12 Hours Read online

  12 HOURS

  L.I.OWUGAH

  12 HOURS

  copyright © 2019 L.I OWUGAH

  L.I. OWUGAH has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  this book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  all rights reserved.

  Welcome to the first JONAH BADMUS THRILLER.

  I’d like to thank the following people for their support in the creation of this unique character who I hope will be around for many years to come.

  Bola and Doyin Agboola

  Mobola Osamor

  Martin Lowe-Wheeler

  Berend Rah

  Andrew Oniha

  Nelson Twakor

  I’d also like to thank my son Leevan for his feedback on each chapter, and my daughter Nirvana - Lee for introducing me to Wattpad (which I now use religiously). I also owe thanks to several others, too many to mention, for their contributions to the success of the completion of this book.

  Many thanks to my mother, Mrs Janet Owugah, who got me writing in the first place, and a big thank you to my adorable wife Synthia for providing me with the time and space to bring this 6ft 5, 250-pound juggernaut to life.

  L.I. Owugah 14/1/19

  CONTENTS

  12 HOURS

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  Chapter 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  EPILOGUE

  JONAH WILL RETURN

  PROLOGUE

  DYING WITH A SMILE

  The WARNING arrived seconds before they were DEAD. The elderly gentleman knew Lagos was a dangerous city, but as he drove through the dimly lit morning, he understood that an early departure for his destination was the most practical means of circumventing heavy traffic. Seated beside him was his wife of thirty years. A beautiful woman, who, in the man’s eyes, hadn’t aged a whisker since the day they first met. She gazed at him, and they traded a smile. Then like a shot out of the blue, a loud popping sound echoed from the rear of the vehicle.

  A sound like the blast of an air pistol.

  In an instant, the man recognized the source of the noise. But his wife's expression remained unchanged. Sensor neural hearing loss, the audiologist had called it. A significant disability for your average Jane Public, only not for a woman who could lip-read with the proficiency of a covert operative, and who routinely described her handicap as merely a "manageable inconvenience."

  "What's the matter?" She asked her husband, spotting the troubled look on his face. He forced a smile as he heard the loud sound of the rubber of the left rear tyre begin to flap in the wind.

  "Flat tyre."

  He slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. The motorway was deserted, and they were alone. Alone and unarmed. Staring out into the darkness, the man knew the tyre had to be replaced and knew that the job was best done in a hurry. In a tender gesture of allegiance, his wife took hold of his hand.

  "Don't worry, Albert," she said. "God is with us."

  Acknowledging her sentiments with a quiet nod, they both climbed out of the car, and he skirted round to the trunk and popped it open. Peering at his wife over the lid of the car boot, the man watched as she strolled a few feet from the vehicle, punching the keypad of her mobile phone. Turning in his direction, she smiled.

  "Who are you texting?" he asked.

  "Forgotten what today is already?" she replied.

  "Remind me."

  "Michael's Birthday."

  The man shook his head in dismay. He extracted a spare tyre from the trunk, balanced it on the ground, and then leaned it against the side of the vehicle in an upright position.

  "He is almost forty, Tinuke."

  "Thirty-seven," she retorted, playfully. "Thirty-seven years old and still my little boy." Still smiling, she wheeled back around as her husband reached back into the trunk for a car jack. Then the stillness of the morning was shattered once again. This time, it was the deafening sound of rubber screeching against the tarmac and a blinding beam of headlights closing in like a rapid Tsunami. The man's head snapped around in a split second, spotted where the out of control vehicle was headed, and realized there was little he could do to save the life of the woman he had vowed to love till separated by death. Blissfully unaware of her fate, only her smile remained. A smile he was determined she be permitted to die with.

  Dashing towards her like an Olympic athlete, the man regained his youth for all of three seconds. In record time he closed the gap between himself and his wife to prevent her from turning. Grabbing her from behind in a tight embrace, she closed her eyes in the comfort of his arms. Her prominent smile, still glowing as the vehicle arrived and the lights shut out.

  1

  JONAH

  NATURALLY GIFTED PUGILIST

  I was in a North London courtroom on the morning Mr and Mrs Eko died. The time had just gone 12 noon, and I was awaiting a decision that would determine where I would be having a shower for the next eight weeks.

  "Jonah Badmus."

  At the mention of my name, I glanced up from the illuminated screen of my Nokia mobile handset and stared across at the poker face of the grey hired magistrate before me. Seated in the dock, the trial had arrived at the crucial juncture where the judge would instruct the accused to rise to his feet, before delivering the verdict. However, I had zero experience of taking orders from anyone and wasn't planning on gaining any today.

