Come, come, don't go… please don't leave me alone. He called.
"I'll be back," she whispered, barely audible, swallowed by the darkness.
"Bryan! Bryan, wake up!"
Dakolo's voice sliced through the fog of sleep like a blade.
Bryan jolted awake, His eyes flew open, his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum. Sweat clung to his skin, and the room felt suffocating, as if the nightmare had followed him into waking life. He sat up abruptly, chest heaving, the ghost of the voice still ringing in his ears.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to banish the lingering dread.
"Another dream?" Dakolo asked, his brow furrowed, concern etched deep into his features.
Bryan nodded slowly, his throat tight. "Yeah… same one."
He didn't need to explain. Dakolo had heard enough over the past to know the weight Bryan carried.
"When will these dreams end?" Dakolo murmured, more to himself than to Bryan. The question hung in the air like smoke—unanswered, unanswerable.
"I just came to check on you," Dakolo said, breaking the silence. "The boys are getting ready for tonight. We've got to leave soon."
Bryan swung his legs over the edge of the bed, grounding himself. The floor was cold beneath his feet, a jolt of reality.
"Give me fifteen minutes," he said, voice steadier now. "I'll meet you downstairs."
He needed time—not just to dress, but to gather the fragments of himself scattered by the dream.
As Bryan stepped into the bathroom, the mirror reflected a face he barely recognized. Haunted eyes. A clenched jaw. He splashed cold water on his face, letting it drip down his neck like baptism—washing away the thoughts, or at least trying to.
Downstairs, Dakolo joined the others in the dimly lit living room. The air was thick with anticipation. Maps, ammunition, and black masks lay strewn across the table like props in a grim theater. The plan was set, but the tension was palpable—no one spoke above a whisper.
Bryan emerged fifteen minutes later, dressed in black from head to toe. His gaze swept the room, absorbing every detail.
"Is everything set?" he asked, voice low, calm, but with an edge of steel.
Dakolo nodded. "Let's move."
Two vehicles—a Lexus jeep and a Sienna—slipped into the night like shadows. The city was quiet, the streets bathed in the pale glow of streetlights. Midnight approached, and with it, the moment of reckoning.
They pulled up to a duplex, its high walls casting long shadows. Timini, dressed as a security officer, approached the gate with practiced ease.
He knocked twice softly.
"Who's there?" the gateman called, suspicion lacing his voice.
"I'm the one—CSO, (Chief Security Officer)" Timini replied, adopting a tone of authority.
The gateman hesitated a bit before speaking. "What do you want?"
"We heard some noise around here. I'm here to check if everything's okay," Timini said, his performance flawless.
"Yes sir, everything is fine here," the gateman replied, still wary.
"Alright, we heard wrong then. Sorry for the disturbance," Timini said.
As the gateman walked away, Timini gave a subtle signal. A stone arced through the air and landed inside the compound. The gateman spun around, startled, rushing back to the gate.
"Sir! Sir!" the gateman called out, his voice trembling, laced with fear.
Timini took a few measured steps away from the gate, his posture calm, his voice steady and commanding.
"Yes?" he replied, his tone clipped, as if he'd dealt with a hundred such situations before.
"I think I heard something, sir," the gateman said, eyes darting nervously around the compound. His fingers twitched at his sides, unsure whether to reach for a weapon.
Timini didn't flinch. "Open the gate. Let's go check it out," he ordered, his voice brooking no argument.
The gateman hesitated for a heartbeat, then obeyed, due to the rampant robbery ongoing. The gate creaked open, and Timini stepped inside, mask in place, so were the rest of the gang, his eyes scanning the shadows. One by one, the others followed, silent as ghosts. Dakolo was the last to enter, locking the gate behind them with a heavy click that echoed like a ticking time bomb.
Inside the house, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson sat in their cozy living room, bathed in the soft glow of the television. The hum of their weekly Saturday night program filled the space, a comforting ritual that made the world outside feel distant.
Mr. Peterson leaned back in his armchair, sipping from a glass of wine, while Mrs. Peterson curled up beside him, her eyes fixed on the screen. The room smelled faintly of lavender and peanuts—a quiet, domestic peace.
Then came the knock.
Sharp. Unexpected.
Mr. Peterson glanced at the wall clock. It was almost midnight. His brow furrowed.
"It's late already. Who could be knocking at this hour?"
Mrs. Peterson didn't look away from the screen. "Who else could it be if not IK?" she said, her voice low, almost dismissive.
Mr. Peterson's expression turned skeptical. "What does he want this time?" he muttered, rising from his seat with deliberate slowness. His slippers shuffled softly against the tiled floor as he approached the door.
"Who is it?" he asked, voice firm, hand hovering near the lock.
"It's IK, sir," came the reply—the gateman's voice, muffled but recognizable.
What Mr. Peterson didn't know was that the gang had already taken positions around the house. Their silhouettes blended into the night, silent and watchful. IK's voice trembled slightly, but Mr. Peterson, distracted and tired, didn't notice.
"IK, what do you want at this hour?" Mr. Peterson asked, irritation creeping into his tone. "Don't you know it's late already?"
IK stammered, his words tumbling out in a nervous rush.
"Oga, please, abeg no vex. I… I bin hear noise, yes noise for backyard, and I want to go check it, but as I go back my room, I no see my cutlass again. So na im I come back say make I go carry the one wey dey inside house."
Mr. Peterson sighed, his patience thinning. "IK, it's late," he said, voice firm but controlled. He unlocked the door, swinging it open with a weary hand.
In an instant, chaos erupted.
