Game of Deception, page 6
He rose and walked to the window, watching traffic crawl below.
You didn’t steal anything, he told himself.
You merely corrected an imbalance.
Clement had taken what Peter wanted most.
Now Peter was taking back control.
He justified it the way lawyers always do: in layers.
Victor had already crossed every moral line imaginable. This was simply allowing consequence to meet character.
Clement had failed as a father. Failed as a disciplinarian. Failed to protect Rita. Failed to see what his son had become.
Peter wasn’t creating tragedy.
He was formalizing it.
And as for himself?
He was only facilitating inevitability.
That was the story he told himself.
ACROSS TOWN, TAMARA paused in the doorway of Clement’s study.
She hadn’t intended to snoop.
She’d only come to bring him tea.
But something felt wrong.
Clement sat at his desk, shoulders slumped, staring at paperwork without turning pages.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
He looked up slowly.
‘Yes,’ he said. Too quickly.
Tamara stepped inside.
‘You’ve been distant.’
Clement forced a smile. ‘Just business stress.’
She studied him. After all these years, she knew his tells. The tight jaw. The way his fingers drummed lightly when he was worried.
‘And Victor?’ she asked.
Clement exhaled.
‘He hasn’t called.’
That alone was unsettling.
Tamara felt a chill creep into her spine.
She set the cup down and placed a hand on Clement’s shoulder.
‘Promise me something,’ she said quietly.
He looked at her.
‘If Peter calls, tell me.’
Clement hesitated.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ Tamara admitted. ‘I just... feel like something’s shifting.’
Clement nodded, though he didn’t understand.
Tamara walked away with a knot in her stomach she couldn’t explain.
BACK IN HIS OFFICE, Peter returned to his chair and opened Victor’s file.
He allowed himself one final moment of reflection.
He thought of Tamara’s laugh.
Of Clement’s easy confidence.
Of the way life had unfolded for them while he built quietly in the background.
He remembered Tamara looking past him.
He remembered Clement being chosen.
He remembered twenty-five years of loyalty that had earned him nothing but proximity.
His mouth tightened.
They were never grateful.
He picked up his pen.
This wasn’t revenge.
It was resolution.
And Peter Matthews had always been very good at closing cases.
A WEEK LATER, PETER Matthews’ phone vibrated with a bank alert.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Victor had paid.
Peter didn’t smile. He locked the screen and exhaled slowly, deliberately. The transfer confirmed what he already knew.
Victor was committed.
They met the following Friday at exactly ten.
Peter closed the office door. Drew the blinds.
By the time Victor left, the plan was set.
‘Next Saturday—the fifteenth,’ Peter said evenly. ‘Your parents will be traveling to Ibadan for a wedding. They always use the black Lexus.’
Victor nodded.
‘I’ve arranged for a mechanic,’ Peter continued. ‘He’ll tamper with the brake lines. The failure will occur once the car reaches highway speed.’
Victor frowned. ‘What if the driver doesn’t go that fast?’
Peter didn’t hesitate.
‘He will. That road invites it.’
He leaned forward.
‘The main gate needs to be unlocked at three a.m. Friday. You’ll leave the car accessible. I’ll bring the mechanic myself. Thirty minutes. No more.’
Victor swallowed.
‘And the gateman?’
‘You sedate him Friday evening,’ Peter said calmly. ‘Just enough to keep him asleep.’
Victor hesitated again. ‘This mechanic—can I trust him?’
Peter’s lips curved faintly.
‘You don’t need to. He’s disposable. I’ll handle that afterward.’
Silence settled between them.
Then Victor nodded.
AT THREE A.M. ON FRIDAY, Peter arrived with the mechanic.
The house slept.
The gate was open.
The job took twenty-eight minutes.
At six the following morning, Clement and Tamara Agwu left home, hoping to reach Ibadan early to help with wedding preparations for a close family friend.
They never arrived.
On the Lagos–Ibadan expressway, the brakes failed.
The Lexus veered violently off the road and slammed into a tree with catastrophic force.
Tamara wasn’t wearing her seatbelt.
The impact threw her forward into the airbag. She died instantly.
The driver was killed on impact.
Clement survived—but barely.
He was rushed to St. Nicholas Hospital on Victoria Island in critical condition.
Peter Matthews read the report later that morning.
He set his phone down.
And for the first time in decades—
He slept.
Peacefully.
VICTOR DIDN’T CRY.
He didn’t pray.
He closed the door of his guest room, locked it, and leaned his forehead against the wood until the shaking passed.
Then he laughed.
Soft at first. Disbelieving. Then louder, spilling out of him in short, breathless bursts.
It had worked.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and reread the headlines, scrolling slowly, savoring each word.
Fatal crash on Lagos–Ibadan expressway.