  At age 36, I was six foot five and 250 pounds. A big man, with the physique of an offseason American quarterback, who was still in tip-top condition, but had no concerns about where the needle measured on the scales. I was also a black man. A darker skinned black man, whose intimidating size had the effect of generating a slew of uneasy glances on a crowded bus or busy subway. Glances which told me that I was to be considered a clear and present danger, until proven otherwise.

  However, this was a gross misconception. I was never a violent individual. Just a person who knew how to look after himself. A man who, despite the absence of any formal training in the art of self-defence, was uniquely skilled at handling the mental and physical demands of any combative encounter. A naturally gifted pugilist, my Physical Education teacher had labelled me as a boy. A naturally gifted pugilist who, given the right tutelage, could have made one hell of a prizefighter. But I had had no inclination to fight for fame or money. And for the last ten years had managed to stay out of trouble. Until four weeks ago.

  It was 27 degrees on the day of the incident that would land me in court. An unusually warm day in Autumn. But it was a pleasant kind of heat. Not clammy and humid, but fresh and breezy. Or, to quote a local newspaper, the sort of weather that was more in tune with
the forces of nature than climate change. Earlier that afternoon, I had received a mobile text message with news that I had just been offered the position of a CCTV OPERATIVE for an established IT firm called Care Call Computers, in Central London. Closed Circuit Television monitoring. Nothing-glamorous, nothing unique. Just another job, and I'd seen plenty.

  The interview for the role had been on the same day as the unfortunate incident. And was lead by a smartly dressed Caucasian female. She had been in her mid-thirties and was flanked by two equally smartly dressed white men in their early forties. The woman had a serious, business-first expression on her face, while the men were more laid back and appeared relaxed and unfazed.

  The panel sat on one end of a rectangular shaped conference table, while I, wearing the only suit and tie I owned, took a seat on the other. Following a string of standard, formulaic type questions, such as: "How do you think you can make yourself a valuable asset to the company?" I left the interview feeling pretty confident. Half an hour later, a text message popped up on my mobile phone.

  It was short and to the point.

  "Congratulations! After a brief discussion, we are pleased to let you know that we are offering you the position of CCTV operative, for Care Call Computers. The induction will begin on May 1st. Please call Danielle on 0800599666 for more information." As I read it, I smiled to myself and, was moments away from hopping onto a 243 bus to Tottenham when I changed my mind.

  Hindsight, they say, is double twenty. And in light of what was to follow. The bus should never have left without me. But it did. And all because I spotted a bar called Bottoms Up across the street. An upmarket, licensed establishment where I could grab a quick pint of Guinness. And, with that in mind, I crossed the street and sauntered into the belly of the beast.

  2

  JONAH

  CROSSING THE LINE

  It was relatively busy when I strolled into the bar that day. However, at three in the afternoon, and for at least another five hours, the establishment was operating within a trouble-free time zone. Two winding staircases lead to the upper floor balcony, with a doorman planted at the foot of each one, sealing off access until the anticipated evenings rush. Both doormen were in their mid-twenties and wore black clip-on ties and crisp white shirts, which made them look like a pair of oversized high school kids. Soft and inexperienced, and green in the art of self-defence. "Mamas boys" in the lingo of our American cousins. A couple of "Mama's boys" who had blue coloured, S.I.A Lanyards, dangling from fragile looking necks. But it was still early, the weather pleasing, and, in the eyes of management, probably an inappropriate time to use funds on a robustly formed security outfit that was likely to have little to do.

  I first noticed the group after downing my first pint. A bunch of men and women in their mid thirties. They were seated in a booth located to the left of the service counter, where I was sitting. It was a Hollywood icon fancy dress birthday celebration, and they were kitted out in costumes synonymous with movie stars from the forties and fifties. Marilyn Monroe to Clarke Gable, and everyone in between. They were also drunk, very drunk. I was halfway through my second, and what I'd anticipated would be my last pint of Dublin's finest when I heard her voice.

  "Is it true what they say about you lot?"

  I whipped around, and there she stood. Marilyn Monroe, late twenties. Drunker than the proverbial seaman, her lipstick was smudged, and the telltale visible streaks of black in her hair told me she was a peroxide, rather than a natural blonde. Clutching a lipstick-smeared glass of Chardonnay in one hand; she gripped on to the edge of the service counter in a desperate bid to stay vertical on a pair of legs turned to jelly.