The gang surged forward, pushing IK inside like a pawn. Mr. and Mrs. Peterson froze, their eyes wide with terror as masked figures flooded the room. The air shifted—no longer warm and domestic, but sharp and electric with danger.
Bryan settled onto one of the couches, his movements deliberate, a gun resting casually in his hand like an extension of his will. He didn't speak—his silence was louder than any threat.
Timini barked orders, his voice cold and menacing.
"Get on your knees. Faces to the floor. Now!"
The Petersons dropped instantly, their bodies trembling, breaths shallow. Mrs. Peterson clutched her husband's hand, her nails digging into his skin.
The room fell into a suffocating silence. The only sounds were the ragged breathing of the terrified couple and the soft, involuntary shivering of IK, who laid on the ground, behind a sofa like a forgotten pawn in a dangerous game.
Dakolo's voice sliced through the quiet, cold and sharp.
"Where is the money?"
Mrs. Peterson's lips quivered. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Sir… please… there's no money in this house."
Timini didn't hesitate. His response was swift, brutal.
"Shut up! I'm going to ask again—and if you don't bring out the money, the three of you will be lifeless in five seconds. Where is the money?"
The threat hung in the air like poison. Mr. Peterson's voice cracked as he interrupted his wife, desperation spilling from his mouth.
"Sir, there's money… there's money in my room."
Bryan's eyes never left the television. The flickering images danced across his face, casting shadows that made his expression unreadable.
"Dakolo. Oscar. Go with him," he said calmly, as if ordering coffee.
The couple's fate teetered on a knife's edge as Mr. Peterson led the gang members down the hallway. Mrs. Peterson remained kneeling, her hands clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Minutes later, Dakolo and Oscar returned, a heavy briefcase in hand. Bryan's gaze flicked toward them, then back to the couple. A slow, chilling smile spread across his face.
"Is it complete?" he asked.
Oscar nodded. "Yes, it is."
Bryan's smile widened, almost boyish. "Good. Madam, have your seat. Let's continue the program. You haven't been concentrating."
Mrs. Peterson's eyes darted to her husband, who gave a subtle nod. She rose, stiff and trembling, and returned to the sofa like a puppet on strings.
Bryan leaned back, gun resting on his thigh, and turned his attention to the screen.
"This is really thrilling," he said, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. He glanced at Mrs. Peterson, who gave a slow, fearful nod.
"You know," Bryan added, voice low and almost wistful, "it's been ages since I watched something like this. Really long."
His gaze lingered on Mrs. Peterson, expectant. She swallowed hard.
"Really?" she asked, her voice barely audible beneath the weight of his stare.
Bryan's smile deepened. "We'll leave you and your husband to rest. It's a lovely night."
He began to rise—then a voice shattered the fragile calm.
"Mum? Dad? Are you still awake?"
Bryan froze. The gang tensed instantly, goes into hiding, guns raised, eyes scanning the hallway.
Footsteps echoed softly, then a girl appeared—tan-skinned, barefoot, dressed in pajamas. She stretched sleepily, rubbing her eyes.
"Dad? Mum? Why are both of you still up?
She turned—and locked eyes with Bryan who was sitting.
"Mum… Dad… who is this?"
The gang emerged from the shadows like phantoms. Clara gasped, her breath catching in her throat. Mrs. Peterson rushed to her, pulling her close and guiding her to the couch.
"Clara, shut up and sit still."
Timini whistled, eyes wide.
"So there was a damsel in this house all along?"
"Bro, see her fine face and sweet voice," Matthew added, grinning, his tone disturbingly casual.
Bryan hadn't moved. His eyes were locked on Clara, unblinking. Something shifted in his expression—something fragile and fleeting.
Dakolo noticed. He stepped closer, voice low.
"Bryan… you good?"
Bryan blinked, as if waking from a trance.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."
He sat up straighter, but his gaze never left Clara. She stared back, confused, her brows furrowed. There was no fear in her eyes, just curiosity and something else. Recognition?
"Have we met before?" Bryan asked, his voice low, almost curious. His eyes locked onto Clara's with unsettling intensity. The air between them thickened, charged with something unspoken. Clara shifted uneasily, her brows knitting. "No," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Bryan stood abruptly, the scrape of his chair against the floor slicing through the silence. "We're leaving," he said, turning toward the door. Then he paused, his gaze flicking back to Clara. "She comes with us."
The room froze. The gang stared at him, stunned into silence. Clara's breath caught in her throat. "No! I'm not going anywhere!" she screamed, her voice cracking with panic. "Mum! Dad! Help me!"
Mrs. Peterson lunged forward, her face twisted in desperation, but one of the gang shoved her to the ground. She hit the floor with a thud, crying out. "Please! You've got the money—just let her go!"
Dakolo stepped forward, calm and methodical. He pulled a rope and a handkerchief from his coat pocket and handed them to Tiger, who moved with grim efficiency. Clara thrashed, kicking and screaming, but Tiger overpowered her, tying her hands tightly. Dakolo covered her eyes with the cloth, plunging her into darkness.
Timini slapped IK on the back as they moved toward the exit. "Later, my gee," he said with a grin, as if they'd just finished a casual errand.
Clara's screams echoed through the house, raw and pleading. "Please… let me go," she cried, her voice hoarse. She struggled against Tiger's grip, her body trembling. Dakolo and Tiger locked eyes. A silent nod passed between them. Without a word, Dakolo pulled out a small vial, uncapped it, and sprayed its contents into Clara's face. Her body went limp instantly, her cries silenced.