Chapter 09

The dimly lit interrogation room buzzed with tension, the air thick with the scent of sweat and desperation. Mohammed paced near the door, his heavy footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. "He's going to make another call," he said, his voice low but firm, as if stating an unshakable truth.

Vanessa, leaning against a metal table cluttered with papers and coffee cups, snapped her head toward him. "What?"

Mohammed hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean—Delta State isn’t our jurisdiction. We’re Lagos-based, Macaulay’s Estate. Our focus is here, within these walls. Kidnappings in Delta? That’s for the Deltans to handle. But we can’t move forward without at least contacting their Head of Police."

Vanessa nodded slowly, her sharp eyes flicking to the suspect slouched in the chair across the room. "Right."

"Johnson," Mohammed barked, turning to a wiry tech officer hunched over a laptop in the corner. "Get Effurun on the line."

Johnson gave a quick thumbs-up, his fingers already flying across the keyboard.

At that moment, Mr. Jonathan approached Vanessa, his brow creased with worry. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, but his usual confidence seemed shaken. "I haven’t been able to answer Chief Gabriel’s calls," he said, lowering his voice. "Do you think he’ll hold it against me?"

Vanessa tilted her head, studying him. "Call him back when you can. He’ll understand."

"Not yet," Jonathan replied, his jaw tightening. "Not until we put an end to the kidnappings plaguing this estate. He’s got to help us first."

"Then play it smart," Vanessa said, her tone steady. "Reach out fast, apologize, and tell him you’ve been chasing Makanaki. He’ll respect the effort."

"Yeah…" Jonathan began, but Vanessa cut in.

"After you say sorry," she added with a faint smirk. Jonathan’s gaze shifted to the suspect, who fidgeted under the weight of their stares.

"Make another call," Jonathan said, stepping toward the man with purpose.

The suspect’s eyes widened, his hands trembling as he clutched the scrap of paper they’d given him earlier. "What? I can’t. I’d have to tell them something new—not this." He waved the crumpled note in the air.

Vanessa slid a fresh piece of paper across the table. "Relax. We came prepared."

The suspect’s breathing grew ragged, panic seizing him as he stared at the new script. Before he could protest further, Jonathan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen—Chief Gabriel Omoshola—and raised a hand. "Wait. I’ve got a call."

He strode toward the door, answering as he stepped into the hallway. "Chief Gabriel," he said, keeping his tone professional.

"Jonathan," came the deep, familiar voice on the other end. "You’ve been dodging me."

"I’ve been tied up, sir. We’re closing in on Makanaki—leads are solid this time."

A pause. "How sure are you?"

"Very, sir. We’ve got him in our sights."

Chief Gabriel’s tone softened, but there was an edge to it. "I was starting to think I’d offended you somehow."

"No, sir," Jonathan said quickly. "I’m sorry I haven’t picked up. It’s been chaos here."

"It’s fine," Chief replied, though his words carried a hint of skepticism. "I don’t want to waste your time. Unless someone’s been poisoning your mind about me?"

"What? No—"

"You didn’t even greet me properly," Chief interrupted, his pitch rising slightly.

Jonathan winced. "Oh, um—sorry, sir. The stress. Good afternoon."

Chief chuckled dryly. "I can tell it’s the stress. You didn’t even greet me in Yoruba. My, how Jonathan’s grown."

"I’m sorry, sir," Jonathan repeated, feeling the weight of the conversation shift.

"My company’s hosting something big soon," Chief said, his voice brightening. "A product launch—Tech 112."

"I’ve heard, sir. groundbreaking technology, right?"

"Exactly. You’ll be there?"

Jonathan hesitated. "Sir, I’ve rallied over eighty officers, thirty-three vans prepped—but I won’t be available that day."

Chief’s tone hardened. "Let’s pretend I didn’t hear that."

"Sir, I’m serious—" But the line went dead before Jonathan could finish. He stared at the phone, frustration simmering. "I can’t make it," he muttered to himself, disappointed but resolute.

Back in the room, he squared his shoulders. "Let’s move forward."

Vanessa nodded toward the suspect. "Make the call."

