NewStats: 3,261,357 , 8,173,774 topics. Date: Wednesday, 28 May 2025 at 11:37 PM 6y4r

Good night everyone, thanks for waiting for the new release.

CONTINUED


Under the sprawling canopy of a mango tree, a group of men had gathered, huddled together in front of a betting shop.

Two other men stood under the harsh afternoon sun, their attention riveted on a game of draughts unfolding before them.

One of the players, Mr. Obah, was not only losing his chips but also his money.

This marked his fifth consecutive loss, and despite the game having just begun, it was clear that defeat loomed heavily over him.

"Good afternoon," a powerful voice suddenly cut through the thick tension, momentarily breaking the game’s intense atmosphere. Mr. Obah glanced up, recognizing the newcomer immediately.

The uniform gave him away. With a frown, Mr. Obah averted his gaze as soon as he saw the Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP).

The appearance of the police officer had an immediate and chilling effect; the excitement surrounding the game quickly evaporated, and the small crowd began to disperse.

Mr. Obah shook his head in silent protest, clearly displeased by the officer's presence.

Edward, the ASP, took a seat opposite Mr. Obah and studied him for a moment.

"Officer, what is it? You can’t just... what is it that you want from me?" Mr. Obah struggled to manage his irritation, though his underlying fear of the police was evident.

"I am Assistant Superintendent of Police, Mr. Edward," the officer introduced himself, but his words had no noticeable impact on Mr. Obah, who began to fiddle with the draughts pieces on the board.

"Oga police, I saw you the other day. If this is about my neighbor and their dead son, I and my wife had nothing to do with it," Mr. Obah snapped impatiently.

Edward couldn’t help but think of him as vile and uncultured.

The man's shifty demeanor only deepened Edward's suspicion that something was amiss.

"I have questions that need answering," Edward stated curtly.

"You can answer them now, or I can leave and send the boys to pick you up later. The choice is yours."

"What is it, then?" Mr. Obah sighed in resignation.

"There was an incident that occurred the day before the boy disappeared," Edward began, watching Mr. Obah’s reaction closely.

"It happened at a time when only you, your wife, and the boy were in the compound. I want to know what transpired that day."

Mr. Obah’s face twitched, betraying the panic he tried to suppress. Edward noted the change; he had hit a nerve.

"Will you tell me, or do I have to—"

"It was nothing, really," Mr. Obah interrupted, his voice rising with anger.

"That boy was a thief! He deserved to be taught a lesson that day."

"A thief? What did he steal?" Edward inquired.

"He stole a few things—a pack of biscuits, a can of sardines, lollipops, peanuts, and chewing gum,"

Mr. Obah listed. "We knew what goes on in that house.

Those people are wretched and barely surviving. So when we saw Amir with all those snacks that day, we knew he must have stolen them.

He was limping, probably ran his head off trying to avoid being caught."

Edward remained focused. "So what exactly did you do when you discovered these items on the boy?"

"We caught him and asked where he got them from. He couldn’t say anything, of course. Like his father and mother, he's a thief.

When we pressed him further, he escaped and ran away from the house," Mr. Obah explained, becoming increasingly animated.

Edward found the troubling, yet it seemed in character for the man before him.
The events didn’t quite add up, but there was a certain plausibility in Mr. Obah’s story.

"What did you do with the items? Did you inform his mother when she returned?" Edward asked.

"Inform who? First of all, we aren’t on speaking . Second, she would never believe anything we said.

We took the items, ate them, of course, and continued with our lives," Mr. Obah itted, his voice tinged with embarrassment.

Edward observed him closely. Mr. Obah’s demeanor matched that of someone who would do exactly as he described.

The Obahs were a strange, sadistic set of people.

Edward could sense the caution in Mr. Obah's words, a deliberate effort to filter the truth.

Arresting him outright would be difficult, given the lack of concrete evidence linking him to any crime.

With a faint smile, Edward began setting up the draughts pieces on the board. "Shall we?" he asked, offering a challenge that was both a game and a test of character.

Mr. Obah hesitated, then responded, "Alright. Just so you know, I won’t go easy on you. I have a reputation to uphold, so it’s all fair game when playing."

Unbeknownst to him, Edward intended to use the game to unravel the true nature of the Obah's.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED



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

23 Idowu Crescent, Ajah. From where the inspector sat nursing a half-empty Coke bottle, he could see the building. It was a typical *face-me-I-face-you* apartment, fenced off by a rusty red gate that had been pulled off its hinges, now crooked and ineffective.

For two hours, he had been watching, and not a single person had entered or left the building.

The stillness made it difficult to think clearly, yet the inspector knew deep down what he needed to do.

Perhaps itting it to himself was the hard part.

He had brought the master key set, gloves, a small portable torch, and pepper spray—just in case.

But now, even after getting the information he needed forty-five minutes ago, he found himself paralyzed, uncertain of what to do next or whether he could actually go through with it.

Time was running out; in another thirty-five minutes, the boys would be back.

The store owner had mentioned that Skipper, the trio’s leader, would return soon.

His heartbeat quickened as his nerves frayed. Hadn't he already conceived this plan before he even arrived? Hadn't he brought the master key set, gloves, and mask? So why was he so scared? It was the only way, the safest and easiest way.

Somewhere in that apartment was the police Beretta. All he needed to do was get it and get out. "Easy," he reminded himself, nodding as if to convince himself of the foolproof nature of his plan.

But satisfaction eluded him—perhaps it was his conscience gnawing at him. A seasoned police officer turned burglar and thief.

He paid quickly for his drink and, without making a final decision, darted across the road and into the compound.

The washed-out blue and cream building was an eyesore, its facade ready for demolition, covered in dirt and grime. A few kids, no older than five, played hide and seek, oblivious to his presence.

He wondered how they would describe him if asked—an unremarkable stranger, hooded, capped, and wearing black shades that concealed his face.

He was someone they wouldn’t in a hurry.

He slipped past the kids and entered the ageway.

The dim, almost dark corridor smelled of dampness and burnt incense of some kind. "Room 4," he muttered to himself.

There were eight rooms in total, four on the left and four on the right. Room 4 was on his left.

He moved swiftly. Observing the door lock, he selected the master key and slipped on his gloves. With a quiet click, he opened the door and stepped inside.

He was immediately struck by the room’s expensive decor—plush curtains, a television worth at least half a million, and other high-end furnishings.

This was a bachelor pad his wife would gladly swap theirs for. A pang of envy shot through him as he realized how much these young, rich, and single boys had. What wouldn’t he give up for that life?

Closing the door behind him, he quickly began his search. There was no need to be conservative or methodical.

Fueled by jealousy, he tore the place apart, smashing, flipping, and breaking everything in sight. Drawers were yanked open, and yet, after fifteen minutes, he had found nothing. No weapon.

This development shattered his entire plan, which hinged on finding the Beretta. What was he supposed to do now? He wondered, breathing heavily, beads of sweat drenching him.

He pulled off his hood and cap, relaxing the shades.

He still had another twenty minutes, he noted.

Then, suddenly, someone walked in.

A lanky young man, probably around nineteen, covered in tattoos and looking sickly, stood in the doorway.

His long, dyed dreads hung low, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and he carried a backpack.

The moment of shock on the boy’s face gave the inspector just enough time to react. Instinctively, he pushed the boy to the floor and bolted for the door.

But as he did, he heard a muffled scream and the sound of glass shattering.

He paused and looked back.

The boy lay on the floor, his head impaled on a shard of glass, blood pooling beneath him. The sight made the inspector shudder.

He realized with horror that he had just killed someone.

A wave of nausea and panic washed over him, momentarily paralyzing him with fear and confusion. Then, a phone began to ring from somewhere on the boy’s body.

The inspector’s eyes darted to the backpack. Without thinking, he grabbed it and fled the apartment—scared, confused, and bitter.

CONTINUED

Alright ladies and Gentle men, see you all. Tomorrow, thank you for reading always.

CONTINUED




They returned to the Divisional Headquarters just past three, the sun beginning its descent, casting long shadows across the compound. The atmosphere inside was heavy with the scent of stale coffee and the low hum of office equipment.

Shortly after their arrival, Fumi and Danjuma reed them, both looking noticeably more animated.

“We got news,” Fumi began, her voice tinged with a mix of urgency and exhaustion. “The autopsy results came back earlier than expected. Unfortunately, there isn’t much new information. The bodies are those of three children—two boys and a girl. The reports indicate they’ve been dead for over three weeks. The girl is in the most advanced stage of decay, She has been there longer than the other two, Our main victim, the boy found on top of the pile, is the most recent; the doctor estimates he hasn’t been dead for more than five days.”

Danjuma picked up where she left off. “The doctors believe all three kids were around the same age, probably nine or ten. None of their body parts are missing, and they all died the same way—by strangulation, due to the level of decay, he wasn't able to tell us how this occurred,”

“So it’s not a ritual killing?” Kunle asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“And the rope?” Black Jack interjected, his voice low and steady.

“They didn’t find anything significant about it,” Fumi responded, turning to him.

“It might have been used for another purpose by the killer. For now, it’s being kept as evidence. It could be a piece of some larger puzzle.”

“It’s too early to say,” Fumi continued after a brief pause. “Not all ritual killings involve taking something from the victim’s body. But yes, Danjuma and I agree that this doesn’t seem like a ritualistic murder. It feels like something else entirely.”

Danjuma’s eyes brightened with anticipation as he asked, “So, what did you two find out?”

Kunle and Black Jack exchanged glances before recounting their interview with Lukas and Mr. Segun.

