. Time to let the uniforms handle the rest.


END OF CHAPTER FIVE

CONTINUED

Some 25 kilometers away, Francis leaned back in his plush chair.


The suite was a palace. Twice as big as any place he'd ever stayed.

Tastefully decorated with pricey art, polished wood, and sleek gadgets. He let his eyes roam over the room, soaking it in. Worth every naira of the 300,000 he'd shelled out.

It was the kind of place Hafsat would’ve loved. A smile tugged at his lips. Thinking of her now? He chuckled, low and dark.

The memory of her last breath stirred something in him—relief. Like a weight lifted. Better than the priciest whiskey or the lavish meal he’d ordered. Last night was hazy. The deal had gone down clean. Adenuga looked like he’d swallowed glass when Francis handed over the bag.

A bulky, awkward thing, full of cash. Adenuga hadn’t been ready for that much. Who could blame him?

Francis took it all in stride. Dublin Hotel and Suites—the best of the best. It had security, privacy, and a reputation for discretion. Not to mention the women.

Word was, they had the finest escorts in the city. His eyes drifted to the sunrise filtering through the window. Eight hours to kill before his visa arrived. Plenty of time for one last indulgence.

The memory of Hafsat’s face twisted his lips into a sneer. Desecrating her memory felt like justice.

He picked up the phone and called downstairs, the service boy's voice buzzing in his ear.

"Need company," Francis said, voice smooth but firm. The kid gave him the rundown, and Francis tipped him generously.

The deal was set. Time to eat like a king.

He ordered a breakfast fit for royalty. Eggs, meats, the finest pastries. A bottle of wine to top it off. His eyes wandered to the bag of cash on the bed—his millions. Safe. Untouched. Life was different now.

No more risking his neck for ungrateful bosses or barely scraping by. Tomorrow, he'd be on a plane, far away. Australia. A fresh start.

A knock at the door jolted him. His hand instinctively moved toward his gun, but he relaxed. He was safe here.

“Who is it?”

“Breakfast, sir,” a voice replied.

He tucked the gun under his pillow and opened the door.

That’s when the fist hit him. Hard. Everything went black for a second, and he stumbled back, crashing into the bed.

No time to react. Two massive hands pinned him, while two more fists pounded his ribs. Over and over.

In five minutes, it was done. They hauled him up, his face a mess of blood and bruises. He was alive, but barely. Then he heard a voice he recognized all too well.

“Put him on the bed. I want to talk,” Kroc said.

They threw him onto the mattress like a ragdoll. Francis wiped blood from his mouth, staring at Kroc.

The man took his time, dusting off a settee before sitting down, casual as you please.

Kroc wasn’t impressive to look at—short, fat, pushing sixty. But he had power. Real power. He ran the underground—drugs, gambling, women. Everything.

The rumors said he fed people to crocodiles. Francis believed it.

Kroc yawned, bored, as the service boy rolled in the breakfast cart. No fear in the kid's eyes. Just business. That’s when Francis knew he’d been set up.

“How long do I have?” Kroc asked, still calm.

“Thirty minutes. No one will come up, sir. I cleared the back exit too. It’s all set,” the boy replied, bowing out quickly.

Kroc opened the trays and began eating. Slow. Deliberate.

“You’re living well, for someone who still owes a bit here and there,” Kroc said, chewing on a piece of grilled chicken. “Nice life.”

“What do you want, Kroc?” Francis spat, tasting blood in his mouth.

Kroc gave a lazy smile. “What’s mine.”

“The drugs?”

Kroc chuckled. “You think I’m here over drugs? You stole something far more valuable. Where’s the three kilos of plycellurine?”

Plycellurine. Francis’ mind raced. That wasn't just any drug.

It was something special. Dangerous. He'd sold it. For ten million.

“Ten million,” Francis muttered.

Kroc’s eyes turned dark. The plates crashed to the floor as he stood, grabbing Francis by the throat and slamming him against the headboard.

“Ten million? Do you know what you sold? That compound amplifies the effects of any drug. You’ve cost me over a hundred million. I’m going to make you pay.”

Francis was choking, his vision dimming. Desperation clawed at him. His hand slid under the pillow, fingers finding the cold steel of his gun. In one swift motion, he fired. Kroc staggered back, a hole in his stomach.

Francis held him upright, using him as a human shield. The three musclemen froze, guns ready.

“Come closer, and he’s dead,” Francis growled. Kroc, now whimpering, was no longer the crime boss. He was prey.

“Don’t shoot!” Kroc shouted, clutching his wound. Blood poured from him.

Francis didn’t waste time. “What did I sell?”

“You idiot... that powder’s worth more than the drugs. Who’d you sell it to?” Kroc’s voice was fading, weak.

Francis didn’t answer. He tightened his grip on the gun, watching the men for any sudden moves.

“Hand over the bag,” Francis ordered one of the men, who was pale and trembling. The man obeyed, sliding the black bag toward him.

