12 Hours

by L I Owugah

  For a moment, we stared at each other in silence. Like a pair of gunslingers in a spaghetti western. And then I made the first move. A deliberate move that was intended to manoeuvre him into a preferred position. I took a step to my left and watched as he did the same. Both his arms still out in front of him, his right hand still clasped over the left. I repeated the motion a couple more times and watched him rotate ninety degrees, his back now facing the wall.

  A tense moment followed, then the corners of his mouth twisted into a snarl, and a gleaming blade flashed from a switchblade concealed in his left hand. Swinging the weapon from the waist up, he was quick, blindingly so. But I was quicker. Grabbing hold of his wrist with my left hand, I brought his thrust to a dead stop.

  Shooting out my right, I seized him by the neck, reversed him into the wall, and rammed the back of his head through a giant, glass framed wall sign, which had the words MOONLIGHT INVESTIGATIONS LAGOS spelt out in bold fancy letters.

  The frame shattered on impact, and I was left staring into a pair of eyes, as soulless as those of a mannequin. His face began to tighten, determined to drive home the blade. In a standoff I had no intention of conceding, I quickly decided what needed to happen next. It wasn't something I had ever done before, or even genuinely considered. But, as someone once said, anyone can be driven to kill. It is the one skillset that requires no training, only a cause, a trigger. The perfect storm for which there is no feasible alternative.

  I continued to stare at the grimace on the assassin's face and the ruthless detachment in his vacant eyes. Then, in a strategy manifested on the spot I brought the event to an immediate and fatal conclusion. Releasing my grip from his neck, I closed my right hand around his wrist and leapt off to one side. In a swooping arc-like motion, I turned the assassin's arm back onto himself, rammed the blade of the knife into his suprasternal notch, and using the heel of my palm, slammed onto the hilt of the weapon for good measure.

  It was a manoeuvre I had seen in a recent action flick. One that was supposed to be a quiet, but surefire way of killing your enemy. Hammering a sharp object into the prominent dip between the neck and collarbone. A theory that was corroborated by the assassins immediate reaction.

  Taking a step back, I watched the man collapse to his knees. He crashed to one side, and curled up in a fetal position, his body spasming like a man in the middle of an epileptic fit. Gurgling like a drowning man, the assassin's eyes rolled to the back of his head. Coughing up blood for the duration, a river of the same flowed from the entry wound, like a ruptured drain pipe. I watched him in silence as he died. This was the first time I had ever taken a life, but I felt nothing. Nothing at all for this individual who was likely to have had a body count of victims stretching several miles.

  After about five minutes the spasms stopped. I saw a light begin to flicker from his trousers. Crouching down beside him, I reached into his pocket and pulled out a smartphone. The name RAMBO was flashing up on the screen in bold letters. I waited until the flashing stopped. Then I tapped on the screen with my thumb, accessed the assassins message box, and responded with a text message. "Will let you know when I'm done." Seconds later a message was sent in return from Rambo, "Make sure you do." I stared at the screen, hoping I had bought Michael a little more time. I heard a muffled gasp and spun around. Sade stood behind me. She stared at the body, her hand clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide open.

  "How did he know my name?" she stuttered.

  I said nothing and rose to my feet.

  "I mean, Michael would never have given out my personal details unless...unless..."

  "Unless he had been tortured," I said.

  She stared at me in disbelief.

  "But why?" she gasped. I said nothing and glanced at my watch.

  It was almost 3 pm.

  "We need to move the body," I said.

  22

  MICHAEL

  THRESHOLD FOR PAIN

  My eyelids fluttered open to what looked like an empty room. I was strapped to a chair, my arms outstretched before me, my head, still spinning, still reeling, from the oversized fist that had made contact with what my primary school peers had cruelly described as a glass jaw.

  Lowering my chin, I discovered, both my feet were bound together by the ankles. Furious that Balogun, Rambo, or whatever the bastard chose to call himself had sold me out for a sizeable sum of cash, I realized the real question was not why a sickeningly corrupt police officer had shown his true face, but why a man who had already taken the lives of two innocent people wanted me held hostage in the first place. Tipping up my head, I surveyed my surroundings. A couple of items across the room had me worried. A Louis Vuitton branded handbag dumped in a corner, and a shovel caked with dry soil, balanced against the wall.

  I froze as the door slammed open and a giant, muscle-bound man entered the room. He was wearing a white vest, football-sized biceps bulging beneath glistening dark skin. Holding a metal toolbox in his right hand, he marched over to where I sat and set the item down before me. I looked up and stared at his towering frame, utterly convinced he was the same man responsible for putting my lights out.

  I heard a voice.

  "Good to see you're awake."

  Juku was standing by the open door, an asthma inhaler in the grip of his hand. He took a blast of air from the pump, closed the door behind him, and strolled over.

  "What do you want from me?"

