Chapter 1: The Wrong Stop
Rongai nights were not meant for fear. They were for nyama choma smoke curling into the sky, laughter from vibanda, and matatus blasting gengetone at ear-splitting volume. But tonight was different.
David Maina stepped off the matatu with a sigh of relief. The ride from Nairobi CBD had been the usual torture: cramped seats, a conductor who seemed determined to cheat him out of ten shillings, and a speaker system that turned the floor into a drum. The matatu’s taillights vanished down Magadi Road, swallowed by darkness and dust.
It was later than usual. Almost 9:30. His last class at Hillview Secondary had dragged on with parents showing up unannounced to complain about grades. Then the traffic at Bomas had snarled for nearly an hour. Now all he wanted was to walk the short distance home, microwave yesterday’s ugali, and maybe catch a replay of the AFC Leopards game.
He pulled his coat tighter. July winds cut through Rongai like knives. Ahead, a Total petrol station glowed under harsh fluorescent lights, the only bright spot on the lonely stretch. Two attendants in red overalls leaned against a pump, bored, half-watching a boda boda refuel.
Then David noticed something odd.
A black Mercedes sat by the far edge of the forecourt, engine running. Its windows were tinted so dark he couldn’t see inside. Next to it stood three men. One was kneeling — hands behind his head, shoulders jerking as if he was sobbing. The other two stood over him, dressed in identical dark suits that caught the light like oil.
David’s feet slowed. His heart gave a tiny stutter.
He told himself it was none of his business. Probably police, or rich kids scaring a drunk. But then one of the suited men pulled something from his jacket. A small, dull gleam — unmistakable.
A gun.
Time collapsed into a slow-motion nightmare. David watched the man raise the pistol, press it against the kneeling man’s temple, and pull the trigger.
The pop was shockingly soft, like a balloon bursting. The kneeling man crumpled forward. The second suited man bent, checked his pulse almost lazily, then gave a nod.
David’s mouth went dry. He felt his bladder threaten to give out. Instinct made him step backward, heel crunching on gravel.
It was loud enough.
One of the killers snapped his head around. Their eyes locked across the dim lot. Even at this distance, David saw how calm the man’s face was. A slight lift of the eyebrow — as if to say, So, there you are.
David ran.
He bolted across the road, narrowly missing a tuk-tuk that honked in outrage. His shoes slapped the tarmac. He ducked behind a kiosk selling roasted maize, breath coming in ragged gasps. From there he risked a look back.
The men stood by the Mercedes, watching. Not chasing. One raised a phone to his ear.
They know.
That thought settled like a stone in his gut. They didn’t have to run after him — they would find him. This was Kenya, after all. Rongai was small. His face, his name, his habits — all easy to uncover.
David forced his legs to keep moving. He cut behind the kiosk, past a row of closed shops, through an alley that smelled of piss and rotting tomatoes. Every shadow seemed to hide someone. By the time he reached the iron gate of the compound he shared with three other tenants, he was soaked in sweat despite the cold.
Inside his one-room bedsitter, he locked the door, drew the curtain, and collapsed on his bed. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
A man just died. You saw his brains on the ground. And they saw you.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him so badly he nearly dropped it. A text from Martha.
Martha: “Kuja kesho home nione notes za Bio, I’ll buy you chips 😏.”
He managed a small, brittle smile. His sister’s sixteen-year-old teasing felt absurdly comforting.
But the smile faded quickly. What would happen to her if these men came for him?
He decided he needed to calm down, to think. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. Maybe they wouldn’t care about one scared teacher who’d seen too much.
David lay in the dark, listening to distant boda engines and dogs barking. Eventually, his heartbeat slowed. Exhaustion tugged at him.
He didn’t know that by morning, his life would be completely unrecognizable — and the men in dark suits would already be searching Rongai for him.
Chapter 2: The Call That Dooms
David barely slept. Each time he drifted off, he jolted awake, sure he’d heard footsteps outside his door or felt cold eyes staring through the cracks in the wooden frame. By morning, he sat on the edge of his bed, still in yesterday’s clothes, stomach a knot of dread.
He needed to tell someone — not the police, who he didn’t trust for matters this big. Someone else. Someone level-headed. Someone who could help him figure out if he was truly in danger or just letting fear spiral.
So he called Kimani.
Kimani Wambua was more than just a colleague at Hillview Secondary; he was David’s oldest friend, a man with a wide grin and endless conspiracy theories about everything from county tender thefts to alien landings in Kajiado. If anyone would listen without laughing or dismissing him, it was Kimani.
The phone rang twice before Kimani picked up, already sounding amused.
“Teacher David! You’re calling this early? Or did Arsenal disappoint you again in your dreams?”
David tried to laugh, but it came out hollow.
“Bro… I need to tell you something. It’s serious.”
Kimani sobered immediately.
“Talk to me.”
David stood, pacing the cramped room. He lowered his voice though he was alone.
“Last night in Rongai… near the petrol station on Magadi Road. I saw something. Two men — they shot a guy. Executed him. Right there at the pump.”
There was silence on the line. Then a low whistle.
“Eish. Are you sure? Maybe you were tired, it was dark…”
“I’m telling you I saw his blood spill on the concrete!” David snapped, his voice cracking. “And they saw me. One of them looked right at me.”
“Woi, Maina. That’s… that’s bad. Have you told the cops?”
David let out a humorless laugh.
“And end up in a ditch myself? No way. I just needed someone to know. In case — you know — something happens.”
Kimani exhaled shakily.
“Ai. Okay. We’ll meet after school today, sawa? We’ll think of what to do. Maybe you can stay with my cousin in Kitengela for a few days.”
“Thanks, bro. I owe you.”
“Don’t worry. Just be careful, eh? Watch who you talk to.”
