The sniper rifle fired and a very prominent figure dropped to the ground with a thud.
Yoroba took a deep breath, glancing over the edge of the towering skyscraper. Below, the bustling city of Rio de Janeiro stretched endlessly, its neon lights flickering like stars trapped on Earth.
"We should move," Tamandan Bongo, wiping the sleek barrel of his rifle. His voice was calm, controlled—he was a man who never let adrenaline cloud his judgment.
Yoroba nodded. "The client will be happy. Let's get to the rendezvous point."
Tamandan Bongo slung the rifle over his shoulder and followed Yoroba to the emergency exit. The 89th floor wasn't just high—it was a throne for ghosts, a place where only shadows dared to linger.
Yoroba glanced at Tamandan Bongo before answering. The night air on the 89th floor was still, but the weight of the mission lingered between them.
"Flawless," Yoroba said into the phone, his voice unwavering. "No loose ends."
A brief pause. Then, the voice on the other end spoke again, cool and measured. "Good. Payment will be wired within the hour. Proceed to extraction."
Tamandan adjusted the rifle on his shoulder. "We should vanish before sunrise."
Yoroba nodded, slipping the phone back into his pocket. The job was done, but the night was far from over.
Yoroba hesitated for half a second before answering. The city below shimmered like a restless ocean, but up here, in the shadows, time felt frozen.
"You have my attention," he said, his tone measured. "But I don't work with ghosts. Name yourself."
A soft chuckle crackled through the line. "Names are just decorations, Nightbird. What matters is the offer—high risk, higher reward. Are you listening?"
Tamandan Bongo watched his partner carefully, fingers grazing the edge of his concealed pistol. Yoroba had dealt with plenty of mysterious clients before, but something in the woman's voice was different—sharp, knowing.
"I listen," Yoroba replied. "But I don't take blind leaps."
"You won't need to," she assured him. "Check your account. A taste of what's to come."
Yoroba pulled out his secondary phone, fingers moving quickly over the screen. His breath caught for just a fraction of a second. The number blinking back at him was no small sum—it was a fortune.
Tamandan Bongo leaned closer. "Good or bad?"
Yoroba exhaled slowly. "Both."
The voice on the other end remained patient. "Interested now?"
The woman on the other end didn't hesitate. "High-profile. Discreet. One shot, one opportunity."
Yoroba exhaled slowly, exchanging a glance with The Extractor. His instinct was sharp—this wasn't an ordinary contract.
"Location?" he asked.
"Paris. The target is untouchable to most, but not to you."
Tamandan let out a low whistle. "Big fish."
Yoroba weighed his options, rolling the thought over in his mind. Taking a job fresh off another wasn't his style—but something about this call felt different.
"And the payout?"
"Double what you were just wired," she said, smooth as silk. "Think about it, Nightbird. You know how to find me."
The line cut off before he could respond. The air between him and Tamandan Bongo was thick with unspoken thoughts.
"Feels like a trap," Tamandan Bongo muttered.
Yoroba smirked, slipping the phone into his coat pocket. "Yeah. But sometimes the best jobs do."
"Akinremi, looks like you're heading to Botswana," Yoroba said as they made their exit, his voice carrying the weight of authority—both as a boss and a father.
Tamandan Bongo—Akinremi—didn't break stride. He had long learned that hesitation wasn't an option in their world.
"Straight to work, then," he murmured, adjusting the rifle slung over his back.
Yoroba nodded. "This isn't just another job. The stakes are high, and whoever hired us knows exactly what we can do."
Akinremi glanced at his father. "And that doesn't worry you?"
A rare smirk touched Yoroba's lips. "It should. But it doesn't."
They disappeared into the darkness, leaving Rio behind. Tamandan Bongo, the Black hitman awaited—the next chapter in their dangerous legacy.
It was late afternoon, my usual jogging hour, where the gravel road stretched endlessly ahead, flanked by ridges. Today felt different; my mood was extraordinarily buoyant, the kind of joy that seemed almost out of place. The sky hovered in shades of gray-white, ominous yet serene, and the air carried a crisp freshness that teased of rain but withheld its indulgence.
As I jogged, lost in the rhythm of my pace, I caught sight of her—the woman who would imprint herself in my memory, perhaps forever. She was striking, her mixed-race heritage evident in the harmonious blend of features she carried with effortless grace. Her child, securely wrapped in a vividly beautiful chitenge with red dots and a yellow base, rested snugly on her back, oblivious to the world.