The suspect fumbled with the phone, his fingers trembling as he dialed. After a few rings, a gruff voice answered. "Hello?"

"Hello, sir," the suspect said, his voice cracking.

"Otukpo," the voice replied, sharp and impatient. "I hope you’ve got something for me."

"Can’t I just send my greetings?" Otukpo asked, forcing a weak laugh.

"I wanted to speak to the Tribal Chief," he added quickly.

The man on the other end scoffed. "He doesn’t waste time with fools. You know that."

"Yes, but let me lift his spirits a little."

There was a shuffle, then a new voice—deep and commanding—came through. "Otukpo."

Otukpo straightened in his chair. "Ah! Senior man. Senior Chief. The head Makanaki."

The room froze. Every officer turned toward him, eyes wide. Jonathan signaled Johnson, who leapt into action, fingers racing across the keyboard. Within seconds, the tech officer whispered, "Old Macaulay’s Street."

"We move!" Mohammed bellowed.

"Hang up now," Jonathan ordered.

Otukpo stammered into the phone, "We need to be careful with the police, okay?"—a desperate attempt to warn his contacts. But Vanessa, already in the adjacent tech room, yanked the call’s connection, silencing him.

"Get the guns, everything we need!" Jonathan shouted as he stormed out of the interrogation room. "I want my gear ready!"

"They are," Abdul called back, his voice steady.

Jonathan armed himself with precision: jungle fatigues, a helmet, bulletproof vest, combat boots, and gloves. He holstered a TTI Glock 34 and slung a Coharie Arms CA-415 over his shoulder, pocketing reloads, a dagger, and a grenade. He climbed into a Tahoe PPV while the others piled into eight Innoson 6540 vans, each packed with over seventeen heavily armed officers.

"I’ll take the lead, sir," Abdul said, gripping the wheel of the lead vehicle.

"Do it smart," Jonathan replied. "We can’t lose Makanaki. Not this time."

"Now! On me!" he roared, and the convoy roared to life, tearing out of the compound with Mohammed and the team in tow. The hunt for Makanaki had begun.

The convoy tore through the sprawling streets of Lagos’ largest estate, tires shrieking against the pitted asphalt as dusk bled into the city. Sodium streetlights sputtered to life, their orange glow casting jagged shadows across the windshield of the Tahoe PPV.

Jonathan Okoye sat in the passenger seat, his fingers clenched around the Coharie Arms CA-415 cradled in his lap. His pulse hammered in his ears, a relentless drumbeat honed by years of pursuit. Makanaki—the phantom orchestrating the estate’s kidnappings, a name whispered in terror across Nigeria’s south—was within reach. Failure was not an option.

Abdul, gripping the wheel, navigated the chaotic traffic with the precision of a seasoned operative. His eyes never left the road. “Five minutes out,” he said, his voice a low blade slicing through the engine’s growl. “Old Macaulay’s Street is a warren—narrow alleys, abandoned warehouses. Perfect for an ambush.”

“Then we hit hard and fast,” Jonathan replied, his tone forged in steel. “No hesitation. Makanaki’s crew won’t see us coming this soon.”

In the rearview mirror, the Innoson 6540 vans trailed like shadowed wolves, their headlights carving through the deepening night. The radio crackled, and Mohammed’s voice broke through. “All units, stay sharp. We’ve got one shot. Weapons and comms—check them now.”

Jonathan tapped his earpiece. “Copy that. Abdul’s on point. We’ll secure the perimeter first.”

The radio buzzed again, this time with Johnson’s clipped update from the tech van. “Sir, I’ve locked the signal. It’s pinging from a derelict building—two stories, northwest corner. Heat signatures show at least six inside.”

“Six?” Vanessa’s voice cut in, crisp and alert. She rode with Mohammed in the second van. “Makanaki’s network runs deeper. Expect reinforcements.”

“Noted,” Jonathan said. “We’ll strike before they can rally. Johnson, keep eyes on those signatures.”