“Incredible,” Fumi remarked, leaning in as she absorbed the details. “So, you’re saying Lukas might be able to identify a witness or even the killer?”

“It’s possible,” Black Jack replied confidently. “One thing is certain: someone else was there. They were at the pit, came by the expressway, and left the same way.”

Danjuma turned to Fumi, the unspoken question in his eyes.

Moments like these were where she excelled; her reputation as the best strategist was well-earned.

“We need to find out who these children were and what happened to them,” Fumi said, her voice decisive.

“I’ll call in some favors from Intelligence to help identify any missing children from the last one to two months. Kunle, I need you at the Cyber Forensics Department. If these kids belonged to someone, there has to be some digital trace—posts, messages, anything. If we can identify them, we’ll get a clearer picture of what we’re dealing with. And see if you can dig up more on the site supervisor and this Muken Construction, it gives me a headache knowing we will have to deal with Cooperate bodies. Danjuma, you’re with Black Jack on that.”

All four officers seemed invigorated, ready to dive back into the work.

Without another word, they dispersed, the weight of the task ahead pressing down on them like the gathering dusk outside.


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED



At Muken Global Constructions, Kunle and Black Jack watched as the pickup truck disappeared into the distance, merging with the flow of vehicles on the expressway.

It was then that they realized Lukas, the dog, had been barking. The officers turned around, their eyes following the sound, and began walking in its direction.

Lukas was no ordinary dog. He had been a gift from a work colleague who had raised him alongside other puppies after their mother, a police-trained dog, was tragically killed in an accident.

Despite not being professionally trained, Lukas had naturally integrated into the squad of detectives. With an uncanny nose for sniffing out clues and remarkable agility, he had become an indispensable member of the team.

Lukas had his own way of communicating. A single bark usually meant he was hungry, while two barks indicated he had discovered something significant.

The officers had learned to trust these signals, and today was no exception. They wasted no time and followed the dog, curiosity piqued.

"Lukas has found something. What do you think it is?" Black Jack asked as they quickened their pace.

"He’s probably found the killer or killers," Kunle joked, but Black Jack wasn’t amused. He had a deep belief in Lukas’s abilities, more so than anyone else on the team. He knew the dog was often onto something when he barked twice.

They arrived at the spot where Lukas had stopped, his eyes locked onto something on the ground. Kunle's face twisted in disgust as he realized the dog had led them to a pile of human feces.

Of all the sights he’d encountered in his career, this one was particularly repugnant. He stepped back, a frown creasing his brow.

"That dog of yours is crazy," Kunle spat, trying to rid himself of the unpleasant taste in his mouth.

"I don't think so. Look again," Black Jack pointed out. Lukas's keen eyes and nose were fixed on a set of faint shoe prints partially embedded in the sand.

"Lukas, sniff!"

Black Jack commanded, his curiosity growing. The dog lowered his nose to the ground, sniffing at the prints. Once he caught the scent, he turned and moved forward with renewed purpose.

"It probably just wants to show us another pile of crap," Kunle grumbled, the foul image still fresh in his mind. But he noticed that Black Jack was taking this seriously, so he decided not to argue further.

After all, Lukas had proven himself far more intelligent than the average canine in the past.

Lukas led them along a barely visible trail of prints. While the detectives struggled to see any pattern, Lukas moved with confidence, never losing the scent.

As the dog headed toward a heap of garbage where bodies had recently been discovered, Kunle’s interest began to grow.

Lukas halted close to the refuse pile, sniffing around before abruptly turning 180 degrees and resuming his search.

Black Jack, watching closely, sensed that there was something significant in the dog’s erratic behavior.

Eventually, Lukas emerged onto the expressway and continued until he reached a small pull-off area.

There, he stopped, his posture signaling satisfaction. His job was done, and Black Jack couldn’t help but be impressed.

"I know what you're thinking, but there could be other explanations too," Kunle said, watching as Black Jack crouched to examine some tire tracks imprinted in the dirt.

"What do you make of Lukas’s findings so far?" Black Jack asked, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the tracks.

"Well, we can assume Lukas picked up someone’s scent. Maybe someone visited the site a few days ago, saw the bodies, and left. Or maybe they were the one who dumped the bodies, took a quick look around, and drove off," Kunle speculated.

Black Jack stood, his gaze fixed on the direction the tire tracks faded. "It seems someone was at the crime scene long before anyone else.

They went to the dump, possibly relieved themselves, and then drove away."

A thoughtful expression crossed Black Jack's face. He smiled faintly and patted Lukas on the head.

"This case might be easier to crack than we thought. We've already got a major clue."

Kunle nodded, a grin spreading across his face. He knew Jack was right. "Lukas could easily track down the owner of that scent next time.

But what if it takes a week, a month, or even a year? How do we keep Lukas focused?" He hesitated, noticing that Jack already had the answer—a realization that made him shudder.

They returned to the scene, took photographs, and collected some new, albeit unpleasant, evidence before leaving.

The journey to Owuro was swift, with both men remaining silent except for a brief call from Fumi, checking on their progress. "Lukas picked up something at the crime scene, but we’ll discuss it when we get back," Kunle had said.

They arrived at a small carpenter’s workshop, following the directions they had been given. An almost rotten wooden signboard with faded lettering spelled out "OLUWASEGUN WOOD WORKS."

The place had an old, dusty, and rustic feel, yet the craftsmanship evident in the various wooden pieces scattered around impressed Black Jack. It was clear this was the work of a meticulous artisan.

As their car came to a halt, three young boys, likely apprentices, paused their work to study the newcomers.

"Hello," Black Jack greeted in his most authoritative voice, which instantly stirred cooperation among the boys. "We’re looking for Mr. Segun, the owner of this place. We were told he’s here."

One of the boys quickly disappeared into the workshop and soon returned with a tall, dark, and lanky man pushing fifty, dressed in a dirty brown work outfit. Despite his disheveled appearance, he had a friendly demeanor and seemed genuinely pleased to meet the detectives.

"You know, I just got a call a few minutes ago, telling me not to say anything to the police," he said, his tone light as though amused by the idea. "But that doesn’t sit right with me. If what you say is true, we should all be trying to help. Ask me whatever you need to know. I’ll tell you what I ."

His reassuring words made the detectives believe he was being truthful.

"We just want to know what you were doing the last time you were at the site. That would be..." Black Jack paused, letting the man fill in the details.

"Two weeks ago," Mr. Segun confirmed. "I went over there. It’s just one of those temporary jobs. I get called, take my bike, and check the list of machines. I report in, and within ten minutes, I get paid and leave."

"You didn’t see or hear anything unusual while you were there?" Kunle asked, though he felt this man had little more to offer.

"Oh no, I was in a hurry myself. I had a consignment of plywood to collect. I just checked the machines and left. That was it," Mr. Segun replied, watching Kunle walk back to the car for a moment.

"Can you briefly tell me how you accessed the site, which machines you checked first, and so on?" Black Jack redirected the conversation, focusing back on the details.

The man answered willingly, providing all the information as Kunle returned with Lukas. The dog drew the attention of the young apprentices, who found the animal striking.

After exchanging details and saying their goodbyes, the detectives returned to their car.

"Well, we can rule that old man out. His story checks out fair enough for now , and Lukas didn’t pick up anything off his scent," Kunle remarked.


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED



"It was the day before Amir disappeared, sir,"

Sanusi began, his voice heavy with the weight of the memory.

"Now, what my sister or anyone else may not have mentioned to you, because it seemed irrelevant at the time, was that Amir had stopped accompanying his mother to the market for a while—four months, to be exact. He had broken his left arm. It happened one night when he went outside to relieve himself. He claimed something—or someone—pushed him so hard that he fell and broke his arm. My sister always believed it was one of those two...those Obahs, who must have tried to harm the boy. So, do you think she was right?"
Sanusi paused, looking at the ASP with a question hanging in the air.

The Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP) shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, it's possible,"

he replied cautiously. Of course, he knew deep down that one of those ghouls could have been responsible.

It was exactly the kind of malevolent act they were capable of, but murder—that was something entirely different. He couldn't say it out loud, not yet at least.

"Anyway," Sanusi continued, his tone resigned, "during those four months, Amir stayed home alone. Naturally, I was against it. I even offered to have the boy stay with me whenever she went to the market. I had a shop on Igede Street, just two streets away from hers. The Obahs were not to be trusted, but my sister didn't want to burden me with her responsibilities. I tried to convince her, but she declined. Still, I made it a point to check up on Amir regularly. About a month ago, Amir finally regained full use of his arm, but even then, his mother continued to let him stay behind.

But the day before his disappearance, something happened. The boy came to my store in the afternoon, and he looked...terrified. There was a fear in his eyes that I've never seen before, as if something truly dreadful had occurred. But when I asked him what was wrong, he wouldn't say a word. He stayed silent the entire day. I took him back home in the evening, and guess who was there—the Obahs. Both of them, looking suspicious and keeping out of sight. When his mother returned, Amir was still too frightened to speak, even to her. She grew frustrated and let it go, but I advised her to take Amir along to the market the next day."

Sanusi's voice cracked with regret, and he sighed deeply.

"You see, sir, my advice got my nephew killed. I feel guilty, so guilty. If I had just kept quiet and waved goodnight, his mother wouldn’t have bothered to take him with her the next day."

Sanusi paused, his voice trembling.

"Something happened that day when Amir came to me, sir. You have to look into those two, the Obahs. I’m certain they had something to do with this gruesome murder of my niece."

Sanusi finished his tale, his words hanging in the air, heavy with emotion.