  He glanced at the giant who grabbed another wooden chair close by and planted it before me.

  Juku sat down on it.

  "I need to know who you have been talking to," he said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "My name, my address, who gave them to you?"

  I looked at him, and a surge of rage shot through me.

  "You killed the only real parents I ever knew!"

  A look of embarrassment appeared on his face.

  "I didn't kill anyone," he said.

  "Don't lie to me!"

  He smiled quietly.

  "It was an accident."

  "Then why haven't you turned yourself in?"

  He stared at me as though I was insane.

  'Now why would I do a thing like that?"

  "There's no way you're going to get away with this," I said.

  "I already have," he replied.

  He took another blast of air from the asthma pump.

  "The only thing you need to concern yourself with is telling me exactly what I want to know."

  "I'm not telling you a thing," I yelled. "You hear me? Nothing!"

  He nodded, casually scratched the back of his neck. "Okay, let me put it to you another way. You see that handbag over there?" With a sideways jerk of his head, he indicated the Louis Vuitton bag. I turned to look at the bag, which was likely to have been a young lady's prized possession.

  "What did you do to her?" I said.

  He smiled.

  "Not me."

  He pointed up at the muscle-bound henchman who was now standing behind me like a towering oak tree.

  "Him."

  I swallowed a lump in my throat, hoping I'd be spared the details. Leaning forward, in an up close and personal manner, Juku whispered in my ear.

  "So here's the deal. You tell me what I need to know, and I guarantee the same won't happen to you."

  I swallowed another lump in my throat.

  "I can't."

  He nodded sadly, returned to his previous position, and said, "Do you know how information is extracted from prisoners of war?"

  "Why would I know a thing like that?"

  "Just curious," he said under his breath.

  He rose to his feet and stepped away from the chair. "You see, various methods can be used to free a man's tongue. But there is one in particular; I have a special preference for." He looked at the giant and nodded. In response, the giant circled round to my front, crouched down by the toolbox, and flipped back the lid. Looking at me again, Juku grimaced like a man whose hand was being forced.
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br />   "I really need you to tell me who you spoke to, and where I can find them," he said.

  I glanced down at the contents of the toolbox. There was a giant hammer, a bunch of nails, and the one instrument that sent a chill down my spine. A pair of pliers.

  The giant reached for the pliers.

  "Last chance," Juku whispered.

  I took a deep breath and gazed up at Juku, terrified, but defiant.

  "Fuck you!" I screamed.

  Juku turned to the giant and nodded for a second time. The man rose to his feet, dreaded pliers in hand. Instinctively I tightened up, rammed my teeth shut, and began thrashing my head violently from side to side like a drowning man at the mercy of a Great White. For a moment, the giant did nothing. He watched quietly. With expert timing, he swiftly shot out an open right hand, clawed me by the chin, and locking my head into position, sunk a rigid thumb into one cheek, a solid forefinger into the other and forced open my mouth. Releasing a desperate growl from the pit of my stomach, I braced myself for the inevitable as he snapped open the pliers, clamped onto a central incisor, and in a single motion yanked the tooth free.

  The pain was blinding. My screams engulfed the room and blood spurted across my shirt and onto the floor. I felt the pliers lock on to the next tooth. A lateral incisor was torn free, the pain like a sharp dagger being brutally driven into the roof of one's mouth. The room began to spin like a vicious carousel. The bitter taste of cold metal filled my mouth as the weaponized tool slipped across my tongue and snapped onto a molar. Gagging I heard my self say something. Wasn't quite sure what. Like a bolt of electricity from a cattle-prod, another explosion of pain.

  I blacked out.

  Moments later, the room came alive with the sound of Juku's voice. Still, in a haze of darkness, I figured he was talking to someone.

  "Moonlight Investigations," I heard him say.

  A chill ran down my spine. Opening my eyes, I saw that he was standing with his back to me. He was holding a smartphone, logged on to what looked like Sade Nonso's website. My shirt felt wet and sticky. I gazed downwards and noticed it was covered in vomit.

  HIs handset was on its speakerphone setting. I heard another person's voice. A voice identical to that of Balogun,

  "Moonlight Investigations?"

  "That's as much as we could get from him," Juku said. "But thanks to google, it looks like I have an address and a name for you."

  "I'm ready."

  "No 14 Allen Avenue. It looks like he has been speaking to a woman called Sade Nonso."

  "What about the money?" I heard Balogun say.

  "You'll get it. But I am going to need proof."

  "Proof?"

  "A photograph of the body once the job is completed."

  'No problem." I heard Balogun reply.

  "The phone returned to the familiar dial tone.

  "What have I done?" I muttered under my breath. Juku and the Giant whipped around. The Giant started towards me. He stopped as Juku raised a hand.

  "What have you done?"

  Juku walked over and crouched down before me. "What anyone in your position would do," he said.

  I shook my head, in protest.

