Mariaa

The ripples of Senator Afolabi's death spread far and wide, shaking the political corridors of Lagos. Condolences poured in from international allies, party members, and corporate leaders. The newspapers hailed his "legacy," though Maria smirked at how sanitized the narratives were. The underbelly of his actions had been wiped clean by his wealth as if he'd been a saint all along. For Maria, it was a confirmation: in the public eye, power cleansed sins. But she wasn't in public.

Her name remained out of the spotlight, but her mind grew restless. Success had become her drug, and the thrill of hunting her prey was intoxicating. But there was another layer to her growing apprehension: someone was watching her. She'd felt it first as a shadow during her usual morning jogs, and then again when she'd noticed the same silver sedan parked at the corner of her street for two consecutive days. Whoever it was, they were careful, but not invisible.

Maria's instincts sharpened. She knew better than to ignore signs of danger.

The man trailing her was meticulous, but Maria was patient. She had a routine for evading surveillance, one born out of necessity since her first kill. She waited for the right moment to confirm her suspicions. It came one afternoon as she left a nondescript cafe on Adeola Odeku Street. The silver sedan idled nearby. Maria crossed the road deliberately, walking toward the car. It pulled away immediately, but not before she glimpsed the driver: a man in his late 40s, dark-skinned, with a scar running down his left cheek.

"Not subtle enough," Maria whispered to herself.

Returning to her apartment, Maria's mind churned. She couldn't afford loose ends. If someone had connected her to the deaths, she had to act quickly. But who was he? A private investigator? A journalist? Or… something worse?

Maria spent the evening gathering information, hacking into databases she had no business accessing. She had learned the art of infiltration during her teenage years, a time when curiosity had led her to unravel secrets within her own family secrets that had shaped her path. By midnight, she had a name: Detective Kayode Ojo, a seasoned investigator with a reputation for cracking impossible cases.

"So, they've sent the best," Maria muttered. The thrill of the chase returned, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

The next day, Maria adjusted her plans. She couldn't continue her work without eliminating the threat Detective Ojo posed. But she knew better than to strike hastily. Instead, she decided to learn about him, his habits, his vulnerabilities, his motivations. Maria began following him, reversing the roles. She discovered his routine was predictable: early mornings at a modest gym in Surulere, afternoons in his office, and evenings spent at a small bar near his home.

It was during one of his evening visits that Maria made her move. She entered the bar wearing a simple dress, her hair tied back in a casual ponytail. The place was dimly lit, with worn-out furniture and the smell of stale beer. Ojo sat at the counter, nursing a bottle of stout. Maria approached, her demeanor friendly but reserved.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, her voice carrying just enough warmth to disarm.

Ojo looked up, startled. He studied her for a moment before nodding. "Sure. It's not every day someone wants to share a drink with me."

Maria smiled. "You seem like you could use the company."

They talked, their conversation flowing naturally. Maria played her part well, curious but unassuming, interested but not intrusive. Ojo, for his part, was cautious. He didn't reveal much about himself, but Maria could sense his weariness, the weight of his job pressing on him. She decided to plant a seed.

"You're a detective, right?" she asked casually, as if guessing.

Ojo raised an eyebrow. "How did you know?"

Maria shrugged. "You have the look. Observant, intense, like you're always solving a puzzle in your head."

Ojo chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "You're perceptive."

"I've always been good at reading people," Maria replied. "Must be a useful skill for your line of work."

Ojo nodded, his expression growing serious. "It is. But it's also exhausting. Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it."

"Why do you do it, then?" Maria asked, leaning in slightly.

He hesitated, then said, "Justice. Someone has to hold people accountable, especially those who think they're untouchable."

Maria's heart skipped a beat. She forced a smile. "That's admirable. The world needs more people like you."

Ojo looked at her closely, as if trying to decipher her intentions. Maria held his gaze, unflinching. She needed him to trust her, to see her as an ally, not a threat.

Over the next week, Maria continued her interactions with Ojo, carefully building rapport. She learned about his family, a divorced wife and a teenage daughter he rarely saw. She uncovered his frustrations with bureaucracy, his disdain for corrupt officials, and his drive to uncover the truth, no matter the cost.

But Maria also uncovered his vulnerability: his loneliness. It was a weakness she could exploit.

One evening, as they shared a drink at the bar, Maria leaned closer, her tone conspiratorial. "Can I tell you something?"

Ojo looked at her, intrigued. "Of course."

"I think you're one of the good ones," Maria said, her voice soft. "You actually care about making a difference. That's rare."

Ojo smiled faintly, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Thank you. That means a lot."

Maria placed a hand on his arm briefly, a calculated gesture of connection. "If there's ever anything I can do to help, let me know."

Ojo nodded, his defenses lowering slightly. Maria knew she was getting closer to him, closer to understanding his strategy. But she also knew the clock was ticking. If Ojo discovered her identity, it would all be over.

Maria's dual life became more precarious as the days went on. She continued her preparations for her next target while keeping a close eye on Ojo. The pressure mounted, but Maria thrived under it. Every step she took was deliberate, every move calculated.

One night, as she reviewed her notes on Ojo, Maria's phone buzzed. It was a message from an unknown number: We need to talk. Urgently.

Her blood ran cold. She stared at the screen, her mind racing. Could it be Ojo? Or someone else? Maria knew she couldn't ignore it.

She replied: Who is this?

The response came quickly: A friend. Meet me at the old warehouse on Wharf Road. Midnight.

Maria's instincts screamed caution, but she couldn't afford to back down. Whoever it was, they knew something. And Maria needed to find out what.