“How did you find me?” Francis asked, still alert.

“We have people everywhere. Someone tipped us,” Kroc mumbled.

Francis glanced at the exit. He had a plan. Swiftly, he shot the three goons. Clean. Quick. No hesitation. Kroc whimpered.

Dragging Kroc toward the door, Francis thought about his next move. Kroc wasn’t the top dog. There was someone else. Bigger. Meaner.

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” Kroc wheezed. “The boss... he’s coming for you.”

Francis said nothing. He grabbed Kroc’s phone, unlocked it, then knocked him out cold.

He left him there, bleeding and unconscious. He had a new target. Adenuga. The man had known exactly what he was selling.

As Francis disappeared into the streets, he smiled grimly. The real game was just beginning.

TO BE CONTINUED

Updates coming in now!

The remaining parts of Chapter five will be out tonight, thanks for reading.

CONTINUED



***************************


The prison smelled of sweat, filth, and despair. A single, weak ray of light trickled in through a small, square hole high up on the wall, barely illuminating the dark, crowded cell.

The air was thick, suffocating, as prisoners jostled for space, each breath an effort. Inside the chaos, Musah sat apart. Silent. A man waiting for a fate he had already signed away. His lawyer, a bloated, self-important man named Barrister Okafor, had scribbled Musah’s confession. It was a farce. A desperate man grasping at the straws of a broken system.

Now, Musah waited. Three weeks until the verdict. Three weeks until whatever was left of his life would be decided.

He didn’t belong here. Even the other inmates sensed it. Musah was like a lamb in a den of wolves—out of place, eyes always downcast, muttering in a strange dialect no one understood.

But today was different. Someone approached him.

Someone spoke to him, not in the usual rough street language of the prisoners, but in a dialect that tugged at the corners of Musah's memory.

"Hello, what are you doing here?" the voice asked. It wasn’t the harsh cadence of Lagos pidgin. It was the soft, rolling syllables of a language from the far north.

Musah turned, meeting the gaze of an old man. Frail but warm. His gray beard and gentle eyes set him apart from the rest of the prisoners.

Musah blinked, unsure if he was dreaming. "I... I did something bad," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

The old man lowered himself beside Musah, joints creaking with the effort. “They call me Old Man Bello. Been here thirty-five years. What about you? You don’t look like you belong here.”

Musah swallowed, eyes misting. He hadn’t spoken about his past since arriving. No one asked. No one cared. But something about Bello felt safe. “Kaduna,” he muttered.

“Kaduna?” Bello’s eyes lit up. “I’m from Muguri myself. Are you from there too?” Musah’s face brightened for a moment, a flicker of recognition, but then, just as quickly, his expression darkened.

He shook his head frantically and moved to a darker corner of the cell.

Bello watched him retreat, his old eyes narrowing in thought. The boy didn’t fit the profile of a killer. Something about his case had bothered Bello since he first heard the guards gossip about it.

Musah was quiet, too reserved, too lost in his thoughts to be a cold-blooded murderer. And Bello had a reputation. Over the years, he had earned the trust of both the prisoners and the guards. He passed along useful information to the police and kept his head down. But Musah’s case tugged at him. Something didn’t add up.

From his corner, Bello kept an eye on Musah, watching as a prison guard approached with a visitor. The guard, Robinson, was followed by a short, stocky man who caused a ripple of whispers among the inmates. Salawu. That was the name.

Musah’s eyes widened as Salawu approached, a look of fear flickering across his face. The fear was unmistakable.


Musah shuffled over to the gate, exchanging a few tense words with Salawu before following him and Robinson out of the cellblock. Visiting time. Fifteen minutes, no more.

Bello wasn’t the only one who had noticed the strange connection between Musah and Salawu. ASP Edward had his suspicions. From the moment he laid eyes on Musah, something felt wrong. The confession felt forced, too convenient. The crime Musah was accused of—a brutal killing—didn't seem to match the boy's timid demeanor. Edward had seen confessions before, and this one stank of desperation, maybe coercion. But then, Musah had signed it. That was proof enough for most.

Still, two things gnawed at Edward. First, the memo. Three bodies had turned up across the city in the past month, and the cases remained unsolved. The possibility of a serial killer lurked in the shadows, a murderer targeting children.

The second thing was Salawu. Edward had noticed him hanging around Musah during visits, and something about their interactions seemed... off. There was more to this story. Something hidden in plain sight.

Edward pushed the thought aside for now. On his desk lay the files for two cases—Musa and Junior, two boys, both murdered. One fit the profile of the child strangler from the memo. The other? Well, Musah was accused of that one.

But Edward wasn’t so sure. He had cross-referenced the cases, noted the similarities, and filed it away. He would visit one of the witnesses later. Something about their statement had been bothering him.

Stretching, Edward realized how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten all day.

