The Ransom Dealers

She-Devil

"I am the most beautiful woman in the world,” Zahra murmured, her voice a soft hymn to herself as she stood before the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She twisted left, then right, her eyes tracing the curve of her hips, the swell of her thighs. Annoying stretch marks spiderwebbed across her skin—faint silver lines betraying time’s slow march. She frowned, a flicker of irritation crossing her flawless face. At twenty-nine, age was a thief creeping closer, fraying the edges of a body she’d wielded like a weapon. But then, no one could live as she had—wild, reckless, unmoored—without scars.Born out of wedlock, Zahra’s life began as a discard. Her mother, a Fulani girl peddling fura da nono along Kano’s dusty streets, had fallen prey to a lecherous Lebanese trader who’d bed anything in a skirt—human or otherwise. Zahra was the consequence, a squalling bundle left at Nasarawa Children’s Home one frigid night, wrapped in a threadbare shawl. Her cries pierced the dark, drawing the matron’s weary steps. That was her origin story: abandoned, reclaimed, forged in neglect.She’d been special from the start. By sixteen, Zahra was a vision—flawlessly beautiful, overpoweringly sexy, spectacularly sensual. Her almond eyes, framed by lashes thick as sin, could unravel a man’s soul. Her skin, a burnished gold, glowed under the harshest sun, and her lips, full and defiant, promised secrets. But beneath the surface, she was ancient—thirty in spirit if not years, her innocence long bartered for survival. The orphanage had taught her the world’s cruel arithmetic: beauty was power, and power was everything. She knew the answers before the questions formed.Slipping on red lace underwear, she grabbed her Sure deodorant, spritzing her armpits, arms, and thighs with practiced grace. The scent hung sharp and clean in the air. She studied herself again—everything red, a predator’s hue. Satisfied, she padded to her closet, the hardwood cool against her bare feet. This was the ritual she loathed: choosing the day’s armor. Her closet, a chaos of color and fabric, mocked her indecision. She yanked out a red lace gown—too flashy—tossed it aside. A blue-and-green atampa caught her eye; she pulled it free, the cotton whispering against her fingers. Perfect, she thought, slipping it on.It clung too tight, squeezing her ribs, stealing her breath. A bad sign. She’d gained weight—another betrayal of time. With a snarl, she ripped it off, the seams splitting in protest. Thirty minutes later, after a storm of discarded options, she settled on a simple green blouse that hugged her curves just right, its elegance amplifying her allure. Green bag, green stilettos—she was a vision in emerald, ready to conquer. She locked her apartment, clicked the remote to her red BMW Coupe, and slid into the driver’s seat with a predator’s ease. The engine roared to life, tires screeching as she reversed onto Ahmadu Bello Way. The dashboard clock blinked 11:03 AM. Late again.Speeding through Kano’s arteries, she flicked on the radio, thumbing to 99.5 Freedom FM. The presenter’s voice cut through static mid-newsflash: “…where unknown gunmen kidnapped a businessman in Tarauni, four kilometers from the Kano State Government House.” Zahra’s lips curled into a smirk. “An eyewitness, preferring anonymity, said the gunmen hit Alhaji Bala in his car at Ten to Ten Restaurant on Alu Avenue, 8:00 PM Friday. They stormed in—a white Sharon Bus, two motorbikes, six men—firing shots into the air, dragging him off with his betrothed girlfriend present. Bala, a textile dealer from Kantin Kwari market. Police efforts to comment remain unanswered…”She switched stations, a low laugh escaping her. That “betrothed girlfriend”? Her. The scam had gone like clockwork, and the news was her applause. At Murtala Muhammad Way’s roundabout, she whipped the BMW through a gap in traffic, tires humming, and pulled into Chicken Castle Restaurant’s lot. Engine off, she stepped out, her stilettos clicking against asphalt, and strode inside. Every male eye tracked her—hungry, helpless—as she zeroed in on the corner table where Ayuba, Bala, and Chairman waited, their impatience palpable.“Sorry I’m late,” she said, locking eyes with Bala as she slid into a chair. She dubbed him Bravo—Greek flair was her quirk. Ayuba was Alpha, Chairman was Charlie. No one knew Charlie’s real name, and he liked it that way. Bravo, though, was a thorn—arrogant, abrasive, always testing her.Charlie cleared his throat, leaning in. “Yesterday’s operation was a success—”“Don’t we deserve a drink at least?” Bravo cut in, smirking. “Job well done.”Charlie chuckled. “Ai, you lot deserve more. Brunch, maybe? I haven’t eaten—anyone else?” Alpha demanded pounded yam with egusi, kpomo, and cow leg—shege dan banza, Zahra thought. Bravo wanted fried rice, fish, heavy sauce. She opted for coleslaw and water.“Kaiiiii!” Bravo scoffed. “Proper food for us, and she wants corselow?”Zahra met his gaze, cool as steel. A retort danced on her tongue—Maybe if you ate less, you’d think more—but she swallowed it, smiling. “Watching my weight, shi yasa.”He snorted, looking away. Charlie ordered, adding pounded yam for himself, and pressed on in hushed tones. “We’ve got him at the spot. Blindfolded, tied up, boot of the car. Drove the bypass to Sabon Titin Panshekara, doubled back—he’s clueless. Thinks he’s out of Kano, but he’s secure in the house.”Zahra nodded, her mind replaying her performance. “After you left, I screamed, rolled on the floor—Oscar-worthy. Bystanders rushed over, consoling me till the police showed. DPO Bompai Command came—ASP Sani, the toaster. Been chasing me for months. I played the shaken girlfriend, lucky to escape. He ate it up, had a constable drive me home. Easy peasy.”Bravo’s grudging admiration flickered—he couldn’t deny her skill. “I stayed back,” he said. “The ‘anonymous’ witness. Fed them garbage—wrong car colors, wrong numbers. Flawless.”Charlie beamed. “Perfect. Now, ransom. Zahra’s intel says he’s worth billions. I say one billion naira.”She shook her head. “Too high. Billions in assets, not cash. He’s locked up—can’t liquidate. Two hundred million’s realistic. Ba yabo ba fallasa. Alpha?”“Gaskiya, two hundred sounds good,” Ayuba rumbled.Bravo bristled. “What I think is—”An hour later, the meeting wrapped. Food devoured, plans set, Zahra had time to kill. A movie sounded tempting. She scrolled her phone’s app—Eyes in the Sky, Maleficent, Skyscraper, Black Panther. Maleficent was out, but Skyscraper or Black Panther worked. She’d seen both, but Panther’s epic pull won. Gunning the BMW toward Shoprite, she hit Kwankwasiyya Bridge when her phone pinged. She ignored it—never texted while driving. Another ping. Then a third. Her brow furrowed. Who?At Shoprite, she parked, snatched her phone, and saw an unknown number:

080*: Zahra, how are you? Hope you got home safe.

080*: How are you coping with your fiancée’s kidnap? In sha Allah, we’re doing our best.

080*: Any info that might help, chat or call me.Her pulse skipped. ASP Sani. Who is this? she typed.

It’s ASP Sani… You didn’t save my number?

Sorry, been distraught. Saving it now.

Okay. Please do.

Done. Any news on my fiancé? Please get him back.

We’re trying. My department—I don’t fail, in sha Allah.

Allah Ya bada sa’a. I need him.

Any ransom calls yet?

Not that I know. Maybe his family—wives, brothers. I’m just the girlfriend, not inner circle.

True. Planning to marry? Date set?

Not official. Dating, talking marriage. Ka gane?

Na gane.She smiled—he was fishing, smitten. Are you married?

Not yet.

About to?

Almost was. Cancelled it.

??? Why???

Long story. Maybe I’ll gist you in person.

Okay. Heading to GAME. Chat later?

Sure. Ina jiranki.

Aren’t you at work?

I am.

When do you close?

No fixed time. Depends on cases.

Wow. Allah Ya taimaka. Later.

Amin. Bye.She locked her phone, a thrill rippling through her. Sani was a pawn in her game now—earnest, oblivious, ripe for manipulation. But those pings gnawed at her. Too persistent. Was he just eager, or sniffing closer than she’d planned?