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Good night to you dear readers

CONTINUED


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I need your help,” Kunle said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO BE CONTINUED

Good night everyone

CONTINUED


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mama Junior crumpled to the ground, overwhelmed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The case had barely settled when this new horror emerged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” Edward pressed, eager for clarity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO BE CONTINUED

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

Updates coming in!

CHAPTER FOUR


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter four coming in

CONTINUED



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END OF CHAPTER THREE

updates coming in, today!

NNEKA THE EYE OF A GHOST


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

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

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

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

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



LOL DIDN'T KNOW IFITS UP TO HUNDRED SHALL

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

CONTINUED



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


TO BE CONTINUED

Woman! Francis is in trouble, I think!

CONTINUED



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want it too,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


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



It was fifteen past eight on a humid evening at Ikoti-Ketu Mainland.

The restaurant buzzed with chatter, though Omoh couldn't help but wince at the poor choice of music filtering through the speakers. The off-key notes grated on his nerves, a dissonant backdrop to what otherwise might have been an enjoyable meal.

Nonetheless, his focus was on the steaming plate of fufu and egusi soup placed before him. The rich aroma was a balm to his senses, momentarily distracting him from the cacophony overhead.

Dinner hadn't been in his plans, especially after losing all his money on a sports bet earlier that day.

Lately, luck seemed to elude him, particularly when it came to money.

So when Inspector Francis called him out for a meeting, Omoh eagerly suggested this new spot—though now, as he glanced around the dimly lit bar, he mentally blacklisted it for its dreadful taste in music.

To Omoh, the ambiance of a restaurant was as important as the quality of its food and drink. A good establishment needed to strike a perfect balance between the flavors it served and the melodies it played.

But business came first. If things went well tonight, maybe he could order another plate and some takeaway.

Francis had sounded anxious over the phone, and Omoh knew how to capitalize on a situation like this. Information was a valuable commodity, and he intended to play his cards right.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t notice Francis until he was already standing at the table.

“There’s trouble, Omoh. I need your help,”
Francis muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness. He looked agitated, more so than Omoh had ever seen him before.

Omoh nearly choked on his beer.

Seeing the usually composed inspector so rattled was unsettling. Something serious had happened.

“What is it?” Omoh asked, setting down his food and wiping his hands—a gesture he rarely made unless things were dire.

Francis hesitated. He had always known that Omoh was as slippery as they came.

From his early days on the force to his eventual descent into petty crime, Omoh had no qualms about switching sides when it suited him—especially when food or money was involved.

Francis reminded himself to tread carefully; this was a man who would sell out anyone for the right price.

Omoh could sense that Francis was deliberating whether to spill the beans. “You can trust an old pal. Come on, what’s going on?” Omoh coaxed, finishing off his beer in one gulp.

“I—I need information,”

Francis finally said, his voice steadier now, though the guarded look in his eyes betrayed him. Omoh felt a pang of disappointment. Francis had thrown up a wall, and the flow of potentially lucrative information had come to a halt.

“About what?” Omoh pressed, leaning in. “You tell me, and I’ll get it for you.”

“The big-time drug dealers in the state. And when I say big-time, I mean the top players,” Francis emphasized the last words, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding.

Omoh paused, processing the request. Francis was known for seeking out obscure information from time to time, but this felt different. It was hard to gauge the exact purpose, but Omoh decided to play along.

“There are nine of them, really, but only three are the real bigwigs. If it’s the top dogs you’re after, are you planning some kind of sting operation?”

Omoh probed, watching Francis carefully, hoping to catch any sign of what the inspector was up to.

“Something like that,”

Francis replied, his voice betraying no emotion. Omoh couldn’t help but be impressed at the inspector’s composure, given the tension that seemed to thicken the air around them.

“Okay, okay—no need to tell me everything,” Omoh said, sensing Francis’s reluctance. “

The big three are Chief Obasi Hendrick, Alabi Kingsley, also known as Kanada, and the last on the list is Sillas. These are the main players; the rest are small-time operators.”