He grabbed his coat, deciding to swing by Mama Sabor’s for some food before heading to the witness's house.

He tried calling Inspector Francis, but as usual, his phone was off.

Typical. Edward grumbled as he stepped into the crowded, noisy streets, the case files still nagging at the back of his mind.

In the dark corner of the prison, Musah returned to his cell, his face pale, eyes distant. Bello watched him closely, sensing the tension. Whatever was going on, it was deeper than anyone realized.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED



Meanwhile, somewhere along Shagamu Market, a silver Camry parked carefully by the roadside came into focus.

It hadn’t been there long; the driver had just dropped off two men who quickly disappeared into the throng of bustling people.

Adamson had decided it was time for breakfast. He scanned his options: roasted plantains, fried yams, and beans cake. His stomach growled.

He grimaced, recalling a terrible experience with roadside food. But the beans cake, frying in hot oil, seemed to call out to him, glistening and golden.

He joined the short line, five people deep, waiting for the older woman to serve.

The oil sizzled as she expertly turned the cakes, her hands moving with the slow precision of someone unbothered by the morning rush.

Adamson, however, was in a hurry. Time was important to him, and the woman's unhurried movements grated on his nerves. He hated waiting.

“Madam, we’re all waiting for you. Kindly hurry it up. I have work,” he snapped, injecting a sense of urgency into his voice. No one paid him any attention. His shabby appearance likely made him invisible to the other customers.

The line inched forward. He was third in line now. Adamson considered complaining again when his phone rang.

Annoyed, he glanced at the number. It seemed familiar, but he wasn’t in the mood to think about it. He answered with a sharp, “Hello, who is this?”

As the line crept forward, he eyed the exact beans cake he would pick, already mentally calculating how many he'd get for his money. Then the voice on the other end spoke, and his blood turned cold.

“Hello,” she said. Her voice was soft, almost playful, but it carried an icy undercurrent that froze him where he stood. He straightened, suddenly on alert, his breath coming in shallow bursts.

“Who is this?” Adamson’s voice faltered, betraying his sudden unease.

“Driver, have you forgotten me so soon? You wouldn’t forget the girl you picked up some time ago, would you? One night, by the expressway? While you went off to murder innocent children?”

Her words hit like boiling oil. His throat tightened. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.

He had heard the news just a day ago—about the boy, and other bodies found. He had avoided listening to the details, hoping to distance himself from the nightmare.

Someone behind him tapped his shoulder angrily. He’d been holding up the line. He stepped out without a word, his appetite gone, his nerves frayed.

A few rude comments floated his way, but he was too shaken to care. Gripping his phone tightly, he made his way back to his car, slamming the door shut.

"Are you still there?" Her voice came again, teasing, as if she could see him trembling in his seat.

He could imagine her smiling—an evil, knowing grin. His stomach churned. What did she want from him? He could feel the bitterness rising like bile in his throat.

“Madam, please, what’s all this?” His voice cracked, coarse with fear.

“Oh, come on, Adamson. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You thought you got away, didn’t you? That night, you lied about a big snake, but I knew something was off. And now I know why. You’re the—”

“Madam, please!” He cut her off, frantic now. “I swear it’s not me. I didn’t kill anyone. I saw the body and I panicked. I ran. Please, believe me! I’m not the killer!”

His voice rose, a mix of desperation and helplessness. His breaths were short, almost hyperventilating.

“There’s a call for citizens to report anything suspicious to the police,” she continued coldly. “I think you should turn yourself in before I do.”

He could picture her again, her face twisted with malice. His heart pounded in his chest.

“The police? Oh my God, no. Please, don’t do this. They’ll arrest me. I didn’t do anything!” He was babbling now, close to tears. “Please, I’ll go mad in prison. You don’t understand!”

“Oh? ‘Back in prison,’ you say? So, you’ve been there before. Interesting.”

Adamson’s mind raced, but he couldn’t think clearly. His body felt heavy, his hands clammy. He had a record, but nothing related to murder. If they found out, they’d never believe him.

“Look,” she said, her voice dropping low, “maybe we can work something out. I don’t have to go to the police. I want two million naira. Can you get me that?”

Adamson’s heart dropped. Blackmail. He’d known there was something more in her voice, something sinister lurking just beneath the surface. And now it had surfaced.

“Two million? Madam, I don’t have that kind of money. Please, you’re making a mistake.”

“Cry me a river. You have four days. I’ll send you an account. If you don’t pay, I send everything I have on you to the police. Your face, your details—it’ll all be online. You’ll be hunted like the dog you are, you child-strangling monster.”

The call went dead.

Adamson sat there, paralyzed. His body was drenched in cold sweat. Outside, the world continued without him.

People bustled around the market, unaware of the nightmare unraveling inside his car.

Four uniformed policemen were roughing up a street hawker across the road. A hot slap sent the poor man crumpling to the ground. The sight of the violence made Adamson shiver. No one would believe him.