They hung up. David felt a small weight lift from his chest. At least he wasn’t carrying the nightmare alone.
But that relief lasted only hours.
After the last double lesson, David was trudging back to the staffroom when he noticed two strangers leaning against the school’s perimeter wall. They were dressed too well for casual visitors — dark jackets, polished shoes that hadn’t met Rongai dust.
Their eyes followed him as he walked past. One of them touched an earpiece.
His heart dropped. He didn’t even pick his bag from the staffroom. He left through a side gate, cutting through a neighbor’s compound, vaulting a hedge, ignoring the shouts behind him.
He ran until he was in the next estate. There, hidden behind a mabati shed, he dialed Kimani again.
No answer.
He tried twice more. Still nothing. His mouth went dry.
Finally he called using WhatsApp, hoping maybe Kimani had data but no airtime.
This time, someone picked up. But it wasn’t Kimani.
There was only silence on the line. Then a faint exhale. Almost… amused.
“David Maina,” a cold male voice said. “We’ll be seeing you soon.”
David dropped the phone like it had burned him. His legs turned to water.
That night, it was on the 9 PM bulletin.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, TV on low, when the news anchor’s bright practiced smile shifted into solemn concern.
“In Machakos this evening, police recovered the body of a local teacher, Kimani Wambua, who was reported missing by relatives earlier today. Wambua’s body was found in his car, abandoned in a thicket near Lukenya. Police say initial investigations suggest foul play.”
David’s scream was silent. He pressed both hands to his mouth. Tears burned his eyes.
This is my fault. I brought them to him. I doomed him the moment I made that call.
His phone buzzed on the bed. An SMS from an unknown number.
“Keep running. We’re close.”
David dropped the phone and stumbled backward until he hit the wall, sliding down into a crouch. His whole body shook.
This was bigger than him. This was beyond anything he could outrun.
And now, he knew:
He was next.
Chapter 3: The House Search
The night air in Rongai felt like ice pressing against David’s skin. Every shadow seemed to shift, every passing boda like it might slow and reveal two men in dark suits.
He barely remembered how he got home. His legs worked on autopilot, cutting through narrow lanes and hopping fences, avoiding the main road. By the time he reached the rusty gate of his compound, sweat clung to his back despite the cold.
He hesitated before pushing it open. A voice in his head screamed don’t go in, run! — but where would he run to? He had nowhere else.
His door was slightly ajar.
David’s stomach clenched so violently he thought he might vomit.
He pushed it open with one trembling hand.
Inside, the bedsitter looked like a storm had hit it.
Drawers yanked out and dumped, clothes strewn everywhere. His textbooks — Biology, Chemistry, old K.C.S.E. past papers — torn apart, pages scattered like fallen birds. The mattress had been slit open, foam guts spilling out.
On the floor, the shards of a mug lay in a small brown pool. Tea he’d made that morning.
His breath rasped. He stumbled in, searching, calling out before he could stop himself:
“Martha? Are you here? Martha!”
Silence.
Then he saw it — written across the cracked mirror in bright red lipstick:
“FORGET WHAT YOU SAW.”
It wasn’t lipstick.
David staggered back so hard he hit the wall. He forced himself to look again. The letters were crude, smudged. The metallic scent hit him then. It was blood.
He fumbled for his phone, hands shaking so violently he could barely unlock it. Tried calling Martha. It went straight to voicemail.
“Hi! It’s Martha, stop disturbing my peace and just text!”
Her cheerful voice was a knife in his gut.
He tried again. And again. On the fourth attempt, he only heard that same recording.
Panic roared in his chest.
He darted to her small suitcase under the bed — the one she kept spare clothes in for when she stayed over from her boarding school. It was gone.
He checked for any clue. On the floor near the window, half hidden by a ripped bedsheet, was Martha’s pink beaded bracelet. The one she’d worn since Standard Eight, too tight now but she refused to remove it.
It was snapped.
David sank to the floor, clutching the broken beads in his fist. A sob escaped him, raw and ugly.
Hours seemed to pass. He didn’t know how long he sat there in the wreckage of his life.
At some point his phone buzzed. A single text, unknown number.
“She’s safe. For now. Stay quiet, teacher.”
He tried to reply. Begged them to let her go. There was no answer.
That night, David didn’t sleep.
He sat by the door with a kitchen knife gripped tight in his hand, staring at the broken mirror. Every creak of the mabati roof made him jump.
His sister was gone. Taken because of him.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he would find help. Or die trying.
Either way, he knew:
He couldn’t wait any longer.
Chapter 4: Njambi’s Ride
By dawn, David felt hollowed out, running on fumes of dread and adrenaline. His bedsitter was no longer a home; it was a crime scene waiting for police tape — or worse, a place the killers would return to finish what they’d started.
He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t go to the police either. In Kenya, men in dark suits didn’t have to flash badges. They were the law when it suited them.
So he left.
A backpack hastily stuffed with a change of clothes, Martha’s broken bracelet tucked into a side pocket. He stepped out into the pale morning light of Rongai feeling like a hunted animal.
Magadi Road was already busy.
Boda bodas zipped by, ferrying school kids with oversized bags. Vendors shouted prices for oranges and boiled eggs. Life went on around him — while his own had stopped.
He waited by the dusty curb, flagging down a matatu with “NIKAMA TUNADIE” sprayed in large letters across the rear window. The conductor was a short man with dyed blond hair who clapped his hand on the roof and shouted,
“CBD! Tao! Hop in faster ndugu, ama tutakuacha na umbea zako!”
David climbed aboard, squeezing between a woman balancing a sack of potatoes on her lap and a university student scrolling TikTok.
It was only when they were half a kilometer down the road that he noticed her.
She was standing in the aisle, collecting fare with a practiced snap of her fingers. Young, maybe twenty-three, with braided hair that fell to her shoulders and eyes that missed nothing.