Francis nodded thoughtfully, absorbing the information.

“Which one does Kroc work for?” he asked, his tone casual, but the question was anything but.

Omoh’s eyes widened. The mention of Kroc stirred something within him, a deep-seated fear mingled with intrigue.

“I can’t just tell you that,” Omoh said, leaning back, weighing his options. “Kroc—you know him as well as I do. That’s going to cost you.”

“How much?” Francis asked, though the bitterness in his voice made it clear he knew he was being taken for a ride.

“Ten grand plus dinner and takeaway,” Omoh grinned, sensing an opportunity to turn this into a profitable evening.

Francis sighed, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a neat bundle of one-thousand-naira notes, catching Omoh’s attention. Rumor had it that Francis was as broke as a shattered bottle and in desperate need of a financial lifeline.

This display of wealth contradicted those whispers, and Omoh’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the inconsistency.

Francis quickly tucked the bundle back into his pocket, noticing Omoh’s scrutiny.

“I’ll give you six thousand and just dinner,”

Francis countered, but Omoh could tell he wasn’t really trying to haggle. The inspector could have driven the price down further if he wanted to. It confirmed Omoh’s suspicion—Francis had come into some money, and recently too.

“Oh no, Kroc is vicious, you know. If he finds out I’m selling out information to someone like you, he’ll have his boys break my legs. You wouldn’t want to see me crippled and begging by the roadside, would you?”

Omoh tried to sound sympathetic, though the glint in his eyes said otherwise.

“You already beg, Omoh, just without the crutches. Eight is my final offer. Take it or leave it!” Francis snarled, visibly unimpressed.

Omoh sensed he had pushed enough. “Fine, I’ll take it. But only because you’re my friend. I like helping friends who help me,”

he said with a grin, though the sincerity was lost on both of them.

“Kroc works for Sillas, among other shady dealings. Sillas has a direct import link for the white stuff—better quality than anyone else in the game. Kroc is his main distributor, handling all the dirty work. Sillas doesn’t deal with small-timers.”

Francis pondered this new information. “Do the other two buy from Kroc?”

“Oh yes,” Omoh nodded. “They do. Sillas’s product is top-notch, and Kroc is the only one who moves it. Anyone else who tries gets shut down fast. Kroc squeezes every penny he can out of the dealers. It’s not a game for the faint-hearted.”

Francis leaned back, pretending to be bored. “So, what happens if someone tries to undercut Kroc?”

“Oh, they’ll be dealt with quickly. Kroc has a reputation to maintain. He doesn’t tolerate competition. Anyone trying to sell under his nose won’t last long.”

“Right,” Francis murmured, signaling the waiter. He paid for the meal and drinks, then placed eight one-thousand-naira notes on the table, which Omoh swiftly pocketed.

Omoh watched as Francis left the restaurant, then pulled out his phone. It was time to make some quick inquiries—something he realized he should have done a long time ago.

Outside, Francis boarded a Keke and headed home. He had gotten what he came for.


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


Around the office block, Fumi had just finished a phone call while Kunle waited patiently for a chance to speak with her.

"Get this. There have been over twenty-five cases in the last month and eight more in the past two weeks. For various reasons, 85% of these cases were accounted for, 10% have been resolved, but the remaining 5%—that's where our victims are found. Intelligence has nothing on them just statistics,"

Fumi revealed, her voice tinged with frustration. She noticed a smile creeping onto Kunle's face and brightened up.

"You’ve got something. Let's hear it," Fumi urged, her curiosity piqued.

"Oh yes, boss lady. Cyber forensics combed through the social media space. It was heavy work, but we found the girl,"

Kunle said, his tone triumphant as he pulled out his phone and handed it to Fumi.

"Nasiru Rahmat, age nine, went missing on June 16th, three weeks ago, from Obale-Ikorodu, a residential area. The deceased’s clothes matched 99% of what’s shown in the photos posted on Facebook,"

he explained, watching as his findings clearly made an impression on Fumi.