The ASP absorbed everything, letting nothing slip through the cracks. How well did he really know the Obahs? Francis had merely conducted a basic inquiry—asked a few questions, checked their alibis, and left it at that.

But this seemingly unconnected incident might hold the key to a far more sinister motive than mere jealousy. This, the ASP concluded, could be vital.

"My sister and her husband, they've given up on the case,"

Sanusi said, his voice quieter now. "They've accepted this as closure, but I want justice for Amir. Can you keep this between us for now? My sister might not be happy that I went behind her back to bring this up, but I believe the end justifies the means. If we catch the murderers, they won't be so unhappy about me digging into this. She's afraid to hope, but I'm not."

A few more words were exchanged, and the ASP promised to get back in touch with Sanusi. He assured him this would remain a private matter.

That way, if the lead didn’t pan out, he could quietly shelve the case without raising false hopes for Amir's mother.

When the ASP was finally alone, he made several attempts to reach Francis, but the inspector had become unreachable.

After multiple failed attempts, the ASP decided this was a job he needed to see through personally.

TO BE CONTINUED

Nightstorm:
can't wait am really enjoying the story.
I just finished reading that ur old Roger story, why did u stop, it was an interesting story.

Really, wow, I was really feeling the story coming together though I had a draft, it started going downhill. But hey, thanks, I will review it sometime soon.

Updates will come in tonight, thanks for your persistent ion to read!

CONTINUED

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


ASP Edward stretched his full length, the slow jazz on the radio failing to soothe the relentless storm in his mind. His brow was furrowed, a deep crease marking the frustration he felt. The boy had been buried the same day he was found, and the parents, crushed under the weight of their grief, had requested the body almost immediately. The image of their hollow eyes, glazed over with despair, haunted him still. There were no leads, no extra information—nothing. The case felt like a ghost, slipping through their fingers, leaving them with only questions and a lean case file that sat accusingly on his desk.

Edward’s gaze lingered on the file, his jaw tight with a mix of disappointment and guilt. Inspector Francis had done his job, found the boy—but that was all. He hadn’t stayed on the case, hadn’t pushed for answers, and while Edward couldn’t blame him, he couldn’t shake the bitter taste of failure. The parents had placed their hope in him, and he felt he had let them down. This thought gnawed at him, making him irritable, more so than usual, with the junior officers whose incompetence he would have otherwise overlooked.

He replayed the details in his mind, hoping to unearth something they might have missed. The boy couldn’t have strayed away and slipped inside that narrow well on his own. Suicide wasn’t considered, and there was no room for superstitions—it was cold-blooded murder. Though no autopsy had been carried out, the photographs had revealed enough. The boy’s neck was badly bruised and twisted, a clear sign of asphyxiation or strangulation, despite the early stages of decomposition. The evidence was there, glaring and undeniable. Yet, without the autopsy, the details were left to linger in ambiguity. The parents had chosen closure over justice, a decision Edward found both understandable and heartbreaking.

He glanced at the clock. Just past one. Usually, he’d be having lunch by now, but his appetite was gone, devoured by the case that had wrapped itself around his thoughts like a vice. With a sigh, he rose and carried the case file to the drawer labeled "Cold Cases." The words felt like a defeat, an acknowledgment of failure. He dropped the file inside, the drawer closing with a dull thud that echoed in the silent room.

A knock on the door broke his reverie. It was Robinson.

“Come on in,” Edward called out, his voice dry and weary.

Robinson entered, his expression a mix of caution and anticipation. “Sir, there’s a Mr. Sanusi here to see you.”

Sanusi. The name rang a bell, though faintly at first. Edward paused, the gears in his mind turning. Then it clicked—Sanusi was the boy’s uncle, the man who had been there that night, his face etched with sorrow as they retrieved the body.

A spark of excitement flickered within Edward, momentarily lifting the heavy veil of despair.

“Send him in right away,” Edward replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Robinson, sensing the shift in his superior’s mood, left with a nod of satisfaction.

Edward quickly retrieved the case file from the drawer. “Not done, not done yet,” he muttered to himself, determination sharpening his focus.

Sanusi entered the room, his manner subdued, his shoulders slumped under the weight of grief. His eyes were hollow, rimmed with the dark circles of sleepless nights, and his steps were sluggish, as if each movement was an effort.

He took the seat offered to him with great reluctance, sinking into it as though it might swallow him whole.

“Thank you for coming,” Edward said gently, trying to set a calm tone despite the tension that hung in the air.

They exchanged quiet greetings, and for a moment, the room was filled only with the soft strains of jazz playing from the radio. It was a weak attempt to ease the atmosphere, but Edward welcomed any relief, however fleeting.

Sanusi’s gaze remained fixed on a spot on the table, his voice low and mournful as he began to speak. “My sister’s boy, Amir... He was a good child. He still had a lot in him. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

His eyes never left the table, staring at something only he could see, as if it held the answers he sought. His words were heavy with sorrow, but also with an undercurrent of something else—regret, perhaps.

Edward watched him closely, his own heart heavy with empathy. It was clear that Sanusi wasn’t just speaking to him but was also talking to himself, trying to make sense of a senseless tragedy.

“Do you know,” Sanusi continued, his voice cracking slightly, “he was a premature birth? Many thought he wouldn’t make it through. I how much effort we all put into making sure Amir had a chance at life. He was the family’s pride and joy... until those dreadful people—those murderers—seized him.” His voice hardened on the last words, bitterness seeping through the cracks of his grief.

Edward’s expression softened, yet his mind raced. There was something in Sanusi’s tone, a bitterness that hinted at more than just sorrow. He sensed a story behind the words, something unspoken that lay buried beneath the surface. “Those murderers,” Sanusi had said, with a note of certainty that piqued Edward’s interest.

“Mr. Sanusi,” Edward began carefully, “I know this is difficult, but if there’s anything more you can tell me—anything that might help us find out who did this—please, don’t hold back.”

Sanusi’s eyes finally lifted to meet Edward’s. They were filled with a mix of pain and anger, but also a glimmer of resolve. “I’m here for Amir,” he said quietly, but there was strength in his words. “I want justice for my nephew, ASP Edward. Whatever it takes.”

The ASP nodded, his own resolve hardening. This case wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot.

"The Obahs," Sanusi said, his voice thick with venom. "Those two are the devil incarnate. I’m sure they have something to do with Amir's death. It can’t be helped, they just have to. You know, they didn’t even come to pay as much as a condolence visit. Instead, they’ve been going around saying all sorts of nonsense about the family."

The ASP felt the bitterness in Sanusi’s words cut through the room like a blade. He had heard of the Obahs—troublemakers, no doubt, the type who thrived on the misery of others. Edward had always viewed them as pests, not criminals. Sadistic, yes, but not murderers. Yet now, as Sanusi spoke, the ASP felt a sliver of doubt creep into his mind. Could the Obahs have been involved in something more sinister?

"I'm sorry about this," Edward began, choosing his words carefully, "but we checked their alibis. They were where they said they were. Everything checks out. Until something tangible comes my way, I'm afraid the Obahs are a dead end."

Sanusi sighed deeply, his expression darkening further. He looked as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. "That's why I’m here, sir. Something... something happened a day before Amir disappeared." His voice trembled slightly, his lips quivering as he tried to hold back the tears. "I feel so guilty, sir. I feel really guilty about it all."

Edward leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Sanusi's. The grief, the despair, the guilt—it was all there, etched in the man’s features, like a portrait of sorrow. "What happened, Sanusi? Why do you feel guilty? What did you do? Tell me. We may not be able to bring Amir back, but we can give you, your sister, and her husband justice."


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED



"Ritual killers don’t use dump sites," Fumi countered. "They don’t care enough about the victims to be this elaborate. Anywhere would do, just dump the body. But this," Fumi hesitated, and everyone could tell what she was thinking.

"We’ll get more information once the medical autopsies are carried out, let's not get ahead of ourselves, we will get answers, that’s certain. Was there anything else?" Black Jack asked.

"This, possibly, something connected to the the murders," ID said, showing the cord he had collected at the scene.

"It looks too small to be anything, but we’ll send it for analysis along with the body. We’ll see where it fits, if it fits," Fumi offered her final thoughts on the cord.

"You won’t believe it, but we’ve gotten in touch with Muken Globals. They’re sending down their lawyer, we have been asked to restrain asking Muken employees, further questions, There’s already a stir over this matter. They think this may be some sort of ploy by the state government—imagine the audacity! Three murders, and they think it’s a ploy!" ASP Korede announced as he reed them.

"They think the government is responsible for this?" ID asked, incredulous.

"They think the government is desperate and unhinged over a possible loss to them in court over their contract dispute and is willing to do whatever it takes to back out and prosecute them," Korede explained.

"Well, that’s absurd and will only make things more difficult," Fumi declared, clearly irritated.

"It doesn’t matter. We should move quickly, then. This Segun may be told to stay away from the police station—they’d want to hear his story first before letting him see us, he is of course not an official staff so we can play that game too," Kunle revealed, a bit impatiently.

"Okay, here’s how we’ll do it. Kunle and Black Jack, you are paying segun a visit. We’re already out here, so it should be easy to see him immediately. ID and Fumi, I want you two to stay on the corpses till they get to the doctors. I need to know what we’re dealing with. The CSP isn’t too happy—this has been dropped in our laps, and with the state government and this construction company already tussling it out in court, the government may want to breathe down our necks. We have to solve this, and solve it quickly."

The resolution was agreeable to all.

"Take the keys. We’ll go with the pickup and meet up at the office before 4 o’clock. Keep the dogs on a leash," Fumi said, tossing her car keys to Black Jack as she eyed Kunle.