Her mouth twisted into a wry grin as she stopped by David.
“Fifty, teacher man.”
He blinked.
“How did you—”
She tapped her temple.
“Una sura ya stress ya walimu. And your shirt still has chalk dust.”
She slipped the coins into her kangaroo pouch, then leaned closer, her voice dropping.
“And you look like someone running from something big.”
David stiffened.
“Excuse me?”
But she only smiled, oddly gentle.
“Relax. Njambi doesn’t bite. Not unless you’re lying.”
Minutes later, trouble found them.
As the matatu swung past Tuskys Supermarket, Njambi’s phone buzzed. She answered, listened, then glanced sharply at David.
Outside, two white double-cab pickups with civilian plates pulled into traffic behind them. The way they moved — synchronized, deliberate — made David’s stomach flip.
Njambi’s grin was gone.
“You have exactly two seconds to tell me who wants your head.”
David’s mouth went dry.
“I… I can’t. If I tell you, you’re in danger too.”
She snorted.
“Honey, I was born in danger. Now hold tight.”
She banged on the roof twice, yelling to the driver:
“Telly! Zima music, chukua back routes!”
The driver cut the blaring gengetone. Without another word, he veered left so sharply the matatu rocked on two wheels. Screams and laughter from the passengers — thinking it was all part of the usual matatu madness.
But David saw Njambi’s knuckles whitening on the handrail. This wasn’t a game.
The pickups tried to follow but got boxed in by a slow-moving lorry. Njambi leaned out the door, scanning side streets.
Then she grabbed David’s wrist.
“Toka! Now!”
They jumped while the matatu was still rolling.
David hit the ground hard, pain shooting up his arm. Njambi yanked him to his feet, and they bolted down a narrow alley smelling of frying mandazi and rotting mango peels.
Somewhere behind them, tires screeched. Men shouted.
Njambi ducked behind a shed, shoved David down, and pressed a finger to her lips. Her breath came fast, but her eyes stayed sharp.
A white pickup cruised by the alley’s mouth. A man leaned out, scanning the lane with cold detachment.
When it moved on, Njambi finally exhaled.
“You just bought me a whole lot of problems, mwalimu.”
David wanted to apologize. Wanted to break down. Instead he managed, voice shaking,
“Thank you.”
She gave him a look — half exasperated, half amused.
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t decided if saving your ass was a good idea.”
Then she stood, dusting her jeans, and offered him her hand.
“Come on, David Maina. We’re going somewhere safer. And on the way, you’re going to tell me exactly why men in fancy suits want you dead.”
David hesitated, then took her hand.
Njambi’s grip was warm, strong.
And for the first time since that night at the petrol station, he felt a flicker of hope.
Chapter 5: Safe House or Trap
The sun hung low over Machakos County, casting long golden fingers across the hills. Dust swirled up from the murram roads as Njambi’s cousin’s old Probox rattled along, its suspension groaning with every pothole.
David sat in the back seat, pressed against a window that wouldn’t roll up, sweat trickling down his back despite the chill. Njambi rode shotgun, boots on the dashboard, eyes hidden behind cheap sunglasses.
Every so often she’d glance back at him, lips quirking like she was chewing on questions.
They’d been driving for over an hour.
Past small towns with weathered signboards. Past lonely stretches of acacia. Past goats that barely flinched as the car bounced by.
Finally, the Probox pulled off the main road onto a rough dirt track. It wound through low scrub, growing narrower and rockier until they had to slow to a crawl. Ahead, the earth dipped into what looked like an abandoned quarry — jagged cliffs of exposed stone and pools of rainwater choked with weeds.
The driver, a skinny man with a big forehead Njambi called “Mrefu,” parked under a stand of trees.
Njambi turned to David.
“We walk from here.”
David hesitated, scanning the emptiness.
“This… this is your safe house?”
She smirked.
“Relax, mwalimu. The best place to hide is where no one wants to go. And trust me — nobody comes here unless they’re dumping something they don’t want found.”
They followed a narrow footpath along the quarry’s edge.
Njambi moved with casual confidence, hands in her pockets, whistling softly. David kept stumbling on loose rocks, nearly twisting his ankle twice. Each time, she’d reach back and steady him without looking.
Finally, they came to a small concrete structure half sunk into the ground. It might once have been an equipment shed — now its roof was caved in on one side, door hanging crooked on rusted hinges.
Inside, it smelled of damp earth and old engine oil. A thin mattress lay in one corner, next to two jerrycans of water, a metal basin, and a cardboard box holding bread, packets of milk, and some mangos already starting to spot.
Njambi kicked the mattress.
“Five-star accommodations. Enjoy.”
David managed a weak laugh, sinking onto the mattress. His body was exhausted, but his mind refused to quiet.
Night fell fast in the quarry.
A moon, swollen and orange, rose over the cliffs. Njambi built a small fire just outside the door, warming her hands over the flames.
David sat close by, hugging his knees. Finally, he spoke.
“You never asked what I saw. Why these people want me dead.”
She didn’t look at him.
“I figured you’d talk when you were ready.”
So he told her. About the petrol station. The men in suits. Kimani’s death. Martha. The text messages. His voice cracked when he mentioned Martha, and Njambi finally turned to him, expression softer than he’d yet seen.
“They took your sister to keep you quiet,” she said quietly. “That’s how these people work. Scare you. Or bury you.”
Much later, David woke with a start.
The fire was just embers. Njambi was gone. Panic surged through him — had she left him? Sold him out?
Then he heard voices. Low, tense.
He crawled to the door and peered out.
At the top of the path, partially hidden by scrub, were two dark shapes. Men. One was gesturing toward the quarry, holding something that glinted in the moonlight. A pistol.
Njambi stood facing them, arms crossed. Her tone was casual, almost bored.
