The rain in Lagos does not just fall, it screams. It hammers against the rusted zinc roofs and turns the gutters into black, rushing rivers. For most people, it is a nuisance, but for me, it is a shroud
I stand in the mouth of a jagged alleyway, the fabric of my hoodie soaking up the dampness of the night. Across the street, the neon sign of a dive bar flickers, casting a sickly green glow over the face of the man I am here to DELETE.
His name is Victor.
To the world, he is just a middle-aged drunk who works as a low-level dispatcher. To me, he is target number seven. He is the man whose foot stayed on the gas pedal fifteen years ago, even as my father's car spiraled off the bridge and into the dark water of the lagoon.
Victor is laughing now, leaning against a lamp post and fumbling with a cigarette. He looks soft and pathetic. It is hard to believe this is the same man who had helped ruin my life for a stack of blood-stained naira.
I feel the weight of the knife in my sleeve. It is a cold, familiar weight. I spent a decade training for this moment, learning to move without a sound, how to turn my heart into a piece of lead.
He starts walking towards the parking lot, his steps are heavy and uneven. I follow.
I do not walk, I flow.
I stay in the blind spots, moving when the thunder rolled to hide the sound of my boots on the wet pavement.
"Victor". I say carefully.
My voice is not loud enough, but it cuts through the rain like a razor. He freezes. He turns around, squinting into the darkness, his cigarette falling from his lips and landing in a puddle with a hiss.
"Who is that? You want my wallet? Take it, kid. Just don't hurt me". Victor stammers, pointing his wallet at me.
I step into the dim light of the flickering street lamp. I do not say anything at first. I reach into my pocket and pull out the old, cracked pocket watch.
I hold it up, so he can see the glass face, shattered and frozen at exactly 10:40 PM.
"Do you recognize this victor?" I ask firmly.
His eyes go wide. The color drains from his face until he looks like a corpse already.
"That... that is impossible. That was an accident. A very long time ago, I was the driver! They told me if I did not do it, they would kill my family!" Victor says, shaking.
And what about my family, Victor? I ask angrily.
My voice feels flat. Dead.
"Who was looking out for them while you were hitting the gas?" I add.
He turns to run, but he is slow, and the alcohol in his system makes him clumsy. I pounce right at him before he can take three steps. I grab him by the collar of his expensive, stolen jacket and slam him against the brick of a warehouse.
"Please, I have kids. I have a life". He wheezes, his hand clawing at my arms.
"So did my father. He had a contract. He had a future. You traded all of that for a payout". I whisper into his ear.
I feel the rage bubbling up, but I push it down. Anger makes you messy. I need to be precise. I need to be a machine. I pull out the knife and slides it through his neck, cutting his blood vessel as I push him down on the floor.
"One down". I mutter slowly.
The blade is sharp enough that there is almost no resistance. It is over in seconds. I do not look away. I watch the light go out of his eyes, watching the man who had helped kill my parents finally pay his debt. He slumps to the ground, a heap of wet clothes and wasted years.
I stand over him for a moment, the rain washing the red blood from my hands. I do not feel the "peace" people talk about in movies. I just feel a little less heavy.
I reachinto my inner pocket and pulled out a damp, crumpled piece of paper. It is a list of seven names. Victor was at the bottom, the easiest one to find. The others will be harder. They are protected by glass walls, armed guards, and layers of lies.
I take out a black pen and draw a thick, jag line through Victor's name. My hand do not shake.
I look up at the sky. The rain is still coming down, heavy and uncaring. I tuck the list back into my coat and turn away, disappearing into the shadows before the first person can find the body.
The police will call it a mugging gone wrong. They will see a dead drunk in an alley and move on. They do not know that Xander is back. They do not know that the 2012 contract is being signed again, this time in blood.
Six names left.
The names are like hot coals in my chest. Victor is a coward. Miller is a traitor. Aris is a cold-blooded killer. Every time I say them, my heart turns to stone. They stole my parents and left me with nothing but a blade. I do not see people, I see targets. Their lives are just debts I need to collect.
I walk back to my safe house, my mind already moving to the next target. Target Number Six is a man named Miller. A man with a badge. A man who should have been a hero but chose to be a shadow.
The city thinks I am a ghost. They are right. I am the ghost of a boy who died fifteen years ago, and I will not rest until every single person who pushed that car is in the ground.
Till the last one dies.