"Oh, I see what you did there. Well, no one can keep this big dog on a leash. Lucas is learning from me. If I see anything out of the ordinary, I just dive right in—you know me," Kunle boasted.

"We know you, all right," ID added with a smirk. "That’s why the car keys were given to Black Jack. You don’t know it yet, but you and Lucas now have collars around your necks."

"Oh, you watch and see!" Kunle returned.

And with that, the scene was evacuated and cleared out.


TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED



The ASP smiled almost iringly at the sight before him. These individuals had earned special recognition at the Ikorodu division. They could have been labeled the rejects of the SCID, brought in merely to fill spaces while they built their careers and handled basic operational needs.

Except for Black Jack, who had personally requested a transfer for personal reasons. Yet, over the past two years, this group had made notable successes under his watch.

No doubt, these were his men, and this case was in safe hands. Relieved, he waved the vigilantes off.

He believed in professional courtesy, of course, but in this case, the vigilantes were outclassed and inexperienced.

They left the scene, almost too eager to leave, as the ASP prepared for proper police business.

He briefed his team and quickly issued their directives. Fumi and ID stayed with him to cover the scene, while Kunle and Black Jack ed the old hunter to get his of events.

Once again, the powerful stench of decaying flesh filled the air, but all three stood their ground before the huge pile of rubbish where the body lay, undisturbed.

"What do you think? The victim is a male, young, dark-skinned, very young, possibly between ten and twelve, maybe more or less. The body may have been here for some weeks now," the ASP asked, his eyes on Fumi.

He had his ideas, but like a wise master instructing his apprentices, it was important to listen to their views and correct them if needed.

Fumi took a long, searching look around and then at the body. Clearly, this was not the crime scene; it was a dumping ground, and a unique one at that. But what about the victim? She made a quick observation.

"Sir, this isn't the crime scene. It's a dumping ground—too loose, too many security red flags. Like a sniper, you'd want to take a shot from an advantageous point where you can for and accommodate most of the security threats that may come your way.
The body is literally on a dump, and that says a lot. The victim was dumped here, but the crime likely didn’t happen here, sir."

She could tell she had made quite an impression on her senior colleague almost immediately.

"Inspector ID, what’s your take?" The ASP turned to the other officer. Danjuma took his time, never rushing to make an assessment.

"The stench, sir. It’s different," ID replied, a faint, brooding expression momentarily crossing his face. "The stench is abnormally overwhelming and hits differently. Something isn’t right with it." He paused, moving closer and then circling around the pile. The rubbish was stacked like a pyramid, and ID observed the scene closely under the watchful eyes of Fumi and the ASP.

"Sir, I think we have more than one corpse here," he said.

ASP Korede nodded, satisfied. "There are actually three in total. Two are well hidden below the heaps. I could tell the minute I saw the setup. Those vigilantes couldn't even distinguish black from white," the ASP revealed, almost proud of his assessment.

"I have something," ID announced, pulling a small, dirty, thick green knotted cord from the pile. It could potentially be the murder weapon if the autopsy revealed strangulation. The cord was odd and out of place, not as random as the other items.

They found nothing else and soon ed the other two who had also finished their assignments.

"How did we go from one body to three?" Black Jack asked, his voice laced with surprise.

"Three bodies! You should have seen the look on those guys' faces—they won’t want to eat meat today or tomorrow but I would, if it's free!" Kunle's face tightened with only a mild disgust, recalling the expressions of the junior officers as they loaded the bodies into the pickup.

"This is a dumping site," Fumi explained. "ID and the ASP figured out the stench couldn't have come from just one corpse. How was it on your end, any luck?" she asked, turning to Black Jack and Kunle.

"He doesn't know anything. He found the spot, discovered the body, and made the calls. He was pretty shaken. You'd think a hunter who kills animals for a living would be able to stomach the sight, but he couldn’t. Now that he knows three bodies were found there, he's even more disturbed," Black Jack replied.

"Checks are done every two weeks. We made calls to the security coordinator, and he’s given us details of the last person who carried out a check. We’ve called him in—someone named Segun. He’s been invited to the station to give a report. The site manager will also drop by later. This could be a ritual killing; it certainly looks like it," Kunle concluded.

TO BE CONTINUED

silverlinen:
So WriterX, when are we dining with this?

Drafted long ago but I am going to keep this a little while longer, I am thinking of doing a spy action after SK9 before this

We have got our team of detectives, Good morning everyone!

CONTINUED



Muken Construction Globals had been contracted to fix the damages and maintain the expressway—a task that should have been straightforward.

But the expressway, a vital artery linking towns and cities, had become a symbol of bureaucratic failure and corporate overreach. The damage from years of wear and tear was extensive, potholes gaping like wounds in the road, while faded lane markings barely hinted at their former clarity.

At the heart of the project was Mr. M.D. Harris Prem, a middle-aged Indian expatriate with a reputation for intelligence and shrewdness. He had come to Nigeria with high hopes, believing in the power of his experience to transform this project into a success.

Yet, as he stood on the side of the road now, gazing at the neglected site, a deep frown creased his brow. The cold reality was far from what he had imagined when he first signed the contract.

Prem had not been fully informed. There were discrepancies in the project details, subtle red flags that had been obscured by the political games played behind closed doors.

The hands that had once been greased to secure the contract were nowhere to be found now that the project had hit a wall. Promises made in the shadowy corners of government offices had evaporated, leaving him and his company to deal with the fallout.

On the ground, Mrs. Adizat Kunle, the site supervisor, had borne the brunt of these failures. A determined and meticulous woman, she had quickly realized that something was amiss.

As complaints from the on-site engineers and various teams began to pile up, she had fought to keep the project on track. But the issues were systemic, rooted in the very foundation of the contract and the unrealistic timelines that had been set.

The site now bore the scars of their struggle. Temporary construction sites dotted the expressway like sores—evidence of a grand plan gone awry.

The skeletal frames of machinery stood silent, their once vibrant paint dulled by months of exposure to the elements. Tattered tarps flapped in the wind, covering piles of gravel and sand that would never be used. The once bustling sites were eerily quiet, the only sounds being the soft patter of rain on metal and the distant rumble of thunder.

Muken Globals had tried to raise alarms, issuing complaints to the state government. But their pleas had been met with indifference or outright hostility.

Threats were exchanged, the situation escalating into a standoff that neither side could afford. It wasn’t long before the breakdown in communication turned into a legal battle.

The state government, unwilling to it its own role in the debacle, had turned the tables on Muken Globals, slapping them with a lawsuit that threatened to cripple the company.

Nine months had ed since the first court filings, and the expressway had remained untouched since.

The lawsuit had frozen all activity, leaving the road to rot under the unrelenting weather. Vegetation had started to reclaim the abandoned sites, grass pushing through cracks in the pavement and vines creeping up the sides of unused trailers.

The expressway, once a lifeline, now seemed more like a boundary marking the limits of human endeavor.

Now, the various temporary sites lay across the expressway like an eyesore—abandoned and isolated.

Only the barest minimum attention was given to such sites by the companies. Security checks were conducted once every two weeks, though no reports were ever really asked for or cared about by the superiors. These checks were recorded, perhaps as a professional courtesy.

These security checks were monitored by the general security coordinator, Mr. Gerrard Oliver, who kept a roster of nearby community indigenes to carry out the task and report to him. Of course, Mr. Oliver himself remained out of sight, with his many other responsibilities across the state.

The pay, of course, was nothing to write home about, but no one grumbled. It was usually a simple stop-and-check routine that never raised any dust.

Nobody stole heavy machinery or moved construction parts around, so imagine the shock when Martin, a short, sturdy man pushing sixty-five—an ex-hunter—was called upon for the routine check from nearby Shagamu, Lagos.

He had overstayed and explored further than the last time he had come around, partly due to his excitement about leaving the house and the fact that the pay, no matter how little, was something worth holding on to.

Additionally, the last time he visited, the place seemed like a good spot to set up some animal traps. Perhaps he could be lucky.

Perhaps by familiarizing himself with the area and asking questions about the random machinery scattered around the site, he could make an impression and secure a more permanent watch over the place.

He moved around slowly and cautiously; wild elephant grasses had begun to sprout everywhere.

This didn’t really bother him, and apart from the faint whistling of the wind and the distant honking of cars on the expressway, all was as expected.

First, he inspected the huge bulldozers and tractors, road mowers, excavators, and other equipment. Nothing seemed amiss.

He made an effort to decide whether to report in immediately or to set out the traps, four in total. The spots he had picked out were far apart, so he decided against making the report immediately—first, the traps.


It was at that spot—a pile of refuse on the far edge of the site—where he made the gruesome discovery. He immediately called the security coordinator, who then ed the site supervisor.

Once she got the green light from the project manager, the police were called without delay.

ASP Korede arrived at the scene to find the Ogun State Vigilante Service already present. Their pickup truck, a rusty, red-and-black striped vehicle, caught his eye. It was unusually dirty, a stark contrast to his own clean vehicle.

He was greeted by the Vigilante leader, a tall man with a curious expression, and two others. The introduction was brief and professional before the ASP was led to the scene.

The first thing that hit him was the overpowering stench of decay. It was foul and pervasive, but ASP Korede managed to stomach it.

He was reminded that the scene hadn't been disturbed before being led away to speak with the primary eyewitness, Mr. Martin.

Just then, two more vehicles arrived: a dusty cream 2005 Toyota Camry and a black police pickup van, from which five junior officers spilled out.