"Why don’t these people ever report these cases?"

Fumi muttered to herself as she returned the phone.

"Well, this is Nigeria. There are many reasons. In fact, some of these cases may have been reported but never made it up the chain," Kunle pointed out, and Fumi nodded in agreement.

"We have to contact the family, let them identify the body, and gather more information. We need to ID the others. If there’s a pattern, we need to uncover it,"

Fumi insisted, her determination evident.

“I doubt Cyber can help us any more than they already have,” Kunle said, his frustration evident in his voice.

“Those guys hate to work. You should have seen the hatred in their eyes when I dropped this job on their laps. If I go back there, they’ll probably start a protest.” His tone grew more exasperated as he stressed the point.

Fumi nodded in agreement. It had become increasingly difficult to get the cyber forensic team to do anything these days.

“We could go public with this, you know,” Fumi suggested thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing as she considered the implications.

Kunle’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Exactly my thoughts—break the case wide open. Put enough out there to let some information trickle in.”

He was already imagining the possibilities, his voice animated.

“It’s odd, though,” Fumi mused, her brow furrowing. “They haven’t even picked up on the discovery yet.”

She fell silent, thinking. Then, with a slight, stoic shake of her head, she reached for her phone and dialed the ASP's number.

Kunle watched her closely, sensing she knew something he didn’t.

The conversation with ASP Korede was lengthy, filled with exchanges of information and suggestions.

When Fumi finally hung up, a deep frown etched itself on her face.

"Goddammit. They want us to keep it under wraps," she spat out, her distaste clear.

Kunle leaned back in his chair, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Let me guess, something to do with the state government going to war with Muken Globals? Politics as usual.”

Before Fumi could respond, her phone rang again. It was ASP Korede.

"Hello, sir," Fumi answered, her tone more reserved this time.

"Is it really that bad? No progress on the case?" Korede asked thoughtfully.

"Yes, sir. We’ve exhausted our intelligence. Cyber is no help at the moment. We need information, sir,"

Fumi admitted, her frustration seeping through every word.

Korede’s voice took on a firm edge. "I don’t agree with the CSP's view. We never see eye to eye on things like this. He’s got politics and government hands in his pockets. Let’s blow this case wide open."

Fumi hesitated. “But, sir, you just said—”

“I know what I said,” Korede cut her off, his tone crafty. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Detective Fumi, you work in an office with over a hundred people moving around every day. I’m sure information leaks happen often, don’t you think?”

A slow smile spread across Fumi’s face as she caught the hint in his words.

“I know just the right person for the job. Leave it to me, sir, and thank you for your support.”

“You and your team can always count on me,” Korede replied, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “

The CSP is going to blow his lid, so make it good. It’s been a long time since he invited me to his office for a public lecture.”

Fumi could almost see the smug smile on his face.

The call ended, leaving Fumi with a sense of relief and satisfaction.

Even Kunle, who had been listening in, seemed pleased with how things had turned out.

“So, we’re blowing this case wide open, huh?” Kunle remarked, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Didn’t you hear what the ASP said? Not us. Someone will, and he’ll do a damn good job of it!” Fumi replied, her voice laced with determination.

Kunle’s eyes gleamed with an idea. “I think I know the perfect guy for the job. We could even take it to national TV with him on board.”

“Get on it immediately,” Fumi instructed. “Let’s see what the public knows.”

As Kunle quickly exited the room, Fumi made a mental note. But then, her thoughts drifted back to the little girl, Rahmat—her lifeless body sprawled on the refuse heap.

The image was burned into her memory, and it only fueled her resolve to get justice.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


"My client declines to answer that question," Romeo persisted, his defiant tone leaving no room for negotiation.

He reminded himself that nothing should be revealed that could potentially be used against them in a lawsuit.

