Silhouette

XXVIII

“You caused quite a ruckus in there, Dave,” says Charles. His eyes are bright and mischievous.

Dave just stares at him. His body is numb and so is his mind, as if he has been stripped bare of all feeling. He feels exhaustion dancing on the edge of his bones. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”

They are standing by his car. Thomas, is at the other side. He is speaking into a phone.

“We work for the SIA and that’s all you need to know. Telling you more will be a breach of protocol.”

A blue Peugeot slows next to them. The second agent, Yemi, is at the wheels. He rolls down the glass. There is a cell in his hand. “I can’t get a hold of HQ,” he says frowning.

Charles shrugs. “Let’s take Mr. Thomas in first.” He turns to the other side of Dave’s car. “Mr. Thomas, if you will please come with us.”

Thomas stands about two heads shorter than Dave. Early thirties, small and scrawny with a certain intelligence in his eyes. Dave sees the outline of glasses on his temples.

Thomas nods and ends the call. He smiles sheepishly, stretches his hand at Dave. “You saved my life today, thank you. Those people were going to kill me whether I gave them what they wanted or not.”

Dave nods, takes the hand. “What did they want?”

Thomas opens the door, rests his arm on it and considers Dave for a moment. “Have you ever stumbled on something, like a conspiracy with disastrous effects?”

Dave smiles. “Actually, I have.”

“Is that what brought you here?”

Dave stares at Chief Koko’s house down the street, he turns to Thomas. “Yes, something like that.”

Thomas nods. “Good luck then, you’ll need it.” He slides into the car and closes the door.

Charles has been watching the whole exchange with his arm folded across his chest.

A cold breeze blows that sends their suits flapping about and tree branches rattling. Dave regards Charles. He says, “Where are you taking him to?”

“A safe house.”

“You people have those?”

“Yeah. You should come with us. I have a feeling you’re involved in this, one way or the other. You never know in things like these, they are like spiderwebs—one thread links to the other.”

“Chief Koko killed my friend.”

Charles frowns. “Your friend?”

“Yeah, from the army, his name is Carl Johnson. Chief Koko had him killed some few hours ago.”

“So that’s why we lost you earlier.”

Dave nods. “You have been following me. I’ve noticed your car quite a few times.” He goes across his car and unlocks it. “I hope I have satisfied you curiosity.”

Charles takes a few steps, drums his fingers on the bonnet of Dave’s car. He lowers his voice. “We know what you are, Dave Coker. We know exactly the things you do.”

Dave takes in a sharp breath. He feels lightheaded. He licks his lips and grabs onto the door frame. “Yeah?”

Charles grins. Turns and opens the door of the Peugeot. “They even have a name for you.” The glass rolls up and the car zooms away.

Dave stares at the empty street. He collapses onto his seat and closes the door. Breathes through his mouth. He starts the car and grips the steering, his hands are trembling. He squeezes them.

He feels hot, so hot it’s like every pore on his skin is on fire. For a moment, just a split second, the empty street before him changes into the hot brown sands with dry clumps of grasses.

He sees boots marching in cadence, he hears the sharp retorts of bullets and the roar of helicopter blades somewhere in the distance, he knows there will be no helicopter if he looks out and up.

Dave swerves and hits the brakes, narrowly missing a light pole. He is breathing fast now, almost gasping for breath. He loosens his tie and concentrates on his breathing, worried he might panic.

He kills the engine, slaps his face and fumbles out of the car. He puts his hand to his neck, the softest part just beneath his jaw, he gathers a tiny fold of skin and pinches.

The pain hits him like a bucket of cold water. He moans.

Dave stares into the car. At the back seat, wrapped in black cellophane, are the guns. Dave is breathing easy now. He stares at the bundle, shakes his head. “I’m done,” he says. It comes out as a whisper.

He gets into the car and drives off. He doesn’t stop until he reaches a local ironworks factory. He pulls up at the gate and asks for Sumaila.

Sumaila had been arrested on suspicion of armed robbery three months ago. The robbers’ get-away vehicle was his. It turned out that the van had been stolen a week earlier and Sumaila had failed to report, instead trusting the local car dealers to find it for him. It was a Friday night when Sumaila was brought in. The courts wouldn’t open until Monday and his wife was in labour. Dave had let him go without obtaining the bail documents.

Moments later, a shaggy middle-aged man walks out. His work-clothes are dark and greasy. A dark visor sits atop his head. He sidles to Dave’s side of the car. “Oga Dave,” he says. His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Long time. Wetin bring you here?”

Dave comes out. He holds the cellophane in his hands. “Furnace,” he says.

Sumaila’s gaze flickers from his face to the bag, he shrugs. “Follow me.”

The sounds of metal clanging, hissing and screeching follows Dave. Thick, brawny men in dirty work clothes eye him. He is a bull in a dog kernel. He doesn’t belong here.

Sumaila leads him to a huge metal structure, it juts out from the wall and rises far above their head and above the roof. Sumaila opens a small square window on the surface. The fire roars out, the colour is a deep, deep red.

Dave stares at the flames. It is very hot in there. He tries to imagine how hot it’d be in the furnace. He throws the cellophane into the fire, it roars as if with renewed vigor. He wipes sweat from his forehead, nods at Sumaila and walks out of the stifling heat.