These men would eventually be tasked with evacuating the body. However, the Toyota was what caught the ASP's attention.

First to alight was Funmilayo "Fumi" Adeoye, her sharp eyes scanned the surroundings with the practiced ease of someone who had seen danger in every corner.

At 5'9", she moved with the lithe grace of an athlete, her hand instinctively brushing the holster at her side as she took in the scene. The faint breeze rustled through her close-cropped hair, but nothing could distract her from the focus that had earned her the reputation as the best marksman in the division, she was also the unofficial leader of the pack as recognized by Korede.

Behind her, Jackson "Black Jack" Balogun stepped out, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the ground, He was the oldest, His every movement was measured, deliberate, a remnant of his military days when precision was everything.

Black Jack leaned on his cane, the only visible sign of the injury that had cut short his military career. Despite the limp in his step, there was an unmistakable air of authority about him, a quiet strength that commanded respect. He gave a low whistle, and a sleek, muscular canine leaped out after him—Lukas, his loyal German Shepherd, who had become an unofficial member of their team.

The dog padded silently beside Olu, its sharp eyes reflecting the same calm intensity as its owner.

Next was Ibrahim "ID" Danjuma, slipping out of the car with the quiet grace of a shadow. Fair, Lanky and reserved, he moved almost as if he were trying not to disturb the air around him. This man was one of few words, his devout faith etched into the lines of his face.

His eyes, deep and contemplative, surveyed the area with a subtlety that belied the depth of his thoughts.

He was the team's silent observer, the one who noticed the details that others missed. As he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, his lips moved in a silent prayer, a habit that had become as natural to him as breathing.

Finally, Adekunle "Kunle" Akande, the youngest, bounded out of the car with an energy that seemed boundless, his youthful enthusiasm a sharp contrast to the more seasoned of the team.

Kunle was all movement, his eyes bright with the excitement of the chase, his muscular build a testament to his commitment to both his work and his fitness.

He had a smile that could disarm the most hardened criminal and an optimism that was both infectious and, at times, reckless. As he stretched, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a sprint, for him, every crime case was a competition.

Lukas, sensing the readiness in his human companions, stood alert beside Olu, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air, ever the vigilant protector.

CONTINUED

CONTINUED



Muken Construction Globals had been contracted to fix the damages and maintain the expressway—a task that should have been straightforward.

But the expressway, a vital artery linking towns and cities, had become a symbol of bureaucratic failure and corporate overreach. The damage from years of wear and tear was extensive, potholes gaping like wounds in the road, while faded lane markings barely hinted at their former clarity.

At the heart of the project was Mr. M.D. Harris Prem, a middle-aged Indian expatriate with a reputation for intelligence and shrewdness. He had come to Nigeria with high hopes, believing in the power of his experience to transform this project into a success.

Yet, as he stood on the side of the road now, gazing at the neglected site, a deep frown creased his brow. The cold reality was far from what he had imagined when he first signed the contract.

Prem had not been fully informed. There were discrepancies in the project details, subtle red flags that had been obscured by the political games played behind closed doors.

The hands that had once been greased to secure the contract were nowhere to be found now that the project had hit a wall. Promises made in the shadowy corners of government offices had evaporated, leaving him and his company to deal with the fallout.

On the ground, Mrs. Adizat Kunle, the site supervisor, had borne the brunt of these failures. A determined and meticulous woman, she had quickly realized that something was amiss.

As complaints from the on-site engineers and various teams began to pile up, she had fought to keep the project on track. But the issues were systemic, rooted in the very foundation of the contract and the unrealistic timelines that had been set.

The site now bore the scars of their struggle. Temporary construction sites dotted the expressway like sores—evidence of a grand plan gone awry.

The skeletal frames of machinery stood silent, their once vibrant paint dulled by months of exposure to the elements. Tattered tarps flapped in the wind, covering piles of gravel and sand that would never be used. The once bustling sites were eerily quiet, the only sounds being the soft patter of rain on metal and the distant rumble of thunder.

Muken Globals had tried to raise alarms, issuing complaints to the state government. But their pleas had been met with indifference or outright hostility.

Threats were exchanged, the situation escalating into a standoff that neither side could afford. It wasn’t long before the breakdown in communication turned into a legal battle.

The state government, unwilling to it its own role in the debacle, had turned the tables on Muken Globals, slapping them with a lawsuit that threatened to cripple the company.

Nine months had ed since the first court filings, and the expressway had remained untouched since.

The lawsuit had frozen all activity, leaving the road to rot under the unrelenting weather. Vegetation had started to reclaim the abandoned sites, grass pushing through cracks in the pavement and vines creeping up the sides of unused trailers.

The expressway, once a lifeline, now seemed more like a boundary marking the limits of human endeavor.

Now, the various temporary sites lay across the expressway like an eyesore—abandoned and isolated.

Only the barest minimum attention was given to such sites by the companies. Security checks were conducted once every two weeks, though no reports were ever really asked for or cared about by the superiors. These checks were recorded, perhaps as a professional courtesy.

These security checks were monitored by the general security coordinator, Mr. Gerrard Oliver, who kept a roster of nearby community indigenes to carry out the task and report to him. Of course, Mr. Oliver himself remained out of sight, with his many other responsibilities across the state.

The pay, of course, was nothing to write home about, but no one grumbled. It was usually a simple stop-and-check routine that never raised any dust.

Nobody stole heavy machinery or moved construction parts around, so imagine the shock when Martin, a short, sturdy man pushing sixty-five—an ex-hunter—was called upon for the routine check from nearby Shagamu, Lagos.

He had overstayed and explored further than the last time he had come around, partly due to his excitement about leaving the house and the fact that the pay, no matter how little, was something worth holding on to.

Additionally, the last time he visited, the place seemed like a good spot to set up some animal traps. Perhaps he could be lucky.

Perhaps by familiarizing himself with the area and asking questions about the random machinery scattered around the site, he could make an impression and secure a more permanent watch over the place.

He moved around slowly and cautiously; wild elephant grasses had begun to sprout everywhere.

This didn’t really bother him, and apart from the faint whistling of the wind and the distant honking of cars on the expressway, all was as expected.

First, he inspected the huge bulldozers and tractors, road mowers, excavators, and other equipment. Nothing seemed amiss.

He made an effort to decide whether to report in immediately or to set out the traps, four in total. The spots he had picked out were far apart, so he decided against making the report immediately—first, the traps.


It was at that spot—a pile of refuse on the far edge of the site—where he made the gruesome discovery. He immediately called the security coordinator, who then ed the site supervisor.

Once she got the green light from the project manager, the police were called without delay.

ASP Korede arrived at the scene to find the Ogun State Vigilante Service already present. Their pickup truck, a rusty, red-and-black striped vehicle, caught his eye. It was unusually dirty, a stark contrast to his own clean vehicle.

He was greeted by the Vigilante leader, a tall man with a curious expression, and two others. The introduction was brief and professional before the ASP was led to the scene.

The first thing that hit him was the overpowering stench of decay. It was foul and pervasive, but ASP Korede managed to stomach it.

He was reminded that the scene hadn't been disturbed before being led away to speak with the primary eyewitness, Mr. Martin.

Just then, two more vehicles arrived: a dusty cream 2005 Toyota Camry and a black police pickup van, from which five junior officers spilled out.

These men would eventually be tasked with evacuating the body. However, the Toyota was what caught the ASP's attention.

First to alight was Funmilayo "Fumi" Adeoye, her sharp eyes scanned the surroundings with the practiced ease of someone who had seen danger in every corner.

At 5'9", she moved with the lithe grace of an athlete, her hand instinctively brushing the holster at her side as she took in the scene. The faint breeze rustled through her close-cropped hair, but nothing could distract her from the focus that had earned her the reputation as the best marksman in the division, she was also the unofficial leader of the pack as recognized by Korede.

Behind her, Jackson "Black Jack" Balogun stepped out, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the ground, He was the oldest, His every movement was measured, deliberate, a remnant of his military days when precision was everything.

Black Jack leaned on his cane, the only visible sign of the injury that had cut short his military career. Despite the limp in his step, there was an unmistakable air of authority about him, a quiet strength that commanded respect. He gave a low whistle, and a sleek, muscular canine leaped out after him—Lukas, his loyal German Shepherd, who had become an unofficial member of their team.

The dog padded silently beside Olu, its sharp eyes reflecting the same calm intensity as its owner.

Next was Ibrahim "ID" Danjuma, slipping out of the car with the quiet grace of a shadow. Fair, Lanky and reserved, he moved almost as if he were trying not to disturb the air around him. This man was one of few words, his devout faith etched into the lines of his face.

His eyes, deep and contemplative, surveyed the area with a subtlety that belied the depth of his thoughts.

He was the team's silent observer, the one who noticed the details that others missed. As he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, his lips moved in a silent prayer, a habit that had become as natural to him as breathing.

Finally, Adekunle "Kunle" Akande, the youngest, bounded out of the car with an energy that seemed boundless, his youthful enthusiasm a sharp contrast to the more seasoned of the team.

Kunle was all movement, his eyes bright with the excitement of the chase, his muscular build a testament to his commitment to both his work and his fitness.

He had a smile that could disarm the most hardened criminal and an optimism that was both infectious and, at times, reckless. As he stretched, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a sprint, for him, every crime case was a competition.

Lukas, sensing the readiness in his human companions, stood alert beside Olu, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air, ever the vigilant protector.

