The Mile 3 Murder Mystery

Santos Mbolo

Santos Mbolo is a celebrated investigative journalist in Port Harcourt known for unraveling the mysteries behind high-profile cases. For him the death of the daughter of billionaire Lebari is worth investigating. Santos has built his reputation by exposing corruption in the corridors of power, but the Lebari Tor's daughter's case is also the kind of challenge he thrived on.

He drove up the winding road to the Tor's estate. A gray sky hung over the mansion, as though mourning the tragedy within. BarideTor the first son of Lebari Tor had agreed to a brief interview, no doubt to manage the media narrative.

Santos was welcomed into the mansion of the Lebari's surrounded by armed guards. His appointment with Baride Tor , did not waste a bit after he made his request. He was the son of a mighty man and his grief for his sister was not hidden.

Santos : Mr Baride can you tell me about Vera's life before her death ?

Baride: She was a shy girl brilliant and kind. Mr Santos, they won’t tell you the truth. My father’s money shields more than his reputation. My father has made countless enemies through ruthless business deals. This is not about Vera. No it is not. The killing of my sister is a message to my father. Vera was a good girl .She cared about people. She used to visit shelters, donate anonymously.

When Santos drove out of the Lebari's mansion, he knew the story had only begun to unravel. Somewhere amidst the billionaire’s wealth lay the answer to Vera's murder.

Night came. The sign buzzed faintly in the night air, flickering between vibrant pink and electric blue. It reads Bella Club the name of the night club . The club was not closed down. The police had been there asking questions about the murder of a girl. But the girl was not murdered inside the club.

Inside, the club was alive. High beats sounds through the space, shaking the floor with each drop of the bass. Disco lights danced across the room, splashing the crowd with bursts of colours.

Nwito sat at the bar, his appearance unremarkable in the sea of bodies swaying under the flashing disco lights. With a cigarette on his lips, he blends seamlessly with the crowd.He sipped his whiskey, biding his time. Rushing was for amateurs. He has learned patience .

His target was the owner of the club named George with ties to an underground arms network. He was dangerous, intelligent, and well protected. Tonight, he was with a lady sipping champagne. The Bella Club is the club that Vera visited the night she was murdered and George is the owner of the club.

George's black Prado Jeep waited for him in the VIP parking lot. The club had been alive tonight, and his wallet was lighter from the rounds of drinks he’d bought for strangers..He stood up, moved to his car and slid into the driver’s seat. He adjusted the mirrors, grinning at his reflection. Time to leave the club. He turned the key. A deafening explosion ripped through the parking lot, a fireball engulfing the car. The force shattered nearby windows and sent people inside the club screaming.

Nwito had planted the device an hour earlier, tucked neatly beneath the Prado Jeep.When George finally stumbled out, laughing and surrounded by his entourage, Nwito's grip tightened around the detonator in his pocket.

When George reached his car, fumbling with the keys, Nwito turned and walked toward the exit, timing his steps perfectly. As the club doors swung shut behind him, the explosion erupted, a fiery bloom lighting up the night. The screams and chaos didn’t faze him. He blended into the panicked crowd . He didn’t look back, his face a mask of calm as he walked away.

George's car that had exploded, a black Prado jeep was now a mangled heap of metal, its once shiny exterior charred and unrecognizable. Flames had been extinguished, but smoke still billowed upward.

The explosion had rocked the area sending shockwaves through the surrounding streets.

The scene was pandemonium. People, some still dressed in their party clothes, stood in clusters, some screaming, others crying, and a few filming the wreckage with their phones. The smell of burning rubber and metal hung thick in the air, and shards of glass littered the asphalt like jagged stars.

The flashing red and blue lights of police cruisers bathed the scene outside as the police arrived .

Chief of police Obed stared out of his house window, his food untouched . The news of the explosion at the Bella Club and the death of George in the car explosion had come in less than an hour ago, and already his phone hadn’t stopped ringing. The Local council chairman, city council members, and even federal agencies wanted answers he didn’t yet have. The bomb was sophisticated, military grade. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.

George was the head of a street gang .His gang members when they heard the news were speechles Who wants George dead? His club was where half the city came to party, and his gang members get some cut.

Mark Tunde hailed a cab to head back to his hotel. Exhausted, he slumped into the back seat and gave the address. He has also heard of the death of the owner of Bella night club in a car bomb explosion. Ambrose slipped into his rented car, keeping a safe distance as the cab weaved through the busy city.

Mark seemed unaware of him, but Ambrose knew better than to underestimate him. But Mark was no ordinary cop. He glanced back often, pretending to admire the scenery, his eyes scanning for tails. The cab got to his hotel, he paid the cab driver and stretched as he stepped into his hotel.

But as he entered the entrance of the hotel, he felt it again, that gnawing sensation at the back of his mind, the whisper of a shadow following him.

He nodded politely at the receptionist, who handed him the key to his Room. When he stepped into his room, he methodically checked the space. He examined the locks, the windows, and even under the bed. He activated a small device from his pocket, a bug scanner and swept the room. To his relief, it came up clean. Ambrose was outside the hotel, calling his contact.