ASHES OF AUGUST

Chapter Thirteen: The Watchers

Chapter Thirteen

The city had changed. Or maybe it was Adrian who had changed.

Once Nairobi’s nights had felt vibrant—music drifting from open bars, the smell of roasted maize at street corners, the hum of matatus painted with murals of rappers and saints. Now, every neon flicker looked like a signal, every crowd like camouflage for someone waiting.

He walked fast, collar up, a cap pulled low, but the feeling clung to him: eyes on his back, footsteps matching his own, a pattern hidden in the noise.

It had started as a prickle at the edge of his awareness. A white sedan parked across from his apartment every morning. A man in a gray hoodie at the hospital cafeteria, always reading the same newspaper but never turning the page. He told himself it was coincidence, grief making him jump at shadows.

But shadows don’t follow you across town.

That evening, the rain had lifted, leaving the streets slick and silver under the moonlight. Adrian left the hospital later than usual, exhaustion making his limbs heavy. He’d spent hours talking to Elena, even though she couldn’t hear him—or maybe she could. He told her about the file, about Leilani, about Mworia’s warning. He told her he wouldn’t stop.

As he stepped onto Ngong Road, his phone vibrated. A text from an unknown number:

“Go home.”

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, heart pounding. He scanned the street. Cars rushed past, horns blaring, pedestrians brushing by without a glance. He typed back, fingers trembling:

“Who is this?”

No reply.

He shoved the phone into his pocket and kept walking.

A matatu belched smoke as it swerved around a pothole, reggae thumping from its speakers. Adrian caught his reflection in the bus window—drawn, tired, eyes darting. Behind him, a black SUV rolled slowly, matching his pace from across the street.

He crossed at a light. The SUV crossed too.

At the next block he ducked into a narrow alley lined with shuttered stalls. He quickened his pace, boots splashing in puddles. Halfway down, he turned sharply into another alley, pressing himself against a rusted gate. He waited.

The SUV didn’t appear.

Instead, a man stepped into the alley’s mouth. Broad shoulders, black windbreaker, phone to his ear. Another figure appeared at the opposite end, blocking the exit.

Adrian’s pulse spiked.

He grabbed his phone and pretended to take a call, slipping back the way he came, but a third figure emerged from a doorway, this one leaner, wearing a motorcycle helmet.

The three moved like a net drawing tight.

Adrian bolted.

He sprinted down the alley, heart hammering, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He vaulted over a stack of crates, skidded around a corner, and burst into a crowded street market lit by hanging bulbs. Vendors shouted, music blared, the smell of frying samosas filled the air.

He ducked into the crowd, weaving between stalls. Behind him, one of the men followed, pushing through the crush, his eyes fixed on Adrian.

He turned sharply into a stall selling second-hand jackets. The vendor cursed as Adrian yanked a dark hoodie off a rack and threw a handful of notes onto the counter. He pulled the hoodie over his head, ducked out the back, and slipped into another alley.

His lungs burned. His legs felt like lead. But the adrenaline sharpened everything—the echo of footsteps, the flash of a phone camera, a glint of a weapon under a jacket.

He couldn’t lead them to the hospital. He couldn’t lead them to Elena.

By the time he reached his apartment, his shirt clung to his skin with sweat. He double-locked the door, pulled the curtains shut, and slumped against the wall, trembling.

On his kitchen table lay the photographs of Elena—the smuggling docks, the name Vasquez scrawled across her face. He stared at them, breath shallow.

He was no longer chasing ghosts. The ghosts were chasing him.

He poured a glass of water, his hands shaking so badly it spilled. He tried to call Inspector Mwangi, but the call went straight to voicemail.

Then his phone buzzed again. Another text from the same unknown number:

“You’re being watched. Stop.”

He typed back:

“Who are you?”

A moment passed. Then another. Finally, a reply:

“Not your enemy. Not yet.”

He stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to demand answers, but instinct told him not to.

Instead, he wrote:

“Then tell me why Elena was targeted.”

No response.

He didn’t sleep that night. Every sound in the hallway made him flinch. Once, around 3 a.m., he heard footsteps outside his door, a slow shuffle that stopped and started. He crept to the peephole but saw only darkness.

When he woke from a doze at dawn, a slip of paper lay under his door.

“You’re digging blind. Tomorrow, 8 p.m., Karen Blixen Gardens. Come alone.”

No signature.

The next day crawled by. He visited the hospital, sat by Elena’s side, and tried to speak as though nothing had changed. But his voice trembled. He told her about the watchers, about the text messages, about the slip of paper.

“You were right,” he whispered to her still form. “There’s something bigger. And now they’re circling me too.”

For a moment, he thought he saw her fingers twitch. Or maybe it was just his own desperate hope.

At dusk he took a taxi to Karen. The gardens were nearly empty, the air cool and damp after a brief rain. The scent of wet earth hung heavy. Birds called from the trees, their cries sharp and echoing.

He sat on a bench beneath an acacia, scanning the paths. Shadows stretched long across the grass.

Minutes passed. His heartbeat felt loud in his ears.

Then a figure emerged from the trees—a woman, slender, wearing sunglasses despite the fading light. Her hair was tied back. She walked with deliberate slowness, one hand in her coat pocket.

It wasn’t Leilani.

She stopped a few feet away. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said. Her voice was low, accented—South African, maybe. “They’re closing in.”

“Who?” Adrian asked.

“The people your Elena crossed.”

“Why are you warning me?”

She tilted her head. “Because you’re not ready yet. And because someone wants you alive—for now.”

He rose from the bench, anger and confusion boiling inside him. “Who sent you?”

She smiled faintly. “You’ll know soon enough. But you’re running out of time. Stop digging or you’ll meet the same fate.”

He took a step toward her. “Tell me who hired the men who shot her.”

She slid a small flash drive from her pocket and set it on the bench. “Start here. It’s all I can risk.”

Then she turned and walked away, disappearing into the trees before he could stop her.

Adrian stared at the flash drive, his pulse thundering. His reflection flickered on its surface, distorted.

He had thought the watchers were only threats. But now they were delivering warnings, breadcrumbs, drawing him deeper.

He pocketed the drive and turned back toward the path.

Somewhere above, in the trees, a camera clicked.

A man in a black coat adjusted his lens, following Adrian’s movements. Another voice hissed in his earpiece: “We have him. He’s taking the bait.”

Adrian walked out of the gardens without looking back, unaware that every step was now being tracked, every move part of a larger game he had yet to understand.

That night, back in his apartment, he sat in the dark with only his laptop’s glow for light. He stared at the flash drive, debating whether to open it. His phone buzzed once. A new message:

“Choices have consequences.”

No sender ID.

He closed his eyes. He thought of Elena—her laugh, her eyes, the way she’d slipped away to buy him a gift. He thought of Leilani, of Mworia, of the woman in the garden. All of them feeding him pieces of a puzzle whose picture he couldn’t yet see.

He slid the flash drive into the laptop.

The screen flickered. A single folder appeared, named simply: “Helena V.”

His hand hovered over the trackpad.

He clicked.

End of Chapter Thirteen