Nightstorm:
Thanks for the updates boss, u are the best .
I couldn't followup for some days now because Nairaland suddenly stopped working on opera mini (which I like because of the free 50mb )and so I had to use chrome.
By the way keep it up bro and like I said u are the best.

welcome back and thanks for coming back!

silverlinen:
ASP at sixty three!! Probably had some beef with some oga at the top

Anyways WriterX keep the updates coming, more grease to your pen abi how them dey talk am ... All the same, thank you for this.

Your inputs are always thought provoking, yes, we will know more about the professional life of Korede and his Ogas at the top.

More characters coming, let's talk about Francis soon.

CHAPTER THREE


ASP Korede Abiola Snr strolled out of the Flix and Flex SuperMall, his heavy footsteps echoing on the tiled floor as he adjusted the shopping bags in his hand.

The mall, a new addition to the bustling streets of Epe-Olade, Ikorodu, stood tall against the skyline, its sleek glass exterior reflecting the fading evening light.

Korede's eyes swept over the rows of shops, his gaze lingering on the neon sign of the wine store that had become his favorite haunt.

He had just picked up a few items for his wife, a routine that brought him a small sense of satisfaction.

But it was the wine store that truly excited him. The memory of his recent purchase—a bottle of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame—brought a dull smile to his lips.

The champagne, a luxurious treat for his 28th wedding anniversary, had arrived sooner than expected.

He could still picture the surprised expression on the store attendant’s face when he pronounced the French name with ease, his years of studying French and Spanish coming into play.

It was a secret obsession, this love for fine wines, something he indulged in quietly, away from the prying eyes of those who might judge him.

Pausing at the entrance, Korede took a moment to survey the scene outside. The afternoon was calm, the air thick with the scents of roasted corn and grilled meat from nearby street vendors.

His senses sharpened as he noticed two young girls loitering by the entrance, their attire far too revealing for his taste.

He shook his head, a frown creasing his brow as he watched them. In his eyes, they were the epitome of what was wrong with the younger generation—immodesty parading as fashion. The girls noticed him too, their gazes briefly meeting his before they turned away, disinterested.

Korede’s frown deepened as he observed their reaction. He had always been conscious of his appearance, of the way people perceived him. At nearly sixty-three, his stout frame and short stature were impossible to ignore.

His round face, marked by deep lines of age and a heavy, ash-colored mustache, gave him a stern appearance that was only softened by the intelligence lurking in his large, bulbous eyes. The uniform he wore—a symbol of his position as an Assistant Superintendent of Police—was always immaculate, a source of pride that he displayed openly.

With a sigh, Korede shook his head, his thoughts drifting back to a time when such sights were not tolerated. Back then, respect was earned and maintained, and the youth understood the boundaries of decency. Now, it seemed, anything went, and it troubled him more than he cared to it.

He approached his car, a gleaming silver Toyota Highlander, another source of pride in his life.

The vehicle was a gift from his brother in , a luxury that his police salary could never have afforded.

Korede treated it with the utmost care, often lavishing more attention on it than on his wife, as some of his colleagues liked to joke.

He wiped a speck of dust from the door handle before unlocking the car and placing the shopping bags inside.

As he settled into the driver’s seat, his phone rang, the sound piercing the quietude of the evening. Korede was quick to answer, his voice steady and professional as he greeted the caller.

It was the Divisional Police Officer, Abdul Rahman Alliu, a man Korede respected and served with diligence.

"Good afternoon, ASP," Alliu's voice crackled over the line, tinged with a hint of urgency. "We’ve just received a call from State Intelligence. There’s a possible 117 on the Lagos-Ibadan express road, Ikorodu Shagamu axis, Muken Construction Primary Site. Details are sketchy, but I need eyes on the scene ASAP. Lights only, no siren. Get a patrol team there and report back immediately."

Korede’s mind raced as he processed the information. A 117—possible murder or attempted murder. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, though he kept his composure. "Yes, sir," he replied, his voice calm despite the adrenaline beginning to course through his veins.

He quickly hung up and dialed one of his s, issuing crisp orders as he expertly maneuvered the car out of the parking lot. The engine roared to life, and he made a sharp reverse, the tires screeching against the pavement.

"Inspector Ola, Get the boys and a van. We have a possible 117 on the Lagos-Ibadan expressway, Muken Construction Primary Site. Meet me there in 38 minutes. Lights only, no siren," he instructed, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

"Yes, sir. We’re on our way," came the prompt response. The voice on the other end was young, full of energy, and Korede could sense a trace of excitement—something that baffled him.

To him, there was nothing thrilling about a potential murder scene. It was grim, it was dangerous, and it was his job to face it.

As Korede sped down the road, the city blurred around him. The once familiar streets of Ikorodu took on a new, more sinister edge in the gathering dusk.

TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter Three, here we go

Thank you for the consistent messages and views, this keeps me going really.

Now concerning the characters, as you all may have guessed, each character has long and outstanding stories carefully been woven into the main narrative surely.

Kindly watch out for Chapter 3, tag friends and lovers of good crime stories. This story, I will continue to impress and satisfy many lovers of good old crime stories.

Thanks and Goodnight.

CONTINUED


The traffic was thick, a sluggish stream of cars inching forward under the dim glow of streetlights. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white as he fought to keep his mind from wandering back to that night, to the body he had found.

Was it still there? What had happened to it? Who had done it? He shook his head, trying to banish these dangerous thoughts. He couldn’t afford to think about that now. Not when he was so close to being free.

His first impression of the young man was overwhelming, like staring up at a monolith carved from raw strength and intimidation.

The figure before him seemed as if it had been forged for the sole purpose of dominating wrestling rings or bodybuilding stages, a prime example of brute force given human form.

The man was tall, with skin as dark as the night, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of a simple t-shirt that seemed woefully inadequate to contain the muscle beneath.

Every inch of his physique spoke of raw power, a living sculpture of sinew and might that left Mr. Adamson feeling dwarfed and insignificant.

This is a monster, he thought—a towering, ugly giant of a man. As he stared, his throat tightened, forcing him to swallow a hard lump of saliva.

A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, cold against his skin despite the heat that suddenly surged within him.

The stranger didn’t have the air of a police officer, but Mr. Adamson knew instinctively that this was not a man to cross.

There was a silent, simmering threat in the way he stood, yet his presence was more confusing than anything else.

What Mr. Adamson didn’t know was that Collins, as this behemoth was called, was a paradox.

Beneath the intimidating exterior lay a man of astonishing mediocrity—unintelligent, weak, and faint-hearted. Collins had no stomach for conflict, his pride resting solely on the muscles he flaunted and the vices he indulged in, rather than on any genuine accomplishment.

He was a parasite, clinging to Cinna, who provided him with sustenance, or as she disdainfully referred to their relationship, a "friend with benefits."


The truth was, Collins detested violence; the sight of blood turned his stomach, and he feared it more than anything else. What a man he was, indeed.

"Old man, you are—" Collins began, his voice a low growl, only to be abruptly silenced as Cinna waved a hand in his face. He stopped mid-sentence, his obedience immediate and total. It was best to let her take the lead—his role was to appear menacing, and he believed he had done just that.

"I am so sorry, please, I apologize. I was—" Mr. Adamson faltered, choosing his words carefully. He needed to avoid any ission of fear—words like "scared" could only invite trouble.

"I didn't know what to do, madam," Mr. Adamson stammered, his voice trembling as he recalled the encounter.

"You wouldn't believe it—a massive python was coiled up right behind the spot where I was relieving myself."

His eyes widened with the memory, and he raised his hand high, illustrating the snake's girth.

The young man beside him, despite his rough exterior, recoiled slightly, the dramatization striking a chord of fear. But the lady—calm, poised—didn't even blink.

Her attention was fixed on the items in the leather bag before her, her delicate fingers sifting through them with precision, her expression one of cold satisfaction.

"I guess you can go. Everything is complete," Cinna said, her voice as cool and crisp as the night air that whispered through the trees.

But just as Mr. Adamson let out a sigh of relief, Collins interrupted, his voice a low rumble. "Wait a minute, Cinna—not everything."

A flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—ed over Cinna's face. Mr. Adamson could feel the tension in the air, thick and heavy like the humid night that pressed in around them.

He became acutely aware of the silent deliberation playing out in her mind, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered her options.

He didn't like this. Not one bit.


"The money, Cinna—the money," Collins pressed, his tone a mixture of desperation and defiance. "You said you'd get it back from him. That was supposed to be my pay."

Cinna turned slowly, her eyes flashing with a cold, unyielding authority that sent a shiver down Mr. Adamson's spine.

"Oh, please, shut up and let's go,"

she snapped, her words laced with irritation. But there was something more beneath the surface—something dark and commanding that silenced Collins instantly.

Mr. Adamson watched in stunned silence as she walked away, her steps confident and unhurried, the soft rustle of her long coat brushing against the wet grass.

Collins, a brute of a man with shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the world, followed her like a chastised dog, his expression a mix of sulkiness and submission.

Mr. Adamson couldn't help but gape at the sight—this hulking figure, who could have crushed her with a mere flick of his finger, now reduced to nothing more than an obedient shadow. The thought chilled him to his core.

A woman, he realized, was indeed a far scarier and more dangerous beast than any man. Thank God he had decided long ago to stay unmarried.

He reached his car, the metal cool under his trembling hands.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaky hand, feeling the dampness of his shirt clinging to his back.

The scent of wet earth and decaying leaves filled his nostrils as he took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of nerves raging within him.

It was over, he told himself, the words a desperate mantra as he started the engine. It was finally over.

CHAPTER 2 ENDED

CONTINUED


“Hello?” His voice was cautious, calculated, barely a whisper.

