by L I Owugah
I stared at him, dumbfounded. The words "You're late," continued to echo through my head like a cracked record disc. Realizing I'd been set up, time stood still for a second, but no longer.
With a surge of adrenalin flushing through my veins, I realized my only chance of survival was to run. Run for dear life. Whipping around in a desperate attempt to escape, a giant fist flew in my direction.
The punch landed with an explosive thud, and the room around me disappeared.
19
JONAH
12 HOURS
Forty-eight hours after visiting the graveside of Mr and Mrs Eko, I made a mid morning return to Comfort Hotel and trudged back through the lobby. The trip out of town where they had both been laid to rest was a gruelling one and left me physically spent. However, after paying my respects, it was a journey I was glad to have made.
I approached the reception desk and spotted Tunde exiting the bar. His face lit up as he saw me. "Oga, you travel?" he asked hurrying over to meet me. It was one of those phrases I figured technically meant one thing but contextually meant another, the word "travel" specifically being used to enquire if I'd left the city.
I nodded.
"Ahh...sorry, Sah. You look tired."
"Any sign of my brother?"
"Oga, he has not returned, oh!"
I paused for a moment. I was a little surprised. But also a touch uneasy. Producing my mobile phone, I selected Michael's number, thumbed dial, and flattened the handset to my ear. The call was diverted to a generic voicemail service. I punched out and turned to Tunde.
"This police office you saw him leave with the other morning. Do you remember what he looked like?"
'He short," Tunde said placing the flat of his hand across his chest as an indication of the man's height. "But get big body." He expanded his arms to demonstrate the man's size.
"Anything else?"
"He yellow."
"Yellow?"
"Yes, like person that bleach his skin."
I was silent for a moment. Silent as I considered the absurd coincidence that the man Tunde had described could be the same officer I had seen earlier. The police officer nicknamed "Rambo."
"Did you see his car?" I asked.
"Yes, he come with pick up truck."
"A Hilux?"
"Yes, Japanese Hilux," he said with a look of surprise. "You know the person?"
I said nothing in return. After seeing Rambo in action, I knew enough. Enough to have me concerned that Michael was in the company of a man who possessed a personality that was both dangerous and unpredictable. "I need access to my brother's room," I said. Five minutes later, I was provided with entry to Michael's room by the duty manager. Closing the door, I scanned the surroundings, searching for some clue to rule out the possibility of foul play in Michael's two-day absence. But the more I looked, the more I was convinced of just the opposite. His luggage was still parked in the corner of the room.
Glancing over at the bathroom, I spotted his towel hanging on the door, and his toothbrush stuck in a cup by the sink. Michael had no plans of spending one, let alone two nights out on the trot. A disturbing possibility then occurred to me. The possibility that my brother was being holed up somewhere against his will. I sat on the edge of the bed. If the officer who had picked Michael up that morning was the same man I'd seen in the bar, did he have anything to do with Michael's disappearance? And if he did, why?
Then I remembered a statistic I'd once heard on the popular British television show "Crime Watch." A statistic which claimed that seventy-two hours was all you had to find the victim of a kidnapping alive. Seventy two hours, the equivalent of three days. Michael had been gone for two, meaning, provided this was a kidnapping, he had twenty-four hours left. Twenty four hours in theory, but considering the limitations of performing a search overnight, probably half that time.
Twelve hours.
My gaze fell upon a piece of paper lying on the floor. I picked it up. There was both a name and an address scribbled across the paper in Michael's handwriting.
It read: Sade Nonso, Moonlight investigations Lagos,14 Allen Avenue.
20
THE EVIL THAT MEN DO
On the morning Simon Juku stole the lives of Mr and Mrs Eko, his father's time in office was already a distant memory and the privileges Juku had once enjoyed, a thing of the past. Then along came Rambo. Juku still remembered their initial encounter. The ominous sighting of a motor vehicle from a quarter mile off. A police truck with no sound of an approaching siren, only the furious glow of flashing blue lights, as the car raced towards them. Then a surge of panic, as he had attempted to flee the scene. A desperate move in which he had battled to start a motor vehicle which had stalled on three separate attempts.
"The evil that men do lives after them," Juku had often heard. A quote which had made him wonder if this was a case of the proverbial chickens coming home to roost. The ultimate comeuppance for both the sins of himself and his father. Juku could still remember Rambo's weapon. A lethal 9mm. Spotting the firearm he had given Emenike a look. A look that ordered him to remain calm.