“This wasn’t the deal. You were supposed to wait.”
One of the men stepped closer.
“Orders changed. Boss wants the teacher tonight.”
David’s heart plummeted. She did set me up.
He backed into the shed, frantically looking for something to defend himself with. His fingers closed on a rusty spanner.
Footsteps crunched outside. Njambi’s voice, sharp now.
“You try that, and I’ll slit your throat before you get a shot off.”
A pause. Then the sound of a safety clicking off.
Gunfire shattered the night.
David ducked instinctively, heart crashing against his ribs. He heard a strangled cry, then a thud.
Silence.
A second later, Njambi burst through the doorway, breathing hard. Her left arm was bleeding, but she was still holding a bloody knife in her right hand.
“Pack your shit, teacher. We’re leaving. They know exactly where you are now.”
David gaped at her.
“You didn’t sell me out?”
She gave him a savage grin.
“Not today. Come on.”
They disappeared into the bush together, Njambi leading, David stumbling after.
Behind them, the moon shone down on two motionless bodies by the path.
And in the dark quarry, something hungry seemed to wait — as if the earth itself was eager for more secrets to bury.
Chapter 6: Ghosts in Karen
By the time they hit Karen, dawn was breaking, painting the skies above Ngong Hills in bruised purples and gold. Njambi had driven through the night in a stolen Toyota Fielder they’d picked up from a friend of hers in Athi River. David sat beside her, exhausted, blood drying on his shirt from where he’d pressed Njambi’s arm wound.
They turned off the main road into a leafy lane lined with massive stone walls and electric fences. Bougainvillea spilled in bright pinks and purples over the tops. Beyond, David glimpsed sprawling lawns and mansions big enough to be hotels.
It felt like another world — far removed from the dusty chaos of Rongai and the haunted quarry where they’d almost died.
Njambi slowed the car.
“We’re close. You remember that senator who ‘retired’ after the NYS scandal? Chepkonga?”
David nodded.
“Yeah. Disappeared to Dubai, right?”
“Mmh. Left a lot behind. Including files the right people would pay to keep buried.”
She pulled up near a sagging gate chained with a flimsy padlock. The compound was overgrown, fountain choked with algae, windows caked in dust.
“This is one of his old safe houses. My cousin did contract work here years back. Said there was a hidden basement office.”
David swallowed hard.
“We’re breaking into a senator’s house.”
Njambi gave him a crooked smile.
“Ex-senator. And trust me — what’s in there could buy our lives back.”
They hopped the gate and crept through waist-high grass.
The front door was locked, but Njambi pulled out a short pry bar from her small backpack — the same bag that had earlier held water, bread, and now apparently burglary tools.
“Always be prepared, mwalimu,” she said with a wink.
With a few solid pushes, the door cracked open. A stale smell — mold, old wood, dust — rolled out.
Inside was eerie.
Furniture still in place under white sheets. Chandeliers dangling with cobwebs. A grand piano stood in one corner, keys yellowed. On a side table lay a half-full whiskey glass that had grown a thin film of green.
“Feels like he ran in the middle of a drink,” David whispered.
Njambi didn’t reply. Her attention was fixed on a large bookshelf at the far end of the room. She began methodically pushing against the shelves. On the fourth try, there was a dull click.
The shelf swung open slightly.
“Basement office,” Njambi breathed.
They descended narrow concrete steps into darkness.
The air turned cool and damp. At the bottom was a small office — desk, filing cabinets, a metal safe with its door hanging open, contents looted long ago. But Njambi went to the desk, rifling through drawers, tossing aside old receipts and legal papers until her hand stilled.
She pulled out a brown envelope, thick and stamped with multiple official seals. Inside were photos, typed reports, signed statements.
Njambi’s brow furrowed as she flipped through them.
“David… these aren’t just about petty tenders. Look.”
David leaned over.
There were grainy photos of bodies sprawled on dirt roads, of journalists’ press cards covered in blood, of government-issue pistols. Attached to one file was a memo from a current Cabinet Secretary approving “containment budgets” for certain high-profile silences.
And there — near the bottom — a fresh file stamped just three weeks ago.
“Primary subject: David Maina — Rongai.”
David felt the room tilt. His knees gave out and he sank into the old leather chair.
“They were planning to get rid of me before I even saw anything…”
Njambi’s face was pale.
“It’s bigger than a random hit. They have lists. Journalists. Activists. Teachers who complain too loudly about exam cheating. Even church leaders.”
Suddenly, Njambi tensed.
“Did you hear that?”
David’s ears strained. A faint creak from above. Then — the unmistakable thud of a door shutting.
Someone was in the house.
Njambi doused the weak emergency lamp. Darkness swallowed them. She grabbed David’s hand, whispering,
“Stay behind me. And whatever happens — don’t scream.”
They slipped into a narrow service corridor lined with old fuse boxes.
Footsteps came down the main basement stairs. Two beams of torchlight cut through the gloom.
Men’s voices — low, clipped. Searching.
Njambi pulled David through a side door into a cramped utility closet. Her breath was hot against his ear. He could smell the sweat and blood on her.
The footsteps stopped just outside.
“They’ve been here. Files are open. Fan out. Find them.”
Minutes crawled by.
A phone rang, tinny in the silence.
“Yes boss… No, not yet… we will.”
Then the footsteps retreated, doors opening and closing upstairs as they searched other rooms.
Njambi squeezed David’s shoulder. Her whisper was so soft he barely heard it.
“When I move, follow me exactly. Quiet as a cat, okay?”
David nodded, though he felt nothing like a cat. More like a trapped goat waiting for the slaughter.
They edged out and retraced their steps, avoiding every loose tile that might squeak.
By the time they slipped out into the yard, David’s shirt was soaked through. They sprinted across the lawn, diving behind a crumbling garden wall just as one of the men stepped onto the veranda, torch sweeping the compound.