“Who is this? Are you aware you are using a stolen—” The voice on the other end was harsh, violent, each word like a punch to the gut. Mr. Adamson could feel the food in his stomach turning up, a nauseating wave threatening to overwhelm him.

“Oga, I am so sorry, please sir, you don’t understand,” he stammered, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “I haven’t touched the bag or anything inside. I want to return it and even refund the lady’s transport. It was a matter of my—”

“You want to return it? Are you joking with me or what?” The uncertainty in the caller’s voice was subtle but there, a crack in the façade of anger.

Mr. Adamson seized the opportunity. He needed to keep control of the situation, needed to show them that he wasn’t as vulnerable as they thought. “Oh yes, please,” he said, his voice steadying. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know her bag was still in my car. I just found it—”

“Where are you? We will come over immediately, or else we will deal with you and get you arrested!” The threat hung in the air like a storm cloud, dark and foreboding.

There it was—the words he had been dreading, the very thing he had been avoiding for so long. But was it a bluff? He forced himself to think clearly, to push past the fear gnawing at his insides. Could they really track him like they do in the movies? Arrest him on the spot?

The woman’s line of work wasn’t exactly one that invited public scrutiny; getting the police involved would likely be an inconvenience for her as well.

And ing how hard they had bargained over the fare that night, he concluded that this was, indeed, a bluff.

The police could never get him—he reminded himself of this, a mantra he repeated in his mind. Never. He would not allow himself to be roped into something he wasn’t involved in.

“You think you can scare me with the police? Well, go ahead then,” he challenged, the steel returning to his voice. “But know that I won’t hand over the bag just like that. Listen, I’ll drop it off at a point and call you to go get it. That’s final—”

“Oga driver, calm down.” A different voice spoke now, more measured, more familiar. It was the female enger.

“Don’t worry about my friend here. I’ve been listening to what you’ve been saying. Let’s meet where you picked me up that day, by the roadside.

I just want my bag, no drama. There’s no police, and I don’t want any either. But if you try to do anyhow, you won’t like it.”

Mr. Adamson exhaled, the breath he had been holding escaping in a shuddering sigh of relief.

It seemed the other male voice had just been a scare tactic, perhaps someone she had set up to intimidate him.

Her boyfriend? Brother? Husband? No, definitely not a husband, and definitely not just a friend, as she had claimed. Mr. Adamson grinned to himself.

The call ended abruptly, leaving him in silence once more. The room seemed less claustrophobic now, the shadows less threatening.

He ran a hand through his thinning hair, his mind racing as he concocted a story about a giant snake that had crept up behind him that night—a tall tale to deflect any lingering suspicions she might have. He was certain she wouldn’t pursue this any further.

Their respective jobs kept them both out of the public eye, and he doubted she would want this to escalate.

With that thought cemented in his mind, he grabbed his car keys, his decision made.

He hadn’t driven since the incident, had spent the past few days holed up in his house, but now he had to go. He needed to end this nightmare before it spiraled out of control.

He eased into the driver’s seat, the familiar scent of old leather and stale air wrapping around him like a comforting blanket. The car engine roared to life, and he drove off slowly, cautiously, his eyes scanning the road for any police checkpoints.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUED


Mr. Adamson sat slumped in his worn-out armchair, his gaze fixed on the glowing television screen where the vibrant colors of a football match flickered in sync with the rapid movements of players.

His eyes, however, were glassy, as if they had lost the ability to truly see. The cheers and groans of the invisible crowd, the rapid commentary, and the thudding of the ball on grass all merged into a distant hum, lost in the fog of his thoughts.

It had been four days since that terrible incident—a memory that gnawed at his peace like a rat determined to break through solid wood.

The image of the dead body sprawled on a heap of trash, twisted and lifeless, was a specter that refused to leave him. It haunted his dreams, followed him into the daylight, and hovered over him now, even as the world outside carried on with its ordinary business.

Two things ate at him most. First, there was the woman he had carried—her face a blur in his mind but her panic and the speed at which she had fled etched deeply in his memory.

She had bolted the moment she saw him he couldn't blame her, he was almost stark naked running at her like a mad man, abandoning her bag in her mad dash for safety.

That bag now sat in the corner of his room, an unwelcome guest holding within it the remnants of her life: phones, ATM cards, and various bits and bobs that women typically carried. But there were also strange, confusing items, marked with labels that had startled him. "Adult Toys," they said, and for a brief moment, despite the horror of the situation, Mr. Adamson had felt a flicker of curiosity, something almost shameful at his age.

She would want those things back, of course. How could she not? But she hadn't waited. She hadn't given him a chance to offer them back, to find some way out of the mess they had both stumbled into.

If only she had, perhaps things would be different now. Perhaps he wouldn't be sitting here, every muscle tense with fear, waiting for the inevitable knock on the door or the dreaded ring of the phone.

He had turned off both phones as soon as he discovered them, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the buttons.

The day after the incident, while cleaning out his vehicle, he had come across the bag, its contents spilling out onto the dusty floor of his bus.

The phones were the first things he saw, and in a panic, he had shut them down, as if by cutting off their power, he could sever his connection to the woman and the dead body.

But it wasn’t that simple. She could identify him. He was certain of that. All she had to do was go to the police, and then... the thought alone made his breath catch in his throat. The police were the last people he wanted to deal with, even more than the nightmares that plagued him.

He had sworn to himself, all those years ago, that he would never cross paths with them again, no matter what.

Seven years had ed since that cursed day. He had been a public transport driver, proud of the 16-seater bus he had bought with his pension.

It was his livelihood, his independence, and he worked the Ado-Ekiti to Port Harcourt route with a quiet satisfaction. Until one day, everything had changed.

He was on his way back, his bus empty and the road stretching out before him like a ribbon of darkness under the fading light.

That’s when he saw them—the accident victims lying in the dust. Four of them, their bodies broken and bleeding, abandoned on a desolate stretch of road.

He hadn’t thought twice before he pulled over. It was his duty, wasn’t it? To help? To save lives? He loaded them into his bus, careful and quick, his heart pounding with fear and urgency.

By the time he reached the hospital in Port Harcourt, he was exhausted, drenched in sweat, but relieved. He had done the right thing. He had saved them.

But that’s when the nightmare began.

The hospital staff had turned him away, demanded a police report before they would treat the injured. He was sent to the police station, where the moment he walked in, everything fell apart.

The officers recognized the men he had brought in. Criminals, they called them—fugitives on the run, and he, Mr. Adamson, was labeled their accomplice. Their getaway driver.

The absurdity of it hit him like a blow to the chest, but before he could protest, he was dragged away, handcuffed, and beaten.

They made him write out a confession, words he didn’t even understand, under the blinding pain of their fists and the suffocating fear that consumed him.

Worse still, All four of the men had died. The hospital refused to treat them without the police report, and by the time he was able to return, it was too late. They were gone, and he was the one held responsible.

For a year and a half, they left him to rot in a cell. No trial, no chance to speak for himself. His family didn’t know where he was, his bus was gone, and his life shattered.

When a top commissioner finally intervened, it was only by some stroke of luck that he was released, but not one person was punished for what had been done to him.

They had taken everything from him, and when they released him, it was as if they had thrown away an empty shell. He was a broken man, hollowed out and filled with nothing but anger and fear.

So now, when he thought of the police, a cold sweat broke out on his skin. They were worse than death. They were a nightmare he could not escape, and he would do anything to avoid them, even if it meant keeping a dead boy’s secrets

The football match on the screen reached a fever pitch, the crowd roaring with excitement, but Mr. Adamson didn’t notice.

His mind was still caught in the storm of seven years ago, and the fear that another was just beginning, Once the lady reported him, the police would inevitably want to know what happened that night, and who knows, try to pin the murder on him somehow.

Mr. Adamson’s thoughts spiraled, The musty air in the small space felt thick, suffocating him as if the walls themselves were closing in.

“No!” he shook his head vehemently, his voice hoarse and raw. He couldn't go back to a police station, not after what he had endured all those years ago.

The mere thought of being questioned, of being trapped in a cold, unforgiving room with nothing but suspicion hanging in the air like a noose, was too much to bear. He had to act—quickly and decisively.

He returned to his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight as he sat down heavily. His decision crystallized in that very moment. He would do whatever it took to ensure that he was never sent back to a station.

His eyes darted to the corner of the room where two old cell phones lay on the wooden bedside table, their screens cracked and smudged with fingerprints.

He grabbed one, the cold plastic sending a shiver up his spine as he powered it on.

As if on cue, the phone rang, the sudden jarring sound slicing through the oppressive silence. The screen displayed an unknown number. He could feel his pulse quicken, his mouth dry as he answered the call, every muscle in his body taut with dread.


TO BE CONTINUED

Alright what's up everybody, hope you all are good? dropping one part tonight. Thanks for reading.

silverlinen:
Madam Sabor can best be described as selfishness, she knows how much of a child junior is and yet she did what she did!! Omor that na wickedness o.

Anyways WriterX, let's keep moving..

Her character is quite a sad reality in the country. We Move brother!

Two more. Updates and we can wrap up chapter two
Thanks for been patient and for reading always

CONTINUED


Owedo Street, Ketu was settling into the quiet rhythm of night. It was nearing 11 PM, and the darkness, thick and steady, blanketed the neighborhood.

The sparse lighting came from the occasional rechargeable LED lanterns and the hum of generator-powered bulbs emanating from behind the tall fences of nearby buildings. Businesses were closing for the day, the clattering of metal shutters and the scrape of locks being drawn echoed through the cooling air.

Madam Sabor sat at a small wooden table just outside her roadside restaurant, a small eatery that catered to the locals.