Not because Juku had any particular affection for the six foot nine colossus. But with the man in the white hat arriving in the next few days to pay fifty thousand pounds in cash for the giant's services, Emeneke was one lucrative asset Juku could not afford to have damaged. The tension had been incredible. Juku could never forget when the officer had stepped before him. At that moment he had spotted the facial expression he had seen a million times before. The look of a man with a moral conscience parked on zero. It could amount to only one thing. For the right price, there would be no arrest and no trial. Only a silent compromise.
Moments later, and just as Juku had anticipated, a figure had been agreed upon and a bribe of a hundred thousand naira, equating to five hundred pounds, had changed hands. A hundred thousand naira in cash, which the officer had happily accepted in exchange for his silence, leaving Juku with only a couple of remaining concerns. Neither of which had anything to do with the mangled bodies sprawled across the battered road. The first concern was the young girl in the back seat. An eyewitness who was unlikely to remain quiet about the incident. Then there was the second issue. Not as complex, but a problem none the less. How was Juku to get a return flight to his residence in the city of Abuja?
It wasn't long before he would find answers to both. For the first matter, he had offered the girl an extra fee to accompany him to his final destination, where she would be conveniently disposed of by Emenike. For the second issue, he had made a similar cash offer to the police officer and convinced him to ferry them to the nearest airport. Just before their departure, Juku had seen Rambo answer a damaged phone. The handset belonged to the dead woman and seemed to have spiked Rambo's interest. Juku had concluded, from this observation, that Rambo was a dangerous opportunist. A dangerous opportunist with the potential to be a future asset.
A few days later, Juku had received an unexpected call from the officer, warning him that trouble was headed his way. The son of the deceased couple had arrived in the country. After somehow discovering Juku's identity, he was seeking police assistance to have him tracked down. The two men had negotiated a price. Another substantial figure which Juku was willing to pay to Rambo to have this man brought to him. The man known as Michael. Now, less than 24 hours later, the police officer had delivered. Juku turned to Rambo whose services he was to need again soon.
"Once he gives us the name of his informant, I'll give you a call," Juku said.
Emenike scooped up Michael's unconscious body like a rag doll and slung it over his shoulder.
"How long?" Rambo grunted, pocketing the stuffed envelope.
"A few hours...probably less."
"Call me when you have a name and location," Rambo said, coldly.
Juku watched as the policeman disappeared out of the front door. The man in the white hat would be arriving tomorrow, at which time this shitstorm had to be over and done w
ith. He thought about what Rambo had told him over the phone about the man Emenike had placed in what he hoped was a temporary coma.
"He wouldn't mention how he got to know who you were," Rambo had said. "So he is going to need some persuading."
Juku smiled to himself.
Ahh...the sweet art of persuasion. One of Emenike's unique talents, which Juku had personally witnessed him administer to several of his father's adversaries. Sadistic acts of torture which were carried out like a creative work of art. He poured himself a shot of whiskey and downed it in one gulp.
Wouldn't be long now.
21
JONAH
DRIVEN TO KILL
Within an hour of finding the address in Michael's room, I arrived outside a four storey office building. The building stood in the middle of a gated compound and looked well overdue for a fresh lick of paint and some structural renovation. Climbing out of a yellow cab, I paid the driver with a handful of Nigerian bank notes. "God bless you Sah!" the driver said with a broad smile. Entering the compound through a manually operated sliding gate that had been left open, I zipped past a security guard who was napping under a tree and headed over to the buildings front entrance.
I walked into an empty lobby where a pretty girl was examining her nails behind a reception counter. Sitting on a high stool, she flashed a look at me and carried on with what she was doing.
"Moonlight Investigations?" I said.
Visibly jolted, the girl glanced up at me again. It was evident she was surprised at the sound of my London accent, which, in this city, appeared to suggest you were somehow higher up the social food chain. Straightening up, she delivered an apologetic smile.
"Third-floor, Sah."
Heading up the stairwell, I arrived on the third floor. Then I made my way down a corridor that held a string of offices and stopped outside the one I was looking for. Twisting open the door handle, I let myself in and entered a bright, florescent lit room. An attractive dark-skinned woman was seated behind a glass desk, an open laptop before her. She appeared startled as I walked in. However, given that such a reaction was nothing new to me, I was unfazed. I glimpsed a flash of anger in her eyes, a reaction akin to a feeling of being disrespected. A "How dare you" expression for barging in without so much as knocking. I stared at her with a deadpan look, hoping to fire home the message that social etiquette, was, at least for now, not exactly a priority of mine.