The police would eat him alive if they thought he was involved.

He swallowed thickly. The police weren’t an option, not now. He couldn’t raise two million naira in four days either.

His mind spiraled into panic. The hawker outside stood up shakily, defiant, but Adamson couldn’t feel any of that strength. He was trapped.

With a trembling hand, he gripped the steering wheel and stared blankly out the windshield, with teary eyes and a heavy heart.

TO BE CONTINUED

Updates coming in. We are doing it for the avid fans.

SK9 CONTINUES.
SK9 will continue, kindly stay glued to the page, thanks

Good morning everyone!

CONTINUED


At the Supreme Medical Specialist Hospital, dawn broke with the sterile hum of machines and the low shuffle of early morning footsteps. The air was crisp, yet tense. Something was brewing.

Senior Doctor Charles and Nurse Mary squared off, their voices low but charged. Those walking past noticed it.

Some paused, curious but cautious. Eyes darted to the scene, sensing an unspoken storm in their midst.

"How do you explain this?" Doctor Charles demanded, thrusting a clipboard towards her. His tone was cold, accusatory.

Nurse Mary met his gaze head-on, her posture defiant. "I wasn’t on duty at that moment. I went to the restroom. I told Nurse Nancy to cover, but I guess she didn’t catch that." Her words were laced with irritation, daring him to challenge her further.

She knew she had messed up, but no way was she going to let a doctor—a senior doctor—belittle her. An hour earlier, chaos erupted when one of the wealthiest patients, Balogun James, had been exposed.

Balogun had stayed under the radar, hiding in plain sight to treat an illness no one could know about. An illness that questioned his fidelity and threatened his ability to father more children. The media believed he was abroad. But, in truth, he was tucked away here, in this hospital, shrouded in secrecy.

Until an enterprising journalist snuck into his room and snapped pictures.

It was Nurse Mary’s job to ensure no one but medical staff accessed that room.

She had failed. Now, she was in trouble. Big trouble.

"You dragged us into this mess," Charles continued, his voice rising.

Mary folded her arms. "I’m human. I had to ease myself. How was I supposed to know some rat of a journalist would take that moment to sneak in?"

Charles’ nostrils flared. "You never take responsibility. Always an excuse. I’m reporting this. You’re off reception duty. Effective immediately."

Mary smirked. "Like you weren’t planning that already. If you’re looking for a suspect, why not check the spy in the hospital?" Her words were understood quickly by the doctor, Ericca in Charles's office listened, before she stormed off.

Charles returned to his office, his face flushed with anger. "Can you believe that?" he muttered as he headed back to his office. Ericca, who had caught every word, smiled slightly.

She knew Nurse Mary’s jibe was aimed squarely at her. The rivalry between them had grown since she and Charles started spending more time together.

Ericca chuckled. "She thinks I leaked your patient’s info to one of my journalist friends."

Charles waved it off with a tired smile. "Nonsense. She’s just bitter."

Ericca moved closer, sitting beside him and leaning in. "You trust me over her, don’t you?"

He grinned, pulling her onto his lap. The chemistry between them was undeniable, a connection that sparked from the moment they met.

Yet, despite their closeness, Charles had drawn a line—no touching, no physical intimacy until marriage. He had his reasons.

Ericca tried to kiss him, but as always, he gently pulled back. "I told you, we’ve got to do this right. A few months, maybe a year, and we’ll have a lifetime together. No need to rush."

"A few years, you say?" Ericca teased.

"Well, If you say yes right now, we both could get nurse Mary's blessings and set off into the sun set," Grinned Charles.

She smiled, though inwardly, the restraint left her feeling frustrated, alone. She wanted him, and she knew he wanted her too. His eyes always betrayed him. But he held firm, always resisting.

"I’ve been thinking," Charles interrupted her thoughts. "Why don’t you take up a job here?"

Ericca frowned. "Doing what, exactly?"

He shrugged. "I could get you in. You mentioned wanting a break from journalism. Why not work here? Free internet, good pay, and we’d see each other more often without the gossiping nurses always in our business."

Ericca laughed, though she was surprised. "I do have a resume lying around somewhere."

"You don’t need that. Just say the word, and you can start tomorrow. How does 'Secretary Ericca' sound?"

She smirked, shaking her head. "You’re ridiculous. But fine, I’ll think about it. I’d love to see those nurses' faces when I walk in."

With that, she kissed him on the cheek and left the room, walking toward the reception bay. The hospital felt colder now, the sterile walls suffocating under the tension.

As she passed two patients in the corridor, their conversation caught her attention.

"Have you heard about the child strangler?" one whispered, his voice trembling.

Ericca didn’t stop. She had heard the rumors—stories of a serial killer terrorizing the city. They called him the "Child Strangler," a name that irritated her.

To her, it was just another distraction, a cheap media ploy to cover up the government’s shady activities.

The name was weak, uninspired. It barely registered in her mind.