Her presence was magnetic. I thought I heard her voice—a soft murmur barely above the gravel crunch beneath my feet. I couldn't tell for sure, but I wanted to believe she had spoken. That thought alone was enough to elicit my response.
"How's the beautiful chilling weather raining down on your spine?" I asked, slowing my pace, my voice imbued with genuine curiosity and cheer.
I offered her my widest smile, and when she turned to look at me, she mirrored my gesture with a grin that could have rivaled the sun. Her smile was disarming, a rare gem I hadn't encountered in ages.
"I couldn't agree more with you," she replied, her voice a melody—gentle yet potent enough to resonate deep within.
Her words hung in the air, but just as I was soaking in the magic of the moment, she broke away, calling out to the little girl trailing behind her.
"Quicken your pace, Memo!" she reprimanded sharply, the contrast in her tone startling.
Memo—a delicate child of about nine years—struggled under the weight of another young one strapped to her back. The sight tugged at my heartstrings. I wanted to say something, to offer advice or assistance, but my instincts told me it wasn't my place. Instead, I waved goodbye and continued jogging, albeit backward, to savor every lingering image of her grace.
The thrill was inexplicable, an adrenaline rush that sent my senses spiraling. Each glance over my shoulder stoked a fire in me, a rush of excitement that made goosebumps bloom on my skin. But then, the serenity shattered.
A distant roar broke my focus. A pink convertible Ford Mustang came hurtling toward me, a blur of chaos as its tires spat gravel and dust into the air. My heart stopped, then raced double time. The car's erratic movements mirrored my own, shifting lanes each time I tried to evade its path.
Fear gripped me like a vice. The ridges lining the road trapped me, their steepness turning escape into a dangerous gamble. I leaned left, bracing myself for the leap that might save my life.
But just before I could jump, the Mustang screeched to a halt, its tires biting into the gravel with a deafening grind. Dust engulfed me, choking the air and clouding my vision. The car stopped dead in the center of the road, cutting off all escape routes.
Then, the driver emerged—leaping out of the car with predatory intensity. He landed on the bonnet, his movements fluid and menacing, before charging toward me like a beast unleashed.
"Today, you'll meet your maker!" he shouted, his voice reverberating with fury.
His fist swung toward me with violent force. I reacted instinctively, dodging just in time as the blow grazed the air where I had been moments before. My heart pounded; every fiber of my being was alert.
"Who are you? Why are you doing this?" I yelled, desperation lacing my words as I backed away.
"You'll know my name when you take your last breath!" he growled, his eyes blazing with unrelenting malice.
His next move came—a swift, calculated kick aimed directly at me. I leaped backward, narrowly avoiding it, all while refusing to expose my back. Vulnerability would be fatal; I knew that much.
"You don't want me dead," I countered, my voice trembling yet resolute. "Someone else does. Who are they?"
"My employers," he spat, his words dripping with venom.
The pieces began to fall into place. This was no random attack—it was deliberate, orchestrated. My thoughts raced as I frantically searched for a way out.
In a fleeting moment of clarity, I turned my head, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mixed-race woman and the little girl. But they were gone. Had they fled, sensing the peril I found myself in? Or had they been something else entirely—apparitions sent to warn me, or angels signaling a fate beyond comprehension?
The thought offered me brief solace, but it didn't last long. My attacker's relentless movements demanded my full attention.
"You don't have to do this!" I pleaded, the weight of dread pressing down on me.
But his smirk told me my words had no effect. He lunged again, this time with a precision that left me gasping for breath.
"Wait!"
I shout louder with my might.
He stopped abruptly, his breath ragged and shallow as he locked eyes with me. His weapon gleamed ominously under the pale moonlight, each step he took towards me resounding like a drumbeat of impending doom.
My heart pounded like a caged bird desperate to escape. I refused to let fear paralyze me. Retreat had bought me time, but what now? A fleeting idea flickered—a chance, however slim, to turn the tables. But I needed to hold my nerve.
The surroundings seemed quieter than before, the eerie silence amplifying the tension. The beautiful woman and the child—had they ever truly been there, or had my mind conjured them to distract from this grim reality? Questions buzzed in my head like angry bees, but I had no luxury to dwell on them.
His voice broke through the silence, sharp and venomous. "There is no running, no hiding. You belong to the underworld and death has come to claim you."