  "No."

  "Yes," he replied as if to correct some misunderstanding. "Everyone has a pain threshold, and you just reached yours."

  I looked at him in desperation.

  "You don't have to do this. This woman's just a private investigator, not a police officer."

  He stared at me but said nothing.

  "She stands nothing to gain from telling anyone what happened," I emphasized.

  He paused for a spell.

  "Maybe so."

  He rose back up.

  "But I can't risk it. You see, timing, as they say, is everything. For instance, five years ago none of this would have mattered. It wouldn't have mattered what you knew, or what you could prove."

  Another pause.

  "Because my father's word was law in this town."

  He smiled quietly.

  "Unfortunately, that day is gone. So like everyone else out here, I'm just trying to survive." He turned to look at the Giant. "Once we get confirmation, you know what to do."

  I looked at Juku with a fresh hatred. But I had one consolation. As long as he held me captive, at six foot five and two hundred and fifty pounds, the one man he would never escape from was Jonah.

  23

  JONAH

  THIRD MAINLAND

  Moving a six foot one, one hundred and ninety-six-pound body from a three-story building in broad daylight was always going to be a complex endeavour. However, the rolled up rug in Sade's office struck me as being a potential solution to the immediate dilemma. "I'm going to have to use your rug," I told Sade.

  She looked at me with a puzzled expression.

  "My rug?"

  I didn't answer but went straight to work.

  Driving the office desk up against the wall. I tore the plastic wrapping from the rug and flattened it out on the floor. I rolled the assassin's body onto it, flipping the body like a heavy tyre, and folded the rug into the shape of a tube. Turning back to Sade, I said, "I'm going to need some rope, a couple of large bin bags, and some black tape."

  She nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. She returned with the tape, the bags and a broken electric cord. She handed over all three items.

  "Couldn't find any rope, but that cord's very strong."

  "Good," I said.

  I noticed that she also came along with a couple of things I didn't request but were equally as important. A mop and a bucket of water. With no further discussion, she used the mop to go to work on the pool of blood in the middle of the room. I got busy also. Strapping the rug tight with the electric cord, I wrapped and taped each side of the rug with a bin bag, to conceal any signs of the body. Looking over at Sade, who was nearly done with the floor, I said, "Got a car?"

  She stopped and turned to look at me.

  "Out front."

  "Decent room?"

  She paused for a moment.

  "I'm not sure if I want to be a part of this," she said.

  "Someone was hired to kill you, I'd say that ship's just sailed," I replied. She acknowledged my perspective with a nod.

  "It's a four by four," she said.

  I stripped off my shirt and handed it to her, leaving me wearing a white vest, which, in light of what I was about to do, gave me the advantage of looking like several of the labourer type individuals I had seen around the city. Heaving the enclosed body onto my shoulder, I turned to Sade.

  "You're driving," I said.

  Five minutes later, we were out of the door.Walking behind Sade, I followed the same corridor and stairwell, I had used thirty minutes earlier, only this time in reverse. Once outside she led me to a vehicle parked in front of the building. Aside from a few awkward glances by a couple of suited and booted employees, there were no signs of suspicion as I maneuvered the rug into the trunk of a Toyota jeep, leaving a portion hanging out of the back. We pulled up to the entrance gate, which was shut. The security man who I had seen taking a nap earlier, was standing at attention before it. He strolled over, and circling the car like a drug enforcement officer, came up to my door.

  Looking across at Sade, he motioned with an open hand, to the back of the jeep. Speaking in broken English he said, "Maa - dam, na you get this caah- pet?"

  "Solomon, I beg, open the gate, we dey hurry," Sade said. He took a couple of steps back from the car and gazed at the rug.

  "This caah - pet fine, oh!"

  He made no move to open the gate.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out a five hundred Naira note and handed it to him. His face broke into a broad smile. Walking over to the gate, he grabbed a handle, pulled the gate back, and rolled it all the way open. As we cruised off the premises, he said, "Go well," which I figured meant he wished us a safe journey. I turned to Sade.

  "Know where we can find a river?" I asked

  "A river?"


  "To dump the body."

  She paused to give it some thought.

  "Third mainland," she said.

  I nodded, acknowledging a structure, I would later discover was the longest bridge in the county. A bridge spanning eight miles in length, and resembled, albeit from a far enough distance, a poor man's version of San Francisco's Golden Gate bridge. A short while later, we mounted one of the city's central landmarks. I gazed down at what looked like large portions of discarded litter floating in the river several feet below. Shifting my gaze south, a wide spread of derelict looking homes, in the far distance, came to my attention. Fashioned of zinc material, these structures were erected on tall iron stilts and stood above the surface of the water. Far from ideal, yet in the absence of suitable accommodation on land, appeared to be a last-ditch attempt at securing somewhere to live. I leaned across and punched a button on the dashboard to activate the car's hazard lights.