Chapter 5

I can’t stop blinking. My chest heaves as I gulp what are to be my final, hoarse breaths.

“Turn around,” says my killer. “Look at me.”

I rotate slowly, suddenly unable to speak, to shout or even—God help me—shout for help in the dark parking lot full of cars. My mouth tastes sour. My bowels stew in acid.

The light that sparks before me doesn’t come from the barrel of a handgun, but from the end of a small torch that the killer flicks on. Moving past me to reach into the van, he grabs the figure inside by the shoulders, rolls it over and aims the torch beam at it.

The lower half of the face that squints weakly into the circle of yellow light is mostly obscured by duct tape, but I recognize it instantly. The paisley tie is gone; so are the worn brogue shoes and Italian leather belt. The white dress shirt is smudged and ripped in several places, but there is no mistaking Sam’s eyes as they blindly widen while he squirms helplessly on his cruel bed of old car parts.

The killer lets me have a long look at his trussed victim before turning back to me. Grabbing my arm, he pulls me towards the front of the van, out of his hostage’s earshot.

“Now you have a chance,” he hisses, “to decide if you can be something you have never in your life imagined you would need to be.”

All my mind can register is dread and with numb confusion. Once again, his voice is the one that earlier infiltrated my line and turned my life upside down: calm, insidious and seething—liable to explode into wanton fury at any moment.

He scoffs at my dumb gaze. “You still don’t get it? The illegal account entries, the fraudulent withdrawal attempt from your Onitsha branch… it was all arranged by him—your ride or die, Sam. The accomplice that was arrested never got the chance to expose him to the police because I was paid to take care of it. The accident to ensure that Mr. Balogun would be out of commission long enough for the funds to be drawn down? I arranged that as well.”