She moved on, dismissing the conversation as noise. Her thoughts were elsewhere. Balogun’s leak, the fallout from Mary’s mistake, her own future with Charles.

But even as she brushed it off, something gnawed at the back of her mind. Her instinct as a journalist seemed to call at her, The child strangler. The name lingered longer than she liked. It was unsettling. Something about it felt... unfinished, something she thought some weeks ago, she would have jumped at.



TO BE CONTINUED

Good night readers!

CHAPTER FIVE



3:00 a.m.

The office was nearly empty. The clatter of footsteps and the murmur of voices had long since faded into silence.

Tips had been counted, sorted, and pocketed hours ago.

The detectives had been filtering through clues, their eyes burning from the strain of long shifts.

The coffee pot had been emptied and forgotten, and exhaustion hung in the air like thick fog.

Kunle slumped in a chair, Lukas the dog curled at his feet, both lost to sleep. Across the room, Danjuma, Fumi, and Black Jack stared at screens, sifting through reports with a desperation that comes from knowing that time was slipping away.

It was Day One, and the clock was ticking.

"Got something," Black Jack's voice cut through the quiet. "Abel Idogie. Nine years old. Missing since June 19th. Ibile-Ketu. Never reported. Went on an errand. Never came back." He didn’t look up from the screen.

Fumi's eyes snapped open, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "I've got the third kid. Somadina Ifakhe. Disappeared from a church premises on June 26th. Ifah-Ketu. Parents reported it but it never reached us."

A heavy silence settled. Kunle stirred, his eyes barely open. "What’s going on?"

Fumi barked, "Kunle, get up! We’ve got them!"

He snapped to attention, the fog of sleep lifting as adrenaline rushed in. "What did I miss?" he asked, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs.

"Rahmat, Abel, Somadina," Black Jack answered, his voice rough. "Those are our victims."

Kunle nodded, his mind sharpening as he joined the circle. "What’s the timeline?"

"Three victims," Danjuma began, eyes glued to his notes. "All nine years old. All went missing last month. June 16th, June 19th, June 26th. Two boys, one girl. Ketu for the boys. Ikorodu for the girl."

Fumi's brow furrowed. "Not typical for a ritual killer. Too clean. Too clinical. We need to figure out how these murders went down."

"Strangulation? Blunt force trauma? Poison?" Black Jack offered, shrugging. "Autopsies haven’t been much help. Bodies were too decomposed."

Fumi sighed, exhaustion seeping back into her bones. It was nearly 4 a.m., and they were running on fumes. But they had a lead—a fragile thread to pull. "We regroup at 7," she ordered, yawning. "I’ll handle the autopsies. You three pick a victim and run with it. Rahmat’s confirmed, but we need solid verification on the others."

Kunle stared at Fumi, a frown creasing his face. "What are we dealing with here?"

Fumi paused. Her mind raced, connecting dots that were barely visible. "A serial killer, maybe. This doesn't feel ritualistic. The precision. The timing. It feels too...personal. Too controlled. No witnesses. No evidence. One person. One sick mind."

The room fell silent. No one dared speak, but the weight of her words sank into their bones.

Kunle shuddered. "So it could happen again?"

"It will," Black Jack said coldly. "Unless we stop them."

Danjuma was already typing furiously, pulling up past cases. "We need to check for other similar disappearances. Especially around Ketu and Ikorodu. This could be a hunting ground. Let’s start with kids aged nine. That's no coincidence."

Fumi nodded slowly, her mind already plotting the next steps. "Yeah. It’s not random. I’ll bet a month's pay that this killer’s got a type—kids. Aged nine. That’s our working theory. We all agree?"

They nodded, no one speaking.

Fumi leaned back, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time in hours. "We have to get this psychopath off the streets. No matter what it takes."

The team was silent, but they were with her. All of them. This was more than a case now—it was a mission.

They dragged themselves to the door, exhaustion weighing them down. The sun would be up soon, and the next day promised to be twice as long. But they had a lead. They had hope.

For now, that was enough.

The office buzzed as the early morning haze lifted. Fumi had arrived earlier than the rest, already hard at work.

Her energy broke through the fog of tired eyes and stale coffee. She held a folder in her hands, her expression tight with determination.

"Strangulation," she announced, voice crisp. "That's the cause of death for all three victims. Confirmed."

The team looked up. Kunle’s brow furrowed, Black Jack leaned forward, and Danjuma stopped typing mid-sentence. Fumi flipped the folder open, handing out copies of the prints.

"I got Senior Specialist John Edoho to take a look," she said, her voice cutting through the still air. "He's with Supreme Medical Specialist Hospital. I told you I’d handle it. It wasn't a full autopsy, but I sent him scans and photos. He’s 95% sure all three were strangled. Same markings. No signs of material used—hands only. The bastard strangled them bare-handed. He says it’s a pattern."