Njambi’s phone buzzed. A single text.
She glanced at it, then showed David.
“They have your sister in Athi River.”
David’s breath caught. His pulse roared in his ears.
Njambi gripped his chin, forcing him to look at her.
“Then that’s where we’re going next.”
As they melted back into the dark streets of Karen, the envelope of deadly secrets clutched under Njambi’s arm, David realized they were beyond the point of no return.
Either they’d find Martha — or die trying.
Chapter 7: Martha’s Whereabouts
The road to Athi River felt endless. They drove in silence, the stolen Toyota humming over the tarmac, headlights cutting through the scattered mist that clung to the ground.
David clutched the brown envelope on his lap. Inside were names, photos, receipts for hits that had been disguised as “road accidents” or “armed robberies gone wrong.” And somewhere at the bottom, the chilling file on him — marked before he’d even witnessed the murder at the petrol station.
None of it mattered more than one single line in Njambi’s latest text exchange with her cousin:
“They’re holding the girl at River Breeze Lodging, outskirts of Athi.”
They found the place just before midnight.
A low, squat building of peeling paint and flickering bulbs, squeezed between a hardware store and a noisy bar pumping out benga classics. A rusty sign above the reception read “River Breeze Lodging — Hot Showers Available.”
Njambi parked two blocks away. She twisted in her seat, fixing David with a hard look.
“Stay close. Keep your head down. And if I tell you to run, you run. Don’t argue. Don’t look back.”
David swallowed.
“And you?”
A flash of something — regret, maybe — crossed her face. Then her usual smirk.
“Don’t worry about Njambi.”
They walked in like two casual guests.
A bored attendant at the desk barely glanced up from his Infinix phone. Njambi leaned over, voice low and playful.
“Tumechoka sana. Maybe you have a quiet room at the back? Away from all this noise?”
He grinned, eyes roving her figure.
“Eh, madam, we have special rooms kabisa. You want one with a mirror on the ceiling?”
Njambi giggled, tapping his shoulder.
“Not tonight, maybe next time. Actually… my cousin came earlier. Girl, maybe sixteen? In school sweater. You see her?”
The attendant’s smile faltered. A flicker of guilt crossed his face before he forced another grin.
“Ah, siwezi kumbuka. So many people, madam.”
Njambi’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. Her voice dropped, icy.
“Try. Again.”
Behind the counter, something buzzed.
The attendant’s eyes darted down. A phone, face-up, flashing a caller ID:
“Boss.”
Njambi let go. The attendant snatched up the phone and turned away, muttering rapidly.
“Yeah… they’re here. The woman and the teacher.”
David’s heart flipped.
It was a setup. Even this far from Nairobi, the web still closed around them.
Njambi was already moving, grabbing David’s hand and pulling him through a side corridor lined with grimy doors.
Halfway down the hall, a door opened.
David almost collapsed in relief. Martha stood there, barefoot, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Martha!”
He darted forward, scooping her into his arms. She felt far too light. Her head lolled on his shoulder.
“D…David?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “They… they kept asking about files…”
“I’ve got you, shh, I’ve got you.”
Njambi pressed her fingers to Martha’s neck, then her temple.
“She’s drugged but stable. We have to—”
A voice sliced through the hall:
“That’s far enough, teacher.”
They turned. Three men blocked the way out — one of them the same broad-shouldered killer from the petrol station. A handgun dangled loose at his side, like he didn’t even need to try.
David’s knees went weak.
Njambi stepped in front of him and Martha.
“You want the envelope, right? Let them go.”
The man smiled.
“Cute. But we’ll be taking everything — the files, the girl, and both of you.”
Then Njambi moved faster than thought.
Her hand dipped behind her back, coming up with a small revolver. She fired once — the closest man dropped, clutching his leg.
Chaos exploded.
Martha screamed. Njambi shoved her at David.
“RUN!”
David hauled Martha down the hallway. A bullet smashed into the wall inches from his head, showering them with plaster.
They burst out a rear service door into a dark alley.
Behind them, Njambi’s voice rose in a savage yell — then two more shots rang out.
David didn’t stop to look. He ran, dragging Martha, half-carrying her through garbage and broken glass. A barking dog exploded from under a jua kali cart, chasing them for ten meters before veering off.
Only when they reached the edge of a deserted road did he risk stopping. Martha was trembling, clutching his shirt.
“Is… is she coming?” Martha whispered.
David scanned the darkness.
“She’ll find us. She always does.”
He prayed it wasn’t a lie.
Somewhere in Athi River’s shadows, the killers regrouped.
And somewhere behind them, Njambi was still out there — bleeding, armed, and very much unfinished with them.
David tightened his hold on Martha.
“We’re not done yet. I promise you — we’re getting out of this.”
But even as he spoke, he couldn’t shake the chill crawling up his spine.
Chapter 8: The Escape
They didn’t wait for dawn. With Njambi back at their side — limping but alive, blood drying on her sleeve — they fled Athi River under a sickle moon. The air smelled of dust and charcoal fires, of night flowers crushed underfoot.
Martha clung to David’s waist, half-conscious, mumbling his name over and over. Njambi led them through dark side streets, cutting across open plots and squeezing through gaps in mabati fences.
“We can’t stay on the roads,” she panted. “They’ve got people at every junction, waiting to stop matatus, bodas, even trucks. They’ll close this whole damn town for you.”
David felt a stab of guilt.
“Because of me.”
Njambi shot him a sharp look.
“Because of them. Never forget who started this.”
They reached the edge of a large culvert — a drainage tunnel wide enough for a cow to walk through.
Njambi crouched, sweeping her torch across the gaping mouth. Rats skittered away. Water trickled down the middle, ankle-deep. The smell of rot and sewage curled into David’s nostrils.