The convoy slowed as Old Macaulay’s Street loomed ahead, a decaying vein of the estate lined with crumbling storefronts and rusted gates. The air hung heavy, thick with the stench of rot and gasoline. Abdul killed the headlights, and the vans followed suit, rolling into position like phantoms. Jonathan scanned the shadows, his instincts prickling. Every groan of metal, every whisper of wind, carried a threat.

“Positions,” he murmured into the comms. “Abdul, take the east flank with Team One. Mohammed, you and Vanessa cover the west with Team Two. I’ll lead Team Three through the front.”

"Understood,” Abdul replied, already signaling his men as they disembarked from the Tahoe, weapons primed.

Mohammed’s voice followed. “We’re set. Vanessa’s prepping a distraction—smoke grenades. Should buy us cover.”

“Good,” Jonathan said. “On my mark.”

He stepped into the night, the weight of his gear anchoring him as he advanced toward the target. The building rose before him, a skeletal ruin of cracked concrete and shattered windows. A faint lantern glow flickered through a boarded-up second-floor window—Makanaki’s latest den.

“Mark,” Jonathan said, and the operation erupted.

Vanessa hurled two smoke grenades through a ground-floor window, the hiss of gas mingling with the crash of glass. Thick gray plumes swallowed the street, masking the building as shouts rang from within. Jonathan raised his TTI Glock 34 and moved forward, his team fanning out behind him. A sharp crack split the air—someone inside had fired first.

“Engage!” he barked, ducking behind a rusted car as bullets ricocheted off the metal. He squeezed off a burst, aiming for the lantern’s glow. Glass shattered, and the light snuffed out.

Abdul’s voice steadied through the comms. “East flank secure. Two down. Moving in.”

“West flank’s hot,” Mohammed reported, his words punctuated by automatic fire. “Vanessa’s pinned—I’m covering her.”

“Hold the line,” Jonathan ordered, signaling his team onward. He kicked in the front door, wood splintering as he swept the room with his rifle. The ground floor was a chaos of overturned furniture and strewn papers, but it was deserted. A staircase beckoned from the corner, spiraling into darkness.

“Johnson,” Jonathan hissed. “Where are they?”

“Second floor, clustered near the back. They’re scrambling—might be prepping an exit.”

“Block it,” Jonathan snapped, taking the stairs two at a time. His boots thudded against the creaking wood, adrenaline surging as he hit the landing. A narrow hallway stretched ahead, doors dangling from broken hinges. Muffled voices drifted from the far end—panic laced with authority.

He edged forward, his team stacking behind him, when a figure lunged from the shadows, knife flashing. Jonathan sidestepped, slamming his rifle butt into the man’s temple. The attacker crumpled silently.

“Clear,” he muttered, stepping over the body. The voices sharpened, and a name cut through—Makanaki.

“Mohammed, Abdul—converge on the second floor,” Jonathan said. “We’ve got him.”

The hallway opened into a larger room. Five men huddled near a back window, one barking orders while the others gripped weapons. The leader turned, his face half-illuminated by a flickering bulb. Broad-shouldered, with a scar slashing his left cheek, he matched the grainy photos plastered across precinct boards. But it wasn’t Makanaki—it was Cook Egg, his ruthless lieutenant. Makanaki had slipped away before they’d even arrived.

“Drop it!” Jonathan roared, leveling his rifle.

Cook Egg’s lips twisted into a sneer. “You’re too late, Jonathan. Always too late.”

Before Jonathan could respond, Cook Egg flung a chair and dove for the window. Glass exploded outward as he landed on the fire escape below. His men opened fire, forcing Jonathan and his team to scatter for cover.

“After him!” Jonathan shouted, surging to his feet. He fired a burst from his CA-415, dropping one gunman, then vaulted to the window. The fire escape rattled as he descended, Cook Egg’s silhouette vanishing into the alley below.

Abdul stormed into the room behind him, his team engaging the remaining fighters. “Go, sir! We’ve got this!”

Jonathan leaped from the fire escape, hitting the ground hard and rolling upright. The alley twisted into a maze of shadows, but Cook Egg’s heavy footfalls echoed ahead. The hunt was alive.