"Can I help you?" she demanded.
Her voice was cold. I closed the door behind me and turned the key in the lock. I whipped back around and came face to face with a Glock 22. A lethal firearm with a small frame and a short barrel. Made it ideal for concealed carry.
"Ever used one of those things before?" I said.
"There's always a first time."
I whipped out the piece of paper with the name and address scribbled on it. I waved it like a white flag. Then I strolled up to the desk and slid the paper across the table. She didn't look at it.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
"Are you Sade Nonso?"
"What if I am?"
"I'm looking for Michael."
She reached for the paper and gave it a quick glance, the gun still fixed in my direction.
"I don't understand."
"Where is he?"
"Are you related?"
I didn't answer, and repeated myself, only this time, emphasizing each word.
"Where-is-he?"
Her face hardened again.
"You got thirty seconds," she said.
"He's been gone for two days," I replied.
"What?"
"I don't find him in the next twelve hours, I'm probably looking at retrieving a corpse."
She lowered the gun.
"You're his brother, aren't you?"
I said nothing.
"I'm sorry about your parents."
"Small talk isn't exactly my favourite pass time, I said. "So let's start again, where...."
She didn't let me finish.
"I found him a name and address."
"Whose name and address?"
"The man I believe is responsible for your family's loss."
I glanced around the room for the first time. Feeling the cool air from a wall installed air conditioning unit, I couldn't but notice how clean and immaculate everything was. Cream marble tiles to match cream coloured walls, and in perfect contrast to the two, a black leather couch. Over in a quiet corner, a Persian rug had been rolled up and placed in an upright position. Wrapped in plastic the rug looked as though it had been purchased recently, and was intended to eventually serve as a welcome addition to the general aesthetic of the room. I turned my attention back to the woman, who was no longer holding the gun.
"It was my first criminal assignment."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I guess I just got lucky."
"You got anything else?" I said.
"I think I know where your brother might have gone." She scooped a smartphone up from her desk, thumbed the screen a couple of times, and showed me a text message from Michael. The message revealed he was in the company of the police officer I suspected was Rambo. It pointed out that their intended destination was located in Abuja city.
"I have been trying to reach him after I got a call from my source," Sade said.
"Your source?"
"A working girl. She's worried about a friend of hers who was in the car when the accident happened."
"Where's the friend now?"
"Apparently, she accompanied the driver home, and hasn't been seen since." I heard a sound from the door and pivoted around. The door handle was being slowly twisted open.
"Expecting someone?"
"No one I can recall."
Someone pushed gently against the locked door. This was followed by a single knock.
"Who is it?" Sade said.
A brief pause, and then a man's voice answered.
"Sade Nonso?"
She glanced at me before answering.
"Who wants to know?"
"I have an urgent message," the voice on the other side of the door replied.
"From who?"
"Michael Eko."
Her face lit up.
"Looks like there's someone here who can help," she whispered.
I wasn't convinced.
"Need you to disappear for a minute," I said.
"What?"
"Just do it."
She gave me one of those, "I won't have a man tell me what to do," looks, crossed over to a room that appeared to be a kitchen, and shut herself inside.
I walked over to the door, twisted the key clockwise, and opened it. A man wearing wire-rim glasses stood on the other side. He was clad in a smart suit and had a fixed smile on his face. Just over six foot, he had both his arms held out in front of him, his right hand clasped over his left in a superficially non-threatening pose. To the untrained eye, the image of a lawyer or businessman, but not when you had razor-sharp instincts like mine.
His smile seemed somewhat contrived, giving an unnatural tightness to his face. The fresh look of a pinstriped suit gave the appearance of an item that had just come off a store rack. But there were other signs too. Signs of a more ominous nature. The dark calluses on his knuckles, and the thin shade of what looked like an old knife scar across his chin. A professional, I thought to myself. A professional assassin.
I stepped to one side and beckoned for him to enter. He walked inside, his eyes scanning the surroundings, like an android from a Sci-fi picture. I closed the door and locked it once again. He stopped mid-motion, as he heard the sound of the key turn in the lock. With his back facing me, he said, "Very bright in here."
I said nothing, took a few steps towards him and stopped a couple of feet away. He removed his glasses, pushed them into the breast pocket of his jacket and turned around.
"Where is she?" he demanded quietly.
I said nothing.