"How’d you pull that off?" Black Jack asked, still scanning the report.

"John’s my godfather," Fumi replied, not missing a beat. "He was my father’s best friend. Happened to check in on me, and I remembered he worked as a chief coroner years ago. He’s got connections. Gave me a favor."

"So we’re really looking at a serial killer?" Kunle asked, more to himself than anyone else.

"We’ve got work to do," Fumi said, rolling up her sleeves. "Nine years, kids all of them, unsolved murders, possible strangulations. We need to go deep. Find out what Intelligence has on this."

Kunle smirked. "Oh, they’re gonna love us as if we didn't give them more than they ever do yesterday, today will be another surprise,"

The air in the room grew tense, a collective focus settling over them. Papers shuffled, keyboards clicked, and the hum of the computers felt like background static to the weight of the task ahead.


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED



The night hung heavy over Mofe-Ketu, a hush so thick even the street dogs seemed to surrender to the darkness.

The occasional flicker from dim lightbulbs cast a weak glow on the battered buildings lining the street. Shadows clung to the crumbling walls, hinting at years of neglect.

The road itself was uneven, patches of worn asphalt scattered with broken concrete and small puddles reflecting the scant light.
Mofe-Ketu wasn’t the kind of place where people asked questions.

It had become a refuge for those who needed to disappear, for those who had stopped hoping for anything better.

Two buildings dominated the street. Rotimi Building on the left, Sule Building on the right. Twin towers of decay.

They loomed tall, imposing but faded, their facades scarred by time.

Each had twenty apartments stacked like forgotten memories. Both had seen better days, back when Rotimi Sule Adeniran had purchased them from a group of Asian contractors who’d acquired the buildings as collateral from a long-forgotten politician. Forty-five years had passed since then, and the buildings were dying—like the people inside.

Rotimi Building had plumbing problems. Bad ones. Leaking pipes had turned most of the bathrooms into cesspools, leaving only three functioning toilets for twenty families. Sule Building was no better, with two barely usable bathrooms.

The agent responsible for collecting rent had long promised repairs, but promises were cheaper than the building’s rent. Most tenants had resigned themselves to their fate.
The rent was low, and for many, that was enough. But the Ogba family, living on the third floor of Rotimi Building, had it the worst.

They had one hope—a single bathroom on the fifth floor, still operational. But it was off-limits after 9 p.m. when the doors were locked. Anyone who needed relief had to go downstairs.

Maris Ogba, the youngest of the family, lay restless that night. She cursed the big bottle of Coke she’d guzzled earlier, the cupcakes that followed.

Now, she had to pee. She nudged her mother awake, but got only a half-asleep grumble in return. No help was coming. She groaned, trying to hold it, but the pressure was unbearable.

Sighing, she got out of bed, the cool air chilling her bare feet as she tiptoed toward the door. Her father, a security guard, often came home late, so the door was never fully locked.

She slipped out easily and descended the stairs, the silence of the building pressing in on her.

The second floor passed quietly. Maris noted the doors: Mr. Samson, the schoolteacher; Aunty Betty, the hairdresser; the Ifeanyis.

Then she saw it—a door wide open. The apartment had belonged to the Aderemis, but they had moved out two days ago.

Now it gaped like a mouth, dark and inviting, a void she dared not look into. It hadn’t been open earlier, had it?

She paused, staring into the blackness. Her heart quickened.

A creak echoed from inside the empty apartment. She froze.

Her breath caught in her throat. She turned, squinting into the shadowed doorway. The creak came again, louder this time.

The urge to pee vanished, replaced by cold fear snaking up her spine. She decided to go back upstairs, leave the bathroom for the morning.

She took one step. Then another.

Suddenly, from the pitch-black doorway, two gloved hands shot out.

One clamped over her mouth, the other wrapped tight around her neck. She had no time to scream.

No time to struggle. The grip was iron. She was dragged into the darkness, the door slamming shut behind her.

For a moment, the night stood still.

Then, the dogs began to howl. It was as if they sensed the wrongness, a primal awareness that something terrible had happened.

Their cries pierced the silence, echoing through the street like a warning too late to be heard.

The buildings stood as they always had, decrepit and forgotten. The lights continued to flicker.

People stayed in their apartments asleep, unaware that something dark and violent had just unfolded in the belly of Rotimi Building.

But the dogs knew. They howled into the night, their cries a chilling accompaniment to the silence that followed Maris's disappearance.


END OF CHAPTER FOUR

Teco2:
Thanks for update, boss

Thank you all for been patient. Honestly, I do appreciate your support

CONTINUED



CSP Audu Jimoh was a squat, beefy man. His white-gray hair clung to his scalp, contrasting with his sallow skin.

Small, unintelligent eyes peered out from under a heavy brow, and his nose flared wide above thin lips that curled beneath a graying mustache, his rubbery double chin sagging like wet dough.