“This runs under the Mombasa Highway,” Njambi said. “Comes out near the savannah. If we make it to the plains by morning, we’re ghosts. Even choppers can’t track footprints over that much ground.”
David tightened his grip on Martha.
“Let’s go.”
The tunnel swallowed them whole.
Darkness pressed close, broken only by Njambi’s weak beam. The walls were slimy with algae, carved with graffiti — declarations of love, phone numbers for witches and plumbers. In the distance, somewhere ahead, water dripped steadily, echoing like slow footsteps.
Martha’s head lolled against David’s shoulder. He whispered to her constantly — stupid things, memories of her birthday last year, the time she’d beat him at Fifa and danced around the bedsitter — anything to keep her tethered.
Halfway through, Njambi stopped abruptly.
She held up a hand. Silence.
Then — whispers. Low, urgent. Not far off. Flashlights danced across a side tunnel.
Njambi’s face twisted.
“They’re sweeping the drains. These bastards are thorough.”
She pulled them into a narrow offshoot that stank of dead things. They huddled in the dark, holding their breaths.
Voices drew closer. Boots splashed through water. A torch beam sliced by just meters away.
David’s pulse roared in his ears. He squeezed Martha’s hand so tight she whimpered.
Then the voices moved on.
They waited long minutes, Njambi counting under her breath. Only when she reached thirty did she nod.
“Keep moving.”
They emerged from the culvert just as the sky paled to soft gray.
Before them stretched endless Maasai plains, rippling with morning wind, dotted with thorn trees and silhouettes of distant cattle.
David nearly sank to his knees in relief. The air felt clean, almost cold. It tasted like freedom.
Njambi turned, her smile tired but triumphant.
“No CCTV here. No roadblocks. They’ll have to search every blade of grass to find us now.”
But safety was still miles away.
They trudged across the open land, feet sinking into soft red soil. Birds darted up from the brush, startled by their passing. In the distance, a herd of wildebeest moved like a dark tide.
David’s arms burned from carrying Martha, who drifted in and out of lucidity. Each time she woke, she whispered,
“Are we safe yet?”
And David lied.
“Almost, kiddo. Almost.”
By noon, they found shade under an acacia.
Njambi slumped down, pressing a hand to her side where blood had soaked through her shirt again. Her grin was strained.
“I’ll live. I think.”
David set Martha down carefully, then crouched beside Njambi.
“You saved us. Again.”
Njambi shrugged.
“Don’t get used to it. I hate being the hero type.”
But she squeezed his hand, briefly, before letting go.
They didn’t notice the drone until it was almost overhead.
A soft buzzing. Then a tiny red light zipped across the sky, hovered, tilted — as if taking a long look.
David’s blood iced over.
“No…”
Njambi’s eyes darted around.
“It can’t radio far — they’ll need to be nearby with a relay. We’ve got maybe twenty minutes before boots show up.”
She pulled herself painfully to her feet.
“We keep moving. Find a homestead, flag a lorry, bribe a driver, something.”
They staggered on, three broken souls across a sea of golden grass.
Behind them, somewhere on the horizon, death was racing to catch up.
And ahead?
Just the uncertain promise of one more dawn.
Chapter 9: Turning the Tables
They spent that night hidden under a canvas tarp in the back of a cattle lorry, paid for with the last of Njambi’s cash and a quiet promise that the driver “saw nothing.” By dawn, they were rattling past Kitengela, the scent of manure and diesel heavy in the air.
Martha slept with her head in David’s lap, her fever finally easing. Njambi sat opposite them, legs dangling off the tailgate, scanning the road behind them like she expected hell itself to appear in the dust.
“We can’t run forever,” she finally muttered.
“Even the Maasai plains won’t hide us if they send in real trackers.”
David squeezed her shoulder.
“Then let’s stop hiding. Let’s end this.”
They made a plan.
Njambi’s cousin back in Machakos had contacts — journalists, crooked brokers, and more dangerously, insiders with grudges against powerful people. By mid-morning, they’d arranged a meet with a fixer who claimed he could get them face-to-face with one of the President’s closest advisors.
Njambi was suspicious.
“He could sell us out.”
David only nodded.
“Maybe. But we’re dead if we keep running. We need leverage — and this envelope is the only bargaining chip we have.”
They met at a small petrol station café on Mombasa Road.
The fixer arrived late. A heavyset man in a shiny blazer, gold watch flashing. He ordered chai, ignoring David and Njambi while he slurped it down. Finally he wiped his mouth.
“You have something the big boys want?”
David placed the brown envelope on the table.
“It’s enough to ruin careers. Maybe even spark international warrants.”
The man thumbed through the files, face blank. Then he looked up, eyes cold.
“I can arrange a meet. Not cheap. And if you’re lying — or if they think you are — you’ll disappear. Quietly.”
Njambi leaned in, her smile a blade.
“We’ll risk it.”
That night, they were ushered into the back of a tinted SUV and driven through Nairobi’s streets.
Past Uhuru Park, past dark office towers with only security lights on. Finally they pulled into a gated compound in Lavington.
Inside a lavish sitting room, they waited under the watchful eyes of two armed guards. Martha slept on a couch, Njambi never letting go of her hand.
Then he entered.
A short, barrel-chested man with a shaven head and calculating eyes. He wore a simple tailored shirt that probably cost more than David earned in a year.
“You’re the teacher,” he said flatly.
“I’ve read your file.”
David’s throat tightened.
“Then you know I’m not trying to bring down the government. I just want my sister safe. I want to live.”
The advisor leafed through the documents Njambi placed before him.
A photo of a murdered journalist. An internal memo approving hush money. The assassination plan for David himself.
The man sighed, massaging his temples.
“Do you know how many families would be destroyed if this went public?”
Njambi leaned back, legs crossed.