Prominent businessman’s wife killed.
Driver dead. Husband in critical condition.
Victor dropped onto the edge of the bed.
He kicked off his shoes and stretched out, staring at the ceiling like a man who had just survived a storm.
For years he’d felt trapped in that house—lectured, monitored, cut off, treated like a liability instead of an heir. Now everything was finally shifting back into his favour.
He imagined the estate. The accounts. The properties.
Freedom.
He poured himself a stiff drink and raised the glass toward the ceiling.
‘Finally,’ he whispered.
He didn’t toast his parents.
He toasted himself.
PETER MATTHEWS SLEPT for three hours, then jolted awake at exactly 3:00 a.m., drenched in cold sweat.
Deep. Uninterrupted.
When he surfaced, it wasn’t panic that greeted him.
It was clarity.
He lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of traffic below. His chest felt lighter, as if something that had been lodged there for decades had finally come loose.
He rose.
Showered.
Dressed with meticulous precision.
He made coffee and stood by the window while Lagos unfolded below him.
Clement would wake soon.
If he woke at all.
Peter closed his eyes briefly.
He felt no triumph. No surge of victory.
Only completion.
He told himself he hadn’t killed anyone.
He had merely aligned circumstances.
Victor had wanted this. The mechanic had done the work. The road had done the rest.
Peter had simply connected the dots.
That distinction mattered to him.
He moved through the apartment calmly, checking his phone, deleting old threads, clearing histories. He wiped surfaces that didn’t need wiping. He straightened things that were already straight.
Control, reasserted through ritual.
He thought of Tamara.
Not with longing.
With distance.
She had been a chapter that never belonged to him. Clement had taken her, built a life, lived openly in ways Peter never had.
Now that life was broken.
Balance restored.
He told himself Clement had failed as a father. Failed to restrain Victor. Failed to see the rot growing in his own house.
Peter had intervened where Clement could not.
That was the story he accepted.
He checked the news again.
Still critical.
Good.
He poured another cup of coffee and sat at his desk.
There would be documents to prepare. Condolences to offer. Legal pathways to manage. A grieving daughter to protect. An inheritance to restructure.
He would be indispensable.
As always.
Peter Matthews didn’t feel like a murderer.
He felt like a man who had finally resolved an old case.
And somewhere beneath the calm, beneath the justifications and quiet routines, a colder truth settled into place:
He had crossed a line.
And nothing inside him had pushed back.
4
A LOVELY DAY
‘Success is not final, failure is not fatal, it is the courage to continue that counts.’ —WINSTON CHURCHILL
As Zubby considered what to do with himself on that glorious Tuesday morning, his phone rang.
It was Genevieve.
‘Zubby, guess what!’
‘What?’ he asked, instantly hooked by the excitement in her voice.
‘I have incredible news. Have you heard of *The Cool Guys* in Eko Atlantic City?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Who hasn’t? I watched one of their YouTube videos recently. There’s nothing else like it anywhere in the world.’
‘Well,’ she said, barely containing herself, ‘my uncle is the CEO. He runs the entire operation. We’re very close—and I told him everything that happened to us.’
Zubby paused.
‘Wait... you have an uncle who runs that place?’
‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘And guess what?’
‘What?’
‘He wants to hire you for their sales team.’
‘Are you serious?’ Zubby’s eyes widened.
‘Dead serious. I told him you’re an economics graduate with a Second-Class Upper, and that was all he needed to hear. He wants to meet you tomorrow.’
‘Oh my God... I can’t believe this.’
‘And here’s the best part,’ she continued. ‘You’ll earn a basic salary of about five hundred dollars a month—but with commission, you could make over forty thousand dollars a year. Their top salesperson earns between forty and fifty thousand. And I know you can match that.’
‘Genevieve,’ Zubby said softly, ‘is this really happening?’
‘It is,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘You’re meeting my uncle on Friday at ten.’
THE COOL GUYS, LOCATED in the heart of Eko Atlantic City, was one of the most exclusive electronics stores in the world.
Zubby arrived early.
The Cool Guys superstore sat deep inside Eko Atlantic City, and getting anywhere near it felt less like entering a shopping complex and more like approaching a government facility.
The first checkpoint stopped him cold.
An armed guard stepped forward, palm raised.
“ID.”
Zubby handed it over. The guard studied his face, then the card, then his face again before nodding to a colleague. His name was logged. His destination recorded.
Then came the search.
Zubby emptied his pockets. Phone. Wallet. Keys. He raised his arms while another guard patted him down methodically, checking his waistband, his ankles, even the inside of his jacket. A handheld scanner traced slow lines across his body.
Only then was he waved forward—straight into a camera flash.
His photo was taken at the gate.
No explanation. No smiles.
Just procedure.
