The sharp crack of gunfire shattered the night, filling the air with a chaotic symphony of bullets fired in rapid succession, without rhythm or restraint. The once-peaceful surroundings of Mr. Okafor's grand estate had become a battlefield.
Amidst the mayhem, Mr. Okafor was struck—two bullets tearing into his stomach. He collapsed, writhing in agony as blood seeped through his expensive suit. Though the bullets had miraculously missed his vital organs, the pain was unbearable, and his life now hung by a thread.
The time was around 10 p.m., and his massive, heavily guarded mansion—once considered impenetrable—was now the site of a violent assault. Strangely, the gunfire wasn't an exchange between two warring factions. The police officers stationed to protect Mr. Okafor were all shooting at a single assailant. And, against all odds, that lone figure managed to evade them, escaping as if he had orchestrated every detail of this confrontation.
What made the situation even more unsettling was that he hadn't only defended himself—he had taken down several officers in the process. Though he hadn't killed any of them, his bullets found their marks, leaving the officers wounded in various places—legs, arms, and shoulders—effectively disabling them.
The remaining officers, now shaken and disoriented, weren't just fearful of their adversary's skill but of his identity. They all knew who he was. The familiarity of his attire confirmed their worst suspicions. This man had not concealed himself; instead, it seemed as if he wanted to be recognized.
Mr. Okafor had only just returned home from an event when the attack began. The gunman struck with precision, waiting for the perfect moment—when the officers had briefly shifted their focus—to land his shots. As bullets rained down on him from all sides, he swiftly maneuvered through the compound, using the numerous cars as cover. He returned fire skillfully, forcing the police to stay on the defensive. Then, in a move that appeared premeditated, he slipped through the slightly open gate—his escape route carefully set in place. The towering fences that once provided security now seemed useless against the cunning of this lone attacker.
Meanwhile, inside the house, Mr. Okafor's family cowered in terror. They had heard the gunshots, the shouting, the chaos unfolding just beyond the walls that separated them from danger. When the dust finally settled, and the gunman had vanished into the night, they rushed outside—only to be met with a heartbreaking sight.
Mr. Okafor was lying on the ground, his breathing shallow, his face contorted in pain. The arrival of an ambulance brought a flicker of hope, and as paramedics worked swiftly to stop his bleeding, his chances of survival increased. Yet the trauma of what had just happened left deep scars—not just on his body, but on the hearts of his loved ones.
Mrs. Okafor and her children stood frozen, watching as he was carefully lifted into the ambulance. Tears streamed down their faces, their eyes filled with horror and grief. But beyond the sorrow, there was fear.
The shooter was still out there. And now, more than ever, they knew he could return. Whether to finish what he started or to strike again in some other way, they had no idea. All they knew was that their nightmare was far from over.
****
Roland's alarm blared fiercely, jolting him from his deep slumber. His bed had been a source of warmth and comfort, and he groggily resisted the sudden intrusion. With a groan, his bleary eyes fluttered open, filled with annoyance at the persistent ringing.
Reaching out, he blindly groped for his phone on the small shelf beside his bed. As he turned it on, the bright screen illuminated the dim room, displaying the time—6:00 a.m. His brows furrowed when he noticed a long list of missed calls.
Every call was from a familiar contact, all recorded between 11:00 p.m. and midnight. A strange sense of unease crept up his spine. Why so many missed calls so late at night? It had to be urgent.
As if on cue, an unsettling feeling stirred within him, an instinctive warning that something was terribly wrong. His fingers hesitated for only a moment before dialing the number back. The call barely rang before the person on the other end answered—almost as if they had been waiting for him.
The conversation was intense from the very first words. Roland listened intently, his face slowly hardening with seriousness. His grip on the phone tightened. The more he heard, the worse the situation seemed.
"Wait a minute—are you serious? You identified the shooter as him? That can't be… How is that possible?" Roland's voice was sharp with disbelief. "So, you're telling me the serial killer was right under our noses this entire time? There's definitely something off here."
The discussion continued for several minutes, his thoughts racing to piece everything together. Then, the call ended. Roland remained seated on the bed, unmoving, his early morning routine completely forgotten. His mind was in turmoil.
"What the hell is going on here?" he muttered under his breath. His fingers absentmindedly rubbed his chin as he sank deep into thought.
The serial killer had revealed his identity. That alone was suspicious. It was too good to be true. More unsettling was the fact that the man in question wasn't a stranger. He was someone they all knew. Someone who had worked alongside them.
Roland could only imagine how his colleagues must have felt upon realizing they had been betrayed by one of their own. But something didn't sit right with him. Was this really a revelation? Or was it a trap? A carefully orchestrated distraction?
"I have a feeling this is more complicated than we think," he mused, his eyes narrowing.
If his suspicion was correct, then they weren't just dealing with a serial killer. They were dealing with a mastermind. And that meant things were about to get far more dangerous.
****
Mr. Fadeyi and Mrs. Fadeyi sat in the living room, watching the morning news—a daily routine they never missed. The room was enveloped in silence, apart from the steady hum of the television.
As they focused on the broadcast, their attention was suddenly captured by a breaking news report. The headline flashed across the screen, accompanied by a serious-looking news anchor delivering the shocking revelation. "The serial killer has finally been identified."
Mrs. Fadeyi, unable to contain her reaction, spoke aloud without realizing it. "So, the serial killer has finally been revealed…" Her voice, though quiet, broke the stillness of the room.
Mr. Fadeyi turned to look at her, noticing the stunned expression in her eyes.
"Indeed," he muttered, his gaze returning to the screen. "Who would have expected it to be someone the police and even the lead detective knew? He was right under their noses all along… What a shocking turn of events." His words hung in the air, heavy with disbelief. The news had changed everything.