“Not our problem. You keep us alive, and we keep this quiet until the right time. You try to kill us, and these go straight to Reuters, BBC, Daily Nation. Every damn outlet we can find.”
Silence stretched.
Then the advisor nodded.
“Tomorrow. There’ll be a press conference. You’ll give your story — controlled. Names redacted, blame shifted to low-level scapegoats. You walk away alive. You get new papers, disappear. Your sister too.”
David almost wept.
“That’s all I want.”
The advisor’s eyes twinkled.
“For now, teacher. But remember: power never forgets.”
They left Lavington under escort, driven to a guarded apartment in Kileleshwa for the night.
Njambi curled up in an armchair by the window, gun on her lap, eyes never quite closing. David held Martha close, feeling her steady breathing, trying to believe this nightmare might finally be ending.
But deep inside, something coiled tight.
It couldn’t really be that easy.
Chapter 10: The Setup
The next morning, Nairobi was bathed in deceptive calm. Matatus honked their way down Moi Avenue, hawkers laid out second-hand shoes on torn sacks, and security guards dozed at their posts, heads bobbing in the sun.
David, Njambi, and Martha were ushered through the back entrance of a modern conference center in the CBD, past glass doors emblazoned with the logo of a big local media house.
Inside, rows of chairs faced a podium with heavy velvet curtains behind it. Bright lights were already trained on the stage, cameras set up.
It all looked so official. So safe.
Njambi didn’t buy it. Her eyes flicked constantly across the room, to the exits, to the men in suits who seemed just a little too stiff, hands resting oddly at their sides.
“I don’t like it,” she whispered.
“This is too neat. Too clean. These bastards don’t usually bother with show.”
David squeezed Martha’s hand, trying to keep her calm.
“We’re almost done. We just need to tell the story, then we’re free.”
Njambi’s jaw flexed.
“Free doesn’t exist for people like us.”
Minutes later, the press event began.
A man in a sleek grey suit — someone from the President’s communication team — stepped to the mic.
“We appreciate your patience today. We’re here to address allegations of misconduct by rogue government agents. In the spirit of transparency, we have a key witness — a teacher who narrowly escaped a criminal network that has unfortunately infiltrated parts of our security apparatus.”
David stood beside him, hands clammy, eyes searching the crowd.
Except… it wasn’t a real crowd.
Half the men with cameras wore identical shoes. One cameraman kept adjusting a lens cap that was still on. Another’s tripod was missing a camera altogether.
Njambi’s voice was a razor in his ear.
“David. This is wrong. These aren’t journalists.”
Then she spotted it — the slight bulge under one man’s coat, the whisper of a comms earpiece.
Her hand went for her revolver just as the man in the grey suit leaned toward David, smiling too broadly.
“Thank you for cooperating, Mr. Maina. I promise, it’ll be over very quickly.”
David’s stomach lurched.
“What do you—”
Gunshots shattered the room.
Njambi pulled David and Martha down, flipping a table for cover. The fake journalists were already drawing pistols, shouting into radios.
“Alpha team, we have them. Secure the—”
Njambi’s revolver barked three times, dropping two of the men. Screams erupted. Chairs flew. David dragged Martha behind a speaker rig, his heart slamming so hard he thought it might tear free.
“Martha, stay down!”
More men poured in from the side doors, rifles raised.
Njambi crouched beside David, teeth bared in a savage grin.
“This is your press conference, mwalimu. Make it count!”
She kicked over a light stand, plunging half the room into shadows. Then she ran low, firing, her silhouette a blur.
David’s mind raced.
The files. The real leverage. He still had copies of the most damning photos on a flash drive around his neck.
He pulled out his phone and did the only thing left — he uploaded everything. The images. The signatures. The assassination orders. Sent them to every major journalist’s WhatsApp tip line he could find.
As he hit SEND, someone grabbed his shoulder. A man in a black tactical vest, gun raised.
Time seemed to slow.
Then Njambi was there, tackling the man, the two of them crashing into the wall with a sickening crunch.
Suddenly the room was full of more gunfire — but it was coming from outside.
Police sirens howled. The real media had arrived, lured by David’s desperate uploads. Uniformed officers stormed in, followed by shouting reporters with rolling cameras.
The gunmen hesitated — too many eyes now. Too much risk.
Njambi grabbed David by the shirt, shoving Martha into his arms.
“Move! Out the side door!”
They burst into an alley choking on tear gas.
Behind them, the building was a swirl of chaos — journalists shoving microphones into dazed security chiefs, cameras catching everything. The damage was done. The secrets were out.
David turned to Njambi, breathless.
“We did it. We actually—”
But Njambi’s eyes were scanning the rooftops. Her voice was hollow.
“This isn’t over. It’s never over.”
Somewhere above them, a lens glinted. A camera? A rifle scope?
They didn’t wait to find out. Together, they ran — deeper into Nairobi’s maze, carrying the only thing that mattered: Martha, alive.
The system might still come for them. But for today, they had survived. And the truth had slipped through the cracks, impossible now to bury.
Chapter 11: Last Stand in Rongai
It was fitting, somehow, that they returned to Rongai.
To the cracked tarmac and dusty shoulders of Magadi Road, to the boda guys who barely looked up from their phones, to the scent of mutura grilling at roadside stalls.
Where it had all begun.
David watched from the shadows near an old car wash. The same petrol station stood across the road, neon sign buzzing faintly in the evening gloom. Njambi crouched beside him, loading fresh rounds into her revolver, hands steady despite the bruises and fading bandage on her arm.
Martha waited a block away under a mango tree, hidden with Njambi’s cousin who’d driven them from Nairobi under the cover of darkness.
“You sure about this, mwalimu?” Njambi asked.
“We could keep running. Head for Namanga. Slip into Tanzania.”
David shook his head.