"Okay, but can you confirm whether there is a list of some sort for these security checks?" Black Jack asked again.Romeo, his sharp eyes scrutinizing the detective, replied,

"My client declines to answer that question."Black Jack sighed, a sign of apparent frustration. This lawyer was getting under his skin.

He closed his notebook and set down his pen, staring intently at Romeo."Alright," Black Jack began, changing his approach.

"In the event of an emergency—say, if one of the pieces of equipment were stolen or damaged—what is your standby protocol for these temporary security officers?"Romeo paused, sensing there was nothing incriminating in the question.

The detective had already given up, which was exactly what Romeo had hoped for. "Go ahead, Mr. Gerrard. You can tell him," he finally said, reassuringly.

"I can? Oh, well, they would notify the authorities immediately and then get in touch with the Ogun State Vigilante—"

"Vigilante? Or do you mean the police?" Black Jack interjected, his voice sharp.

He watched Gerrard closely, catching the brief twitch in his eyes—the telltale sign he sought. Gerrard had lost his composure, if only for a moment.

"Hold on a minute, oh," Romeo's eyes widened as a sudden thought crossed his mind. He recognized the crafty tactics the police were known for—the sneaky, dirty tricks they used to trap people into revealing more than they intended.

Thank God he had caught on to this one quickly.

The question itself was an admission that a security protocol existed. If there was a security protocol, then there had to be a security checklist.

And if there was a checklist, then the detectives were likely already onto them, playing a calculated game of cat and mouse. Romeo was impressed; he had underestimated this detective.

"My client declines to answer that question," Romeo declared, his voice calm and measured, like a bishop about to deliver a solemn intercession.

Black Jack nodded approvingly, casting a glance at Danjuma, who grinned at the exchange between the two men.

"Well, gentlemen, that will be all for now. Thank you for coming in. We'll get back to you if we need anything further. Please stay close and let us know if you remember anything or have something new to share," Black Jack concluded, his tone neutral.

"I doubt you will be seeing my client or his employees again," Romeo responded with a confident smile.

"Well, you never know. Sometimes people say or do things they don’t remember, and when they do, they often want to talk it out with someone," Black Jack replied, his smile lingering.

The smile unsettled the barrister. There was a sense of triumph in it that he couldn’t quite understand.

He made a quick mental review of all the questions asked and concluded that it was just a bluff, a mere act. He was certain he had won this round.

The two men exited the office, leaving the detectives alone to discuss their findings.

"So, he uses the Ogun State local vigilantes—or most of them—to do the job. We can easily trace this," Danjuma noted, his voice thoughtful.

"That's right. He unknowingly gave me exactly what I needed. Clever, huh?" Black Jack grinned.

"That lawyer must be feeling high and mighty right now, the supervisor doesn’t look guilty anyway. He’s scared, but he seems like someone who wouldn’t harm a fly," Danjuma mused, his brow furrowed.

"We’ll verify his alibi and check out the locations of the other sites, just to be sure," Black Jack replied, his tone more serious.

"I’ll handle the alibis and look into the other sites. You take care of getting the names of the others?" Danjuma asked, standing up to leave.

"Of course. I’ll be out in a couple of minutes. I’ll see you then," Black Jack assured him.

With that, they were done.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


"Are you sure you can't handle this alone?" Mr. Gerrard Oliver, the site supervisor, asked nervously as he stepped out of the red, metallic-painted Lexus 350.

The car had just come to a stop in front of the Ikorodu Police Divisional Headquarters.

Mr. Oliver, a tall, flabby man with a prominent wrinkled bald head and an obese pot belly, was dressed in a rich sky-blue native jumper and trousers. His voice trembled slightly, betraying his unease.

"I can handle it alone," Barrister Romeo replied confidently, "but they specifically requested your presence. You need to be here, but remember, you don't have to say a word. I'll do all the talking."

Romeo, a much shorter man, smartly dressed in a tailored suit, pulled himself out of the passenger side of the car. He exuded the air of a professional lawyer, well-versed in navigating the complexities of police inquiries, a skill that had earned him the trust of many clients, including Muken.