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "The fuckin' size er ya!" she slurred in return. "Mate of mine says every black man she's had it off with was hung like a fuckin' Stallion!" She giggled like a mischievous teenager. An ambitious attempt to replicate what had been the legendary Norma Jean's ability to be cute on a whim. A unique talent which had made the fifties bombshell the ideal choice for a generation, who would subsequently decide they preferred blondes. But that's about all it was, ambitious. A failed impersonation that would only reveal a hideous imposter whose bloated, heavily caked, prematurely aged face was a testament to a decade's worth of alcoholic excess and hard living.

  I said nothing in return and reverted my attention to the bottle before me. But my antenna had been activated. Moments later, a male voice demanded my attention.

  "You trying to chat up my Missis?"

  I pivoted back round and came face to face with Humphrey Bogart, clad in a white tuxedo, Casablanca style. He held a fresh pint of beer in a tall glass and exhibited the demeanour of a silent, functional drunk. Heavily intoxicated but rock steady on his feet. A pair of loyal flunkies flanked him. Two men of a similar size to myself. To his left, a false moustache wearing Clarke Gable. And to his right, a hard-faced man, who, at six foot two, had made an unsuccessful attempt at looking like a five foot nothing James Cagney. They were also drunk and equally irritated. However, they appeared somewhat unsure about their choice of opponent, their fingers clenching into fists one minute and relaxing the next. I starred Bogart dead in the eyes.

  "Something I can do for you?" I said. He opened his mouth to respond, but Monroe got there first.

  "Asked to see my tits, didn't ya?"she yelled, clutching onto Bogart's arm for support while accidentally tipping a splash of Chardonnay down a single leg of his trousers.

  He turned and gave her an ice-cold stare. It was a look that was ignored far too often. A look that screamed violence behind closed doors. Clandestine abuse that the dense layers of makeup had been designed to conceal. A black eye, a colourfully bruised forehead, maybe even a split lip. But then, as it currently stood, that wasn't my problem.

  Bogart reverted his attention to me. "That right?" he said. I held my gaze for a moment, and he did the same, part alcohol, part bravado. Then I extended the same look to each of his cronies, who were visibly apprehensive, yet seemed to lack the courage, or common sense, to take a hike. I turned back to my drink and drained my glass. It was time to leave. Then I heard a manic yell.

  "You Fuckin' Wog!"

  My head snapped back around, but it was a fraction of a second too late, as Bogart's beer mug exploded against the side of my face, sending a blinding pain ricocheting through the centre of my skull, like a jagged ice pick. Instinctively, I darted away from the stool, my hand flying up to my face to assess the damage. I felt the wet, cold beer against my bare skin, the sharp freckled pieces of glass jammed into my pores, and a laceration beneath my right eye. For a split second, the room seemed to slow down and almost come to a halt. For the briefest of moments, I could see everything, and predict every move. First, it was Clarke and Cagney. In response to my sudden retreat, they smelt blood and advanced like a pack of wolves.

  Casualty number one was Clarke, who, flailing with an overhand right, closed the gap between us in record time. He was a novice. Green in the art of timing, spacing, and footwork, he missed his target by a country mile. A look of dismay followed, but that was about all he had time for.

  Tucking in my chin, I launched forward and torpedoed the top of my head into the centre of his face.There was a sickening crunch, followed by an intense squeal, as the bridge of his nose caved in, causing him to slump to his knees in agony. Then, seamlessly maintaining the momentum of my attack, I greeted Cagney, storming from behind, with a crippling right hook, to the jaw. The punch snapped his head around, sent the rest of his body into a 180-degree tailspin, and rendered him unconscious before he hit the floor.

  Finally, it was Bogart.

  Charging in for a follow-up offensive, he was visibly embarrassed at the public humiliation of his wingmen. His face, the picture of reckless defiance, teeth gritted, features contorted in a manic rage. As he bounded towards me, Monroe, now sober, was close on his heels.

  "Alfie No!" she yelled.

  I turned southpaw and drilled a vicious left hook
into the side of his face. He screamed as I felt his cheekbone crush beneath my knuckles. His head whipped sideways and he crashed to the floor. And that should have been the end of it. But it wasn't.

  My fist, driven by sheer momentum, continued to travel - a dutiful slave to the laws of physics and landed flush on Monroe's chin. She was out cold, in an instant, like a defective light bulb. And as she took her place beside Bogart, Cagney, and Gable, I noticed the silence for the first time.

  The silence of a crowd of patrons staring in shock and disbelief, jaws to the floor. And the SIA badge wearing mamma's boys, standing a million miles off, frantic looks of terror on their face, shrieking into handheld radio receivers jammed to their ears. And then the women, a sizeable number, staring down at Monroe and glaring directly at me, their profound contempt and accusatory eyes, indicating that, like OJ, another one of us had crossed the line.