Beyond that point, a second set of gates waited, reinforced steel framed by concrete barriers. More uniformed security stood watch, alert and unsmiling, their presence heavy enough to make Zubby instinctively straighten his posture.
Every movement was observed.
Every step tracked.
He signed another register. His phone number was verified. A visitor badge was clipped to his lapel. Only after a radio confirmation crackled back through a walkie-talkie was the final barrier lifted.
As Zubby walked inside, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just passed through layers of invisible walls.
Whatever The Cool Guys were protecting, they weren’t taking chances.
And as he adjusted his suit and headed toward reception, one thought stayed with him:
If this was the security just to attend an interview, working here clearly meant stepping into a tightly controlled world—one that didn’t forgive mistakes.
Then he entered the store.
And the world changed.
The harsh geometry of checkpoints and concrete gave way to polished marble floors and soft ambient lighting. Cool air brushed his skin. Giant LED screens glowed silently along the walls, looping pristine product visuals. Rows of gleaming smartphones, tablets, and laptops sat perfectly aligned on minimalist glass counters.
Everything inside was calm. Controlled. Beautiful.
A subtle scent of citrus and new electronics lingered in the air.
Soft instrumental music played overhead.
Sales associates moved gracefully between displays, dressed in crisp uniforms, smiling easily—like none of what he’d just passed through existed.
The contrast was jarring.
Outside: weapons, scanners, hard eyes.
Inside: luxury, technology, serenity.
Zubby adjusted his suit and took a slow breath.
If the security felt like a warning, the interior felt like an invitation.
And as he headed toward reception, one thought stayed with him:
Working here wouldn’t just mean selling electronics.
It meant stepping into a tightly controlled world—one that wrapped danger in polish and power in elegance.
Despite the early hour, the store buzzed with activity. Salespeople—gold name badges gleaming—engaged customers from every corner of the world. Armed guards moved silently through the crowd.
Zubby watched closely, studying how the staff approached customers, how they listened, explained, persuaded. He imagined himself doing the same—confident, composed, effective.
Then his phone rang again.
‘Hi, Genevieve.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at the store—or should I say, superstore,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s unbelievable. Even after watching videos, I wasn’t prepared for this.’
‘Are you wearing a suit?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I thought it was the right thing to do.’
She smiled, clearly pleased. ‘Good. My uncle will appreciate that. He’s my favourite uncle—I’m actually closer to him than I am to my parents.’
She hesitated, then added with a small laugh, ‘He even bought me my car as a graduation gift.’
Zubby hesitated, then said quietly, ‘You know... there’s something about you, Genevieve. Something that makes falling in love with you feel completely natural.’
On the other end of the line, Genevieve gasped. Her heart raced.
‘What did you just say?’ she asked softly.
‘What did you hear?’ Zubby replied.
A pause. Long enough to ache.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I need to hear it again.’
‘I said... I love you, Genevieve.’
The words hung between them.
‘Hello?’ Zubby asked gently. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m here,’ she said, breathless. ‘Just... processing.’
‘And?’
‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘And I’m genuinely happy. Since the day we met, you’ve been on my mind constantly.’
Zubby released a long breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
‘Me too.’
They didn’t hang up. They stayed there in the silence, phones warm in their hands, listening to each other breathe.
‘I should go,’ Zubby finally said. ‘I need to prepare for the meeting.’
‘Okay, babe,’ she replied softly. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks, babe,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’
BEHIND HIS METICULOUSLY polished oak desk, Teddy Osufia greeted Zubby with a broad smile as he walked into the office.
‘Zubby, thank you so much for coming! How are you?’
‘I’m fine, sir. Thanks for having me.’
Standing at around 5ft 9 inches, Osufia boasted a dark complexion and sported a buzz cut that defied his 63 years, making him appear much younger. Like everyone else at the store, he was clad in a light blue button-down collar shirt and dark khaki pants.
His handshake exuded confidence, immediately putting Zubby at ease in his presence.
‘Genevieve told me everything you went through on her behalf. I am so grateful to you for choosing to go to her aid. She told me you were attacked at once by all three of those dreadful thugs?’
‘Yes sir, I was.’
'She also told me you were on your way to an interview with Shell Oil when all of this happened. And it cost you a chance to get that job, correct?’
‘Yes, sir, that is correct. But it would not have been right to ignore something so horrendous. If I had done that, I would not have been able to live with myself.’
‘I like you, Zubby. I am forever in your debt. You put yourself at great risk for someone you don’t even know. I’m sure Genevieve has mentioned how close we are. Today, I’m going to pay you back for your humanity, and for your kindness. How do you like The Cool Guys?’
‘It is the most incredible place I have ever seen. I feel like I'm in a foreign country when I'm in the building sir.'