He looked exactly what he was: a figurehead, unintelligent and incompetent, older than his years. He knew it, too.

The sun beat down as he crossed the parking lot, his new silver Hilux gleaming in the blistering heat. His movements were hurried, frantic, and by the time he reached the truck, his breath came in ragged gasps.

He fumbled for his inhaler on the seat, sucking in the chemical rush with desperate urgency. The air finally filled his lungs, and the tightness in his chest loosened.

Relief washed over him. He pumped the inhaler again, settling back into the driver’s seat, letting the moment stretch.

Then he noticed the mob—at first just a blur of motion on the side window, but quickly resolving into shapes he could recognize.

Journalists. Cameras. The press.

His stomach lurched. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his hand instinctively reached for the door lock. He hesitated. No, he told himself, it's just the press—not gunmen.

But that didn’t calm his nerves. He unclenched his fingers and opened the door, stepping into the searing heat. His hands trembled.

Where on earth was Juliet?


A few miles away, at the police station’s dim office, Miss Juliet Ramsay watched a computer screen with a bemused expression. She sat across from Fumi, her colleague, as a list of shopping items flickered on the monitor. Juliet was pushing thirty, though you wouldn’t guess it. Petite, dark-skinned, with oily skin and a small frame, her babyish face made her look much younger.

Her eyes, though, glimmered with intelligence and a touch of sensuality that made men take notice. Especially CSP Jimoh, though their affair wasn’t exactly a secret.

She had no idea she was being played.

“These are fabulous! I have to get them all—oh, this one’s gorgeous!” Juliet gushed. Her admiration was relentless, and Fumi’s weariness was starting to show.

The plan was working, but the drawn-out game was grating.

Thirty-four minutes. Fumi kept her smile tight as Juliet babbled on. Then the door creaked. Danjuma, one of their officers, poked his head in. A silent nod exchanged between them. Juliet didn’t catch it.

Fumi stood up abruptly. “Oh, look at the time. I need to grab something. You stay, keep browsing. Check the downloads tab for coupons, okay?”

Juliet blinked, unsure. “You want me to stay?”

“Absolutely,” Fumi reassured her with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Enjoy yourself.”

As she exited, locking the door softly behind her, Fumi’s expression shifted. She made a quick call.

“We’ve got him right where we want him. He won’t be able to deny it now.”


Back at the parking lot, the press swarmed around CSP Jimoh. They barked questions, louder and more aggressive with each passing second. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

“Sir, what do you know about the bodies discovered?”

“Is there an active cover-up? Are you silencing this part of the investigation?”

“What’s being done to protect the citizens?”

“How long have the police known about this?”

The barrage hit him like a hailstorm, overwhelming. He frowned, scoffed, stammered, growled, and sighed in frustration. Still, the press circled like wolves, snapping for a soundbite.

He hated them, hated their hungry eyes and their probing questions. They didn’t care about the truth—they just wanted their story.

And Juliet was nowhere to be found. She could’ve smoothed things over with her polished lies and well-constructed alibis. She never flinched under scrutiny, unlike him. His heart pounded in his chest.

His lungs tightened. Panic clawed at him again, and he fumbled for his inhaler when a sharp voice cut through the din.

“What’s going on here?”

ASP Korede marched up, a tall, commanding figure with his team of detectives trailing behind him. CSP Jimoh felt a mixture of relief and anger at the sight.

He despised Korede and his “elite” team of misfit detectives. They always showed up in moments like this, and they always made him look bad.

The press turned on Korede like bees to honey, sensing fresher prey. Jimoh’s chest burned with frustration as he barked, “You say nothing to them. The PPRO will handle this. Do you hear me? The PPRO will handle it!”

Korede raised an eyebrow, turning his head dramatically as if searching for someone invisible. “The PPRO? Is she even around?”

Jimoh clenched his teeth, realizing too late that he’d been set up. His gut twisted with dread. The higher-ups would be furious.

He had been specifically told to keep the situation low-profile, to reduce the media frenzy.

And now, it was about to explode.

He scowled, his face dark with anger. “See me in the office later,” he growled at Korede, who grinned like a man who’d just won a bet.

“Yes, sir,” Korede replied with a mock salute.

Jimoh’s phone vibrated in his pocket—then another, and another. He had three phones, all buzzing with the same fury.

He knew who was calling and why. Without another word, he stormed off, leaving Korede to handle the mob.

“You realize he’s going to come for us, right?” Kunle, one of the detectives, whispered to Black Jack, his partner. “If the higher-ups squeeze him—and they will—he’s going to squeeze us.”

“We can handle it,” Black Jack replied with quiet confidence. “This was the right call.”

They straightened their jackets, stepping forward to face the press. As Korede introduced his team, the detectives kept their answers concise, professional, only giving what was absolutely necessary.

The mob pressed, prodded, and questioned, but they kept their calm.

They knew the storm was just beginning.