“They’ll chase us forever. Unless we end it here.”
They didn’t have to wait long.
Two black Prados slid down the road, heavy with tinted windows. They parked outside the petrol station exactly where the assassins had executed that first victim weeks ago.
Men climbed out — dark suits, cold eyes scanning the area. One leaned back against the hood, lighting a cigarette, like he owned the world.
David felt a strange calm settle over him.
This is the place. This is where they took everything from me.
Njambi slipped a small detonator into his hand.
“Just squeeze. You sure the charges are set right?”
“Yeah. Your cousin was thorough.”
She smirked.
“That bastard was born thorough. Let’s make sure it counts.”
They waited.
The men moved slowly, methodically — checking alleyways, tapping their earpieces. One by one, they drew closer, drifting into the kill zone marked by a faint stretch of white chalk Njambi had dusted over the ground.
Njambi exhaled, almost a laugh.
“Look at them. Cocky. Arrogant. They’ve never really been scared a day in their lives.”
David’s thumb hovered over the detonator.
Martha. This is for you.
Then he squeezed.
The petrol station shuddered. A split second later, fire ripped through the air. The underground tanks Njambi’s cousin had rigged lit up like hell’s own furnace.
Flames whooshed up in a column that swallowed the black Prados. One man vanished in the blast; another staggered away, clothes aflame, screaming until he collapsed.
Shrapnel tore through signboards and shattered windows up and down the street.
David covered his head, heart hammering. The roar of the explosion rang in his skull long after silence fell again.
When he looked up, Njambi was already moving.
She fired twice at a man crawling across the road, then yanked David by the arm.
“We need to be gone before the cops arrive. And before their other friends show up.”
They fled through Rongai’s backstreets.
Past mabati kiosks where terrified vendors peered out, past kids who’d stopped their football game to gape at the rising pillar of smoke.
Njambi pulled David into a compound where goats chewed lazily on old sacks. She paused, pressed her forehead to his.
“You did it. They’ll think twice before hunting you now.”
“Think it’ll stop them?”
Njambi’s grin was weary, but fierce.
“No. But it’ll slow them. And it bought us time. Time is everything.”
They reached the mango tree where Martha waited.
She stumbled into David’s arms, tears cutting clean lines down her dusty cheeks.
“Is it over?” she whispered.
David looked back the way they’d come. The sky above Rongai glowed red. Sirens wailed in the distance.
“Not over. But we’re alive. And together. That’s more than they ever wanted for us.”
Njambi led them down a narrow path that twisted toward the river.
As they slipped into the darkness, David realized he could finally breathe. Not because they were safe — but because for the first time, they’d struck back.
The hunted had turned hunters, even if only for a night.
Chapter 12: No Witnesses Left
Three days later, they reached Namanga.
It was a small frontier town where trucks rumbled toward Tanzania, money changers hissed promises of good rates, and Maasai women draped in brilliant shúkàs sold beadwork under acacia trees.
To anyone watching, they were just another tired family. A brother, his little sister, and a girlfriend maybe, waiting for a bus that would take them across the border to a new life.
David bought roasted maize from a vendor and handed half to Martha. Her cheeks were round again, eyes brighter. Njambi sat on an overturned crate, scratching a list into the dust with a stick — things they’d need once across: fake IDs, cheap rooms, bus tickets deeper into Arusha.
For the first time in weeks, David almost felt hopeful.
Then he felt it.
A prickle at the back of his neck. That instinct that had saved him too many times now.
He looked up.
Across the dusty street stood a man in a dark suit, sunglasses perched low on his nose. A small smile curled his lips.
In his hand, a phone screen lit up. On it was a photo of David — taken outside that Rongai petrol station weeks ago, before the first gunshot that had shattered his life.
Njambi saw it too.
Her face drained of color. She stood slowly, never breaking eye contact with the man.
Then she stepped close to David and whispered in his ear, her breath shaking.
“Run. Now.”
Time exploded.
Njambi shoved him so hard he stumbled backward into Martha. The man across the street lifted his hand — and David glimpsed the glint of metal, not a phone this time, but a gun.
Njambi fired first. A single shot that cracked the afternoon calm, sending birds screaming into the sky. The man staggered, missed his own shot.
David didn’t wait. He grabbed Martha and bolted, Njambi at their side, sprinting through market stalls, knocking over baskets of mangoes.
Behind them, chaos erupted.
Vendors screamed. More men appeared — how many were there? It didn’t matter. They didn’t stop to count.
They ducked into an alley choked with washing lines, old plastic sandals, goat droppings. Njambi kicked open a fence plank and pushed them through.
“Keep going. Head for the buses. Don’t wait for me if—”
“No!” David rasped. “We stay together!”
Njambi’s eyes softened just a second.
“Then run faster, mwalimu.”
They burst out onto a road where buses idled, dust swirling around their tires.
A tout called, “Arusha, Moshi, Dar! Hakuna matata!”
David didn’t hesitate. He shoved Martha up the steps. Njambi vaulted in after them.
As the bus lurched forward, shots cracked behind them. The rear window starred with a spiderweb of cracks. Martha screamed.
David pulled her to the floor, covering her body with his. Njambi crouched by the seat, gun still raised, eyes wild.
The shots faded.
The bus picked up speed, bouncing over potholes, carrying them away from Namanga, away from Kenya, into a future none of them could quite see.
David finally lifted his head. Njambi met his eyes. For the first time since Rongai, she looked like she might cry.
“They’ll keep coming, you know,” she whispered.
“This doesn’t end. Not really.”
David reached across Martha and took her hand.
“Then we keep running. Together.”
They rode on in silence.
Three fugitives, battered and bruised, but alive. The sun dipped low behind them, painting the plains in molten gold.
And somewhere in the distance, power still coiled, waiting for its chance to strike again.
✅ THE END