Miles away, in a dim chamber beneath the estate, Helen knelt among the witches of her coven. The air thrummed with ancient power, the altar before them draped in crimson cloth. A clay doll, streaked with blood, lay at its center, bound with twine. Helen’s hands hovered over a shallow basin—the Water of Life—its surface rippling as though stirred by unseen hands.

The water trembled violently, and a vision seared into her mind: Kayla, Jonathan’s daughter, weeping at a funeral, her cries swallowed by the wail of mourners. Helen’s breath caught. The message was clear—Jonathan would die if he didn’t abandon his pursuit of Makanaki.

She rose swiftly, her robes whispering against the stone floor, and rifled through a wooden chest. Her fingers closed around a faded photograph of Jonathan, his stern face etched with resolve. She returned to the altar, pouring the Water of Life over the image as she intoned, “Jonathan, my son, arise. Forget Makanaki for two years.”

The words hung heavy. Helen knew the cost—Makanaki’s reign of terror had plagued Nigeria’s south long before Jonathan rose to Inspector General. But Jonathan was more than a soldier to her; he was the son she’d never borne, a light she refused to lose.

Makanaki slouched in the backseat of a battered sedan speeding toward the Benin Republic border, his crew silent around him. Dust clouded the windows, the estate fading into memory. Obi, at the wheel, broke the tension. “Jonathan’s the first Head of Police to push us this hard.”

“Baba,” Makanaki growled, his voice a low rumble.

“Sir?” Tefe, seated beside him, leaned forward.

“Is he safe?” Makanaki demanded, his anger flaring.

“We don’t know, sir,” Tefe admitted.

“Call Cook Egg,” Makanaki snapped.

Obi fumbled for his phone and dialed. It rang once before Cook Egg’s voice crackled through. “Hello?”

“Yo, you safe?” Obi asked.

Makanaki snatched the phone. “Baba, is he alive?”

“Shit, I forgot,” Cook Egg muttered. “I had a plan to grab him, but it slipped.”

“Saving Baba is all I care about,” Makanaki said, his tone icy.

“Too late, sir,” Cook Egg replied. “We’re done.”

“You’ll lose your title if you falter,” Makanaki warned. “Cook Egg is a name for warriors.”

“Sir, we’ve fallen. I’m sorry.” The line went dead.

Makanaki’s jaw tightened, his fury a coiled serpent. “Sir, should we turn back?” Obi asked.

“No,” Makanaki said, staring into the night. “We push forward.”

Back at the derelict building, Jonathan abandoned the chase for Cook Egg, his frustration a bitter taste. He reentered the structure, stepping over bodies as Mohammed searched for hostages. “Anyone found?” Mohammed called to Abdul.

“No, sir,” Abdul replied, his voice taut.

Jonathan pressed deeper into the building, the chaos giving way to an eerie calm. Beyond the grime, he discovered a hidden elegance—polished floors, shelves of neatly packed drugs, and racks of gleaming weapons. At the far end, a pristine room beckoned, its balcony door ajar. He stepped through, the night air cool against his skin.

A man stood there, gazing down at the firefight below. Baba, Makanaki’s enigmatic enforcer, didn’t turn. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he mused.

“Bring me Makanaki,” Jonathan demanded, his voice iron.

“We can’t betray our own. He’s too—” Baba’s words died as Jonathan raised his Glock 34 and pulled the trigger. The chamber clicked empty.

Baba’s lips moved in prayer. “Allahumma inni as’aluka ridwanaka wa jannah.” O Allah, I ask You for Your pleasure and paradise.

Jonathan reloaded, his hands steady. “Let’s try this again. Where’s Makanaki?”

Baba offered no answer, his prayers unbroken. Jonathan fired, the shots ringing out in rapid succession. Baba staggered back with each hit, tumbling over the railing to the street below.

Mohammed burst onto the balcony with a handful of officers. “You killed a politician,” he said, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“He ran with kidnappers,” Jonathan replied, turning away.

“What about Makanaki?” Mohammed pressed.

Jonathan didn’t answer. He walked off, Helen’s enchantment threading through his mind, dulling his obsession. For now, the hunt was over—but the war had just begun.