Forty-five minutes later, the police division was a zoo. The entire place was jammed with reporters—cameras, microphones, notebooks. Every news agency, every magazine, every tabloid wanted a piece of the action.

The room buzzed with the low hum of murmurs, camera clicks, and the scribbling of pens. Titles and headlines flashed across screens as editors typed furiously, each trying to come up with the sharpest, most sensational hook.

The detectives were already deep into their work. Phones rang off the hook. Messages pinged, emails flooded in. Some were useless, dead ends; others had vague leads, bits of information that might take hours to sift through.

It would be a long night, and they knew it. Cancelled plans, unanswered calls from home—they were in for the grind. This wasn’t just another case. It was bigger, messier.

Meanwhile, in a cramped two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Ota-Mowe, Cinna slammed through the front gate, pushing it with enough force to make it bang against the wall.

She paid off the bike man with a quick flick of her wrist, barely sparing him a glance before dashing into the living room. The place wasn’t bad—certainly not flashy, but not a dump either. The kind of apartment you’d rent on a six-figure annual deal. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Collins!” she shouted, her voice laced with anger and something else—panic, maybe.

She knew where to find him. She always did. In the bedroom, sprawled out like a lazy house cat, half-asleep and half-aware. He squinted at her, annoyed by the sudden intrusion. "What now?" he grunted, his voice thick with sleep.

She ignored him, flinging her phone at him. It hit him square in the chest, forcing him to sit up, groaning.

The screen flashed a paused video. He pressed play, watching as the news anchor described three bodies found at a dump site. Cinna paced the room like a caged animal, anxiety boiling over into frantic energy.

“I don’t care about this,” Collins muttered, tossing the phone aside. “Why do you suddenly care about the news?”

“You idiot,” Cinna snapped, glaring at him. “Didn’t you hear what they said? The police are asking for information about the bodies. They want to know if anyone saw something—”

“So?”

“That taxi driver,” she interrupted, her voice rising. “The one who returned my purse. He knows something. I’m telling you, he knows something about those murders.”

Collins rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the last bit of sleep from his brain.

He was awake now. “Really?” he asked, trying to sound interested. But truth be told, none of this grabbed him. Not right now, anyway.

“Yes, really,” she snapped. “He was acting weird, like he didn’t want the police involved. That look on his face—it wasn’t right.”

Collins stretched, letting out a yawn. His stomach growled.

He hadn’t eaten in hours, and her pacing was making him dizzy. “So what? You gonna report him?”

Cinna stopped dead in her tracks, fists clenched. Her eyes darted toward him, dark and suspicious. “I’m going to make a call,” she said, voice low but decisive. She already had a plan. He could see it forming in her mind.

Before she could move, Collins raised a hand. “Hold up. There’s nothing to eat. I need some money.”

Cinna shot him a look of pure disdain. “What do you mean, ‘nothing to eat’? Aren’t you supposed to be out there, making something happen? I’m not your piggy bank.”

“Come on,” he whined, the tone of a child begging for candy. “I got something big coming up, just need a little cash to—”

“Shut up,” she cut him off, rolling her eyes. “I don’t have time for your nonsense.”

Reluctantly, she dug into her bag, pulling out two crumpled five-hundred naira bills. She slapped them into his hand like she was feeding a stray dog.

“Hah, baby, come on,” Collins smirked, flexing his muscles. “You know I’ve got to stay in shape. Look at this, huh?”

He puffed out his chest, striking a pose he thought she liked. Normally, she might’ve found it amusing, maybe even endearing. But not today.

“I’m getting tired of feeding you,” she said coldly, but added another five hundred to the pile. His eyes lit up as he reached for her, trying to pull her in for a kiss.

She swatted him away, barely masking her disgust. “Go do something useful for once.”

He shrugged, pocketing the money. She stormed out of the room, her mind racing. She knew what she had to do, and Collins wasn’t going to distract her. Not today. Not now.


Back at the police division, the press were like vultures, circling in on any hint of weakness, any morsel of information. ASP Korede’s team worked methodically, blocking out the chaos. Their cyber forensics squad was pulling its weight, sifting through data, tracking calls, tracing leads.

Each detective hunched over their desk, eyes fixed on their screens, phones pressed to their ears.

Kunle, one of the detectives, scribbled notes furiously, pausing only to glance up at the latest email.

"This is a mess," he muttered under his breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Next to him, Black Jack remained calm, focused.

They had been through worse, though not by much.

“We need to go through all of it,” Black Jack said, scanning through the reports. “Patience. We’ll get the right info.”

Kunle nodded, though he wasn’t convinced. It was going to be a long night, that much was certain.

Just outside the building, Korede leaned against the hood of his car, scanning the crowd.

The press was relentless, but he kept his cool, answering only what needed answering. The bodies found had stirred up a storm, and now it was up to him and his team to weather it.

TO BE CONTINUED

Updates coming in, chapter four is coming to an end folks

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