The Ransom Dealers

The Scammers

“Bros, how far?” The voice crackled through the phone, deep and impatient, cutting through the hum of Kano’s evening bustle.“I dey,” Abdul replied, leaning back in his chair, the faint clack of his keyboard pausing. “Wetin dey happen?”“Oh boy, you better find us another target o. Ground no level at all,” Femi shot back, his tone edged with desperation.Abdul glanced around his cramped office, the flicker of fluorescent lights casting shadows on the walls. “Let’s go to w******p call abeg. You know this line no clean,” he said, keeping his voice low.“Okay.” The call dropped. Abdul exhaled, rubbing his temples as he waited for Femi to switch. Through the window, Lagos Street pulsed with life—traders haggling, okadas weaving through traffic, the air thick with dust and diesel. His phone buzzed, and he tapped into w******p, scrolling to Femi’s name. As the call connected, he could almost hear Femi’s smirk through the silence.Femi, meanwhile, stood in a dim corner of his Sabon Gari flat, shaking his head as the call rang. Two months ago, he’d had five million naira in his pocket—cash to burn. Now? He was rationing data like a beggar. The problem with me, he mused, staring at the cracked mirror on the wall, is I can’t leave girls alone. It was a curse, a fatalistic hunger that gnawed at him. Every woman he saw—curved hips, painted lips, a sway in her step—he had to have her. Three girls a day was his average, a tally that’d climbed into the hundreds, maybe thousands, over the years. His s*x drive wasn’t just off the charts—it was a wildfire.Femi had been a terror since birth. At four, he’d chase chickens in the dusty compound of his childhood home, small hands snagging feathers until he’d twist their necks with a grin. He’d step back, watching their death throes, the life draining from their twitching bodies. Cruelty was his nature, etched into his bones. By seven, he’d mastered theft—coins from his mother’s purse, crumpled notes from his father’s wallet, anything left unguarded by the reckless. His baby face—wide eyes, soft cheeks—fooled them all at first. Who’d suspect a cherub? But Femi was a fox in a lamb’s skin.At fourteen, he’d stumbled into the secret between a woman’s thighs—his first taste with a neighbor’s daughter behind a crumbling wall. From that moment, he was insatiable, a predator in the sheets. Now, at thirty-five, his body count was a myth, a number too vast to reckon. By twenty-five, he’d bedded nearly every girl on his street in Lagos, raped a dozen when charm failed, and left four pregnant in a single summer. The scandal drove him north to Kano, a fresh hunting ground. Crime was his destiny—robbery, fraud, anything for the right price. He’d even toyed with turning assassin, imagining the weight of a gun, the thrill of a kill for cash.The w******p call clicked through. “You know everything here is encrypted,” Abdul said, his voice steady. “Safer to talk.”“Yeah, I get, I get,” Femi replied, pacing his room, the floorboards creaking under his boots. “I said things bad for me o. No deal we fit hammer?”Abdul sighed. “Bros, we have to take it easy for a while nah. That account we hijacked—you know we can’t touch it again. We need another one.”“Toh, no be you be the banker?” Femi snapped, irritation flaring. “Check and find another one abeg. I’m broke wallahi.”“Broke?!” Abdul’s voice spiked with disbelief. “Just six weeks ago, we split ten M between us. Wetin you dey carry money do? Which kind nyash you dey f**k like this? Haba, bros!”Femi’s laugh was dry, hollow. “Na foreign nyash—Dollars and Euros, my guy. Forget that thing. Let’s have some action abeg!”Abdul leaned forward, the chair squeaking under him. “Gaskiya, for now, nothing dey. But give me time—I go arrange something.”“That’s my guy!” Femi crowed, a grin splitting his face. “I knew I could count on you.”The call ended, and Abdul turned back to his desk, the glow of his monitor bathing his face. Entries piled up—transactions to log, figures to balance. It was nearing 16:00, and he wanted out, home to his flat before the city choked on its own chaos. He worked as operations staff at First Bank Plc on Lagos Street, Kano—a job he’d landed after graduating Bayero University with a First Class in Economics. His NYSC year in Katsina had sealed it; his knack for numbers caught the bank’s eye, and they’d kept him on.Abdullahi Adams came from a middle-income family—his parents, nurses at Aminu Kano Teaching Hospital, pooling enough to send him and his two brothers through university. The job paid well—three million a year, a tidy sum for most. But Abdul ran with the Fast-Lane Association, a crew of hustlers chasing wealth beyond salaries. To him, three million was dust under his feet. He craved more—cars that roared, houses that gleamed, a life that screamed success.For two years, he’d handled cash, watched accounts balloon with millions, sometimes billions, flowing through like rivers. The itch grew, a restless greed clawing at him, but he’d never crossed the line—not until Hussaina. She was a secretary at Mudassir & Brothers, the textile giant, dropping off thirty million naira weekly in worn-out notes—two hundred naira max, crumpled and filthy. Counting it was a slog, three hours of strapping stacks, sweat beading on his brow.That Friday, fate tipped the scales. Hussaina fumbled, a bundle of two hundred naira notes—twenty grand—slipping onto his side of the table. She didn’t notice, her eyes on her phone, chatting away. Abdul’s pulse quickened. Tell her, his mind urged. But the itch whispered louder. He slid the bundle under a ledger, silent. When they finished, the count was off by thirty-two thousand—typical for such hauls. Hussaina shrugged, signed off, and left. Abdul walked out that day, twenty thousand richer, guilt a dull ache in his chest. The seed was planted.Now, with Femi’s call echoing in his ears, Abdul’s fingers hovered over his keyboard. Another target. Another scam. He pulled up the bank’s client database, eyes scanning names, balances, patterns. Femi’s recklessness was a liability, but his hunger matched Abdul’s ambition. A big fish—someone careless, flush with cash—was out there. He’d find them. The thrill of it, the danger, hummed in his veins. Time was ticking, and the net was tightening.