The Dice#39

The wheels of Moses’ plane touched the tarmac in Lagos, screeching against the runway as the plane jolted to a halt. He barely noticed the humid, suffocating air of the city as it surged through the plane’s opened doors. His phone was already in hand, pressed to his ear, his voice taut with urgency. “Ola,” he barked, “any updates?”

Ola’s reply was clipped and tense, words tumbling over static. Segal and his team were closing in, only a few hours behind, but Moses couldn’t afford to wait. Time was a blade at his throat, and Dunni was out there—lost, vulnerable, and in the clutches of God-knows-who.

He shoved his way through the airport terminal, ignoring the crush of people and the cacophony of shouting voices. His cab—hastily hailed when Ola’s driver got stuck in Lagos’ infamous traffic—smelled of stale leather and sweat. The city outside was chaotic: swarming markets, honking horns, the metallic screech of brakes. Moses sat rigid, his heart pounding like a war drum. He’d been running on adrenaline since the distress call, and the edges of his vision were blurring from exhaustion. Sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

As the cab screeched to a halt in front of the office, he flung a fistful of cash at the driver and bolted inside. The staff greeted him with a mixture of concern and awe—faces that had been colleagues now watched him like a general marching into battle. He barely nodded back, his mind too consumed to acknowledge their strained smiles.

In Ola’s office, the stench of stale coffee and stress hung heavy in the air. The dim light caught the cluttered desk, littered with maps, files, and a half-eaten meat pie. Ola was hunched over his phone, his voice sharp and brittle. When he finally hung up and looked up at Moses, his face was lined with exhaustion.

“I’ve got bad news,” Ola began, his voice low but trembling with frustration. “The tracker Tade gave Dunni? Found. In Nasarawa. Four hours from Abuja. But…” He paused, his jaw tightening. “It was with some random guy who bought it off someone else. A dead end. The federal security’s been no help. Even the president’s speech has done nothing. We’re on our own here.”

Moses’ gut twisted, and he couldn’t breathe for a moment. His hands gripped the edge of Ola’s desk. “Send everything we have to Segal,” he ordered. “He’s landing in three hours. Once he’s here, we move.”

The hours dragged like a slow bleed. By the time Segal and his team arrived, the tension in the room was so thick it seemed to choke the air. Segal was a hulking presence, his piercing eyes sweeping over the gathered intel with practised efficiency. He worked like a machine, dissecting details, issuing orders, and refusing to work with an external party who’d contacted him. “Trust is everything,” Segal growled. “This mission can’t afford leaks.”

Still, despite Segal’s expertise, there was no ransom demand, no claims of responsibility. Theories were swirling like a dark fog, but none felt concrete.

By Day 3, Moses was unravelling. Every passing second felt like a noose tightening around his neck. The air in the office allocated to Segal and his team was suffocating, filled with the hum of computers, the murmur of voices, and the bitter smell of stale coffee. Then, Segal’s team uncovered a faint thread of hope.

“Drone footage picked up a group moving further up north,” Segal announced, his voice crackling with restrained intensity. “Cross-referencing coordinates from the bomb site… This could be it.”

Moses’ heart leapt to his throat as the room erupted into a frenzy of action. The air buzzed with urgency, commands flying back and forth. Maps were marked, and plans laid. He felt like an outsider in the chaos, a spectator to his nightmare. Segal’s glare silenced his questions at one point, and Moses retreated, swallowing his frustration.

Then, Segal’s shout shattered the air: “Matza Otah! Get the helicopter—we’re moving out!”

Moses lunged forward, his voice rising over the chaos. “I’m coming with you.”

Segal turned, his face dark with disapproval. “No,” he snapped. “It’s too dangerous. You’ll slow us down.”

“I’m not staying behind!” Moses roared, his fists clenched. “I can’t sit here waiting for scraps of information while Dunni is out there! I’m coming!”

Segal stared him down, his expression stern and unyielding. Finally, with a grunt, he relented. “Fine. But you stay in the helicopter, wear a vest, and do not step out unless I tell you. Do you understand?”

Moses nodded, his jaw tight. “Let’s go.”

By 1:30 AM on Day 4, the helicopter’s blades roared to life, slicing through the stillness of the night. The cold metal of the bulletproof vest pressed against Moses’ chest, and the thrum of the engines vibrated through his body. Outside, the darkness stretched endlessly, punctuated only by the faint glow of distant fires.

This was it. The rescue was beginning—and failure wasn’t an option.