She was a young woman, slim and fair-skinned, with features that hinted at a beauty that had once turned heads in her early twenties.

Now, that beauty was softened by the lines of worry etched into her face. The day's receipts and a simple blue biro were laid out in front of her, along with a well-worn ledger.

The clatter of pots and the soft clinking of cutlery being packed away provided a background soundtrack as she reviewed the day’s earnings, or rather, the lack thereof.

It had been a disappointing day. The weather, mild and a touch cold, had kept customers away.

Her mother had always told her that the weather could dictate how much people ate; hot days meant busy kitchens, while cooler days often left pots untouched. Madam Sabor could only sigh as she stared at the numbers that didn’t quite add up.

A voice interrupted her thoughts, "Mummy Sabor, do you have change for 1,000 naira, ma?"

The voice was young, pleading. It came from just beyond the shadow of her awning. She looked up, irritated at the interruption.

"Don't disturb me, please," she replied, her voice sharp. "I don't have any change. Can't you see I’ve packed up for the day?"

The retreating footsteps faded into the night, but not before she caught a faint whisper, "You don’t worry, come over. I think I have some change." The words were soft, almost lost in the hum of the night. She dismissed it, too preoccupied with her own frustrations to care.

Fifteen minutes later, another figure approached.

The familiarity of the shuffling footsteps announced her visitor before the voice did.

"Mama Sabor," came the greeting, tinged with concern. It was Mama Junior, the flour seller who owned a shop just two doors down. She was older, her face lined with the years, but her presence was always comforting.

However, tonight, there was an urgency in her tone that was unsettling.

"Mama Junior, I didn’t make any profit today—" Madam Sabor began, her words a ritual complaint she shared with her friend most nights.

But Mama Junior cut her off. "Sorry, Mama, please, have you seen Junior? I can’t find him."

The interruption stung, and for a moment, Madam Sabor was hurt. Mama Junior was more than a neighbor; she was the only one she could confide in about the ups and downs of business.

But the look in the older woman's eyes pushed aside her own feelings. Concern replaced irritation as she stood to meet her friend.

"What did you say?" Madam Sabor asked, stepping out into the dim light that barely pushed back the shadows.

"I left Junior at the store so I could go use the toilet nearby, just for a few minutes. When I came back, he was gone. He’s not at the store," Mama Junior's voice trembled slightly, her worry palpable.

Madam Sabor’s mind raced. "Junior is not there? But I’ve been hearing—" Her words faltered as realization struck her.

The voice asking for change earlier—it had been Junior. In her own distraction, she hadn’t paid attention, brushing off the boy who had come to her for help.

Guilt crept into her chest as she recalled the faint voice that had called the boy back, a voice she had ignored.

The boy, just nine years old, was often left in charge of his mother’s store during brief absences. But Junior was far from reliable; he had little grasp of money's value, often giving too much change or undercharging customers.

It was a constant source of frustration for both women, who had resigned themselves to keeping an extra eye on him whenever possible.

"Wait, Junior? I saw him—I mean, I heard him some minutes ago. He came asking for change of 1,000 naira, and—" She paused, choosing her words carefully.

"I was busy with the food, so I told him to wait, but by the time I looked up, he was gone."

"Change? What change? Was he selling something for someone?" Panic crept into Mama Junior’s voice, cutting through her friend’s attempt to downplay the situation.

"Eh, I didn’t really know," Madam Sabor lied, avoiding the truth that she had been dismissive of the boy. A knot of dread formed in her stomach.

"Hah! What has happened to my boy? Where is Junior? Where could he have gone this late at night?" Mama Junior's voice rose in panic as she spun around and hurried back toward her shop, her steps frantic.

Madam Sabor followed, her own anxiety growing with each step.

Together, they searched the dimly lit street, calling Junior’s name, their voices growing louder, more desperate as the minutes ticked by.

The street, once quiet, was now unsettled by their frantic cries. But the only response was the echo of their voices bouncing off the closed shop fronts and the oppressive night that offered no clues. Junior was nowhere to be found.

TO BE CONTINUED

One more new character is coming for chapter two before it's closure.

Hope, you all didn't forget Erica already?

CONTINUED


Tobi Larry mopped his face incessantly with a hand towel, an action that had become a nervous tick.

The air inside Lilow Bar was cool, almost too cool, as the air conditioners worked overtime to combat the warm morning outside. But the chill did nothing to soothe his nerves.

Tobi was an odd figure among the bar's regulars—short, black, and slim, with a baby face that betrayed his thirty-one years. His thin, almost invisible eyebrows arched over small, probing eyes that seemed perpetually suspicious of the world around him.

His nose, sharp-edged and small, twitched occasionally, as though catching a whiff of something unpleasant. He lacked the features that society deemed masculine—no broad shoulders, no chiseled jaw, and certainly no beard, which was non-existent on his smooth face.

People who saw Tobi would often assume he still lived with his parents, had no social life, and barely any friends.

They wouldn't be far off. But what they wouldn’t know just by looking at him was that Tobi Larry was a genius, a skilled investigative freelance journalist, and a secret whistleblower.

He thrived in the shadows, offering tips, files, and leads to those willing to risk it all to expose the truth.

Four years ago, Tobi's life took a sharp turn. He was an ing student, not yet aware of the storm brewing on the horizon. The death of his father, who had been his only living parent after his mother's demise from liver cancer, plunged him into a harsh reality.

His uncles, greedy and unscrupulous, seized everything his father had left behind, leaving Tobi with nothing but a degree that no longer mattered to him.

Desperate for money, Tobi did whatever jobs he could find, from waiting tables to ghostwriting.

It was during one of those gigs—writing an exposé on a corrupt politician—that he found his true calling.

He despised the writing itself but loved the thrill of uncovering secrets. His work caught the attention of a local newspaper, and from there, his path shifted entirely.

He abandoned his ing career and dove headfirst into the murky waters of investigative journalism.

But lately, the waters had grown still. For the past eight months, Tobi had struggled to find anyone brave enough to take on the cases he uncovered.

The media was cowed by lawsuits, and bloggers were terrified of retribution. His stories went untold, his bank dwindled, and his reputation as a reliable source began to fade.

As Tobi continued to dab at his face, lost in his thoughts of recent failures, he spotted her—Erica Bus.


She was one of the few new journalists willing to push boundaries, to fight for the truth. He waved her over with a sudden burst of energy, his voice cracking like a teenager’s. “Over here!”

This meeting was an exception for him. Normally, Tobi would have stayed hidden, communicating only through encrypted messages and burner phones. But there was something about Erica that intrigued him, a combination of her courage and her sharp mind.

She approached him with a calm confidence, her eyes scanning him with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

“Miss Erica, I presume,” Tobi said, trying to deepen his voice, but it only came out shakier than before. He winced inwardly as she nodded and took a seat, clearly unimpressed.

“You’re Tobi Larry, the source—I mean, *the* source?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. She wasn’t buying it, he could tell. He had to prove himself.

“Well, if you put it that way—yes. Yeah, I am Tobi Larry,” he stammered. His mind raced as he tried to come off as confident, but his thoughts derailed when he noticed three men walk into the bar.

They looked ordinary enough, dressed in casual wear, but something about the way they glanced at him made Tobi’s stomach twist.

He forced himself to focus on Erica, but the unease settled in like a weight in his chest. “You were saying?” Erica prompted, smiling at him with a warmth that almost made him forget his nerves.

“Right, well… I’m the guy. Your guy. The source,” he babbled, mentally kicking himself for the awkward phrasing. He sniffled and tried to regroup, but Erica’s face remained imive, her eyes unreadable.

“How do I know you’re the real deal? I mean, I could be talking to someone who’s been paid to—”

“Oh no, I’m Tobi Larry. See?” He pulled out his ID card and held it up with a shaky hand, trying to appear more composed. But just as he did, he felt the cold grip of a hand on his shoulder.

Tobi jumped, his heart leaping into his throat, but the hand held him down with a firm, unyielding pressure.

Two other men flanked him, their faces now cold and hard. These were the same men who had walked in earlier.

“Mr. Tobi Larry, you are under arrest for various charges ranging from fabricating, selling, and spreading false and damaging statements which constitute character defamation, libel, and slander. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Please stand up and put your hands behind your back,”

one of the men recited, his voice as emotionless as his face.

Tobi’s mind reeled. He had seen this play out in movies countless times—the protagonist makes a daring escape and lives to fight another day.

But Tobi was no action hero. He was a nervous, paranoid journalist who had just been blindsided.

“Why did you—you set me up. No, you don’t understand—I trusted you!” Tobi’s voice broke as he was led away, his legs trembling beneath him. Erica watched, her face a mask of cold indifference.

“You’re getting what you deserve,” she said flatly, her voice like a knife in his gut. Tobi stared at her in disbelief as the realization sank in—she had planned this all along.

As the officers hauled Tobi out of the bar, Erica pulled out her phone, her heart racing with a mix of exhilaration and dread.

She dialed a familiar number, waiting for the smooth, reassuring voice on the other end.

“Hello, Erica,” the voice said, calm and controlled.

“Hi, it’s done. I got him. Got him good. He’s on his way to the station right now,” Erica said, unable to hide the satisfaction in her voice.

“Impressive. The lawyers will handle the rest. You did a great job, Erica. Now you can move on with your career… and maybe,” the voice trailed off suggestively.

Erica smiled, savoring the moment. “Dinner tonight, on me? What do you say? I think it’s time we had that talk.”

Doctor Charles chuckled softly. “8:15, then. See you tonight.”

TO BE CONTINUED