"Okay, okay, I trust you," Mr. Gerrard muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Romeo, who had already started leading the way toward the entrance.

Gerrard trailed behind, his steps slow and apprehensive. He was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of dealing with the police, his nervousness so palpable that Romeo couldn't help but notice.

The site supervisor seemed as though he feared the police might somehow seize his very breath.

Twenty minutes later, they were seated in a modest office, waiting for their host.

Barrister Romeo observed the anxiety in his client’s eyes, which only seemed to intensify as they waited.

"Just remember, don't say anything. Relax and smile. The police are not your enemy," Romeo reassured, his tone soothing.

"We certainly aren't," a deep voice interrupted from the doorway. Black Jack, the lead detective, entered the room, followed closely by his partner, Danjuma, who took a position by the wall, observing the interaction.

After brief introductions, everyone took their seats, with Romeo eager to wrap up the meeting as quickly as possible—a sentiment Black Jack seemed to share.

"Can you tell me how you first learned about the discovery of the body?" Black Jack asked, his voice calm and steady as he opened his notebook.

Mr. Gerrard looked at his lawyer as though seeking permission to speak, and Romeo gave a quick nod.

"I had a business deal to finalize that morning, before 10 o’clock," Gerrard began.

"I was about to leave home when my phone rang. Naturally, I was expecting the security report, so I answered. Martin was on the line—he was scared, hysterical even. He said there was a body, that someone had died, and I told him—"

"He has answered the question, detective. Anything else?"

Barrister Romeo interjected, cutting Gerrard off and signaling him to stop speaking. Gerrard looked visibly relieved.

"Okay, yes," Black Jack continued, his pen poised over his notebook. "As the site supervisor, can you explain how you conduct these security checks?"

"My client declines to answer that question," Romeo responded, his voice firm, a tone that even Gerrard found slightly amusing.

Black Jack considered the response, then scratched something off his notes.

"Can you provide me with an outlay of the site? A security blueprint for the primary site? I suppose Muken Global Constructions has one, as required by regulations?"

"My client declines to answer that question," Romeo announced again, grinning slightly. Gerrard, however, appeared increasingly rattled.

"Does your client decline because he doesn't have one, or because—" Danjuma began, but Black Jack quickly motioned for him to remain calm, cutting him off mid-sentence.

For a moment, both detectives had almost forgotten about Danjuma, who seemed to make Romeo uneasy with his silent observation.

"I apologize for that. Let's continue,"

Black Jack resumed. "It's come to our attention that Muken Global Construction and its project have been temporarily halted for nine months. How have you been able to maintain and monitor the equipment during this period?"

Romeo pondered this carefully, sensing a trap in the detective's seemingly innocent question. His job was to ensure his client didn't fall into it.

Even harmless questions could become dangerous if twisted out of context.

"My client wishes to speak only off the record," Romeo began, "meaning—"

"I understand," Black Jack interrupted, closing his notebook and flashing a dull, mysterious smile. He leaned back slightly, giving Romeo the signal to proceed.

"Well," Gerrard began hesitantly, "due to the extended period we expected the legal battle to last, we’ve been using ad-hoc security staff to monitor the sites.

There are about four others I manage as well."

"And how do they go about these security checks? How do you ensure they’re actually doing their job?" Black Jack pressed.

"My client declines to answer that question," Romeo interjected quickly.

"Can I then have a list of the personnel you’ve been using? Surely, you keep some kind of record for these monitoring activities, don't you?" Black Jack asked, his tone unwavering.

TO BE CONTINUED

Here we go!!

Happy New month Every one. New updates are coming in. Sincerely, this has been very exciting for me. This probably feel like my first big break here. Thank you all. Much appreciated.

Nightstorm:
thanks for the update boss

My pleasure

Current Project : SK9 MURDER MYSTERY


https://www.nairaland.com/8175169/serial-killer-9-gripping-serial