Welcome, dear reader!!

If you’ve read ‘Green Wounds’ and ‘Scorned’, then you’re no stranger to the two gangs in this tale. If not, wanna go and get acquainted, maybe?

Anyways, this is one dark, gritty tale. Let’s get right into it!!

The night air in Bamako, the capital city of Mali, was electric, alive with the chatter of lively patrons spilling out of Le Luxe, a high-end restaurant in the heart of the city. It was one of the premier establishments patronized by the rich and famous Malians of the day, a symbol of luxury and prestige. That evening was no different, with the patrons exiting the restaurant consisting a wide array of well-known and distinguished men and women in the capital city.

Chief among them was Omar Touray, a towering figure dressed in an impeccably embroidered boubou of rich sapphire blue and a matching cap. As he stepped out onto the cobbled path, his appearance spoke volumes of his status as a wealthy man. A highly loved and cherished businessman, he was known as a ‘man of the people’, always ready to share bundles of notes with friends and bystanders.

Behind him, laughter and music filtered through the open doors. A group of his friends, equally well-dressed but showing ultimate deference to the ‘man of the people’, followed closely, their voices filled with excitement and anticipation of another ‘show of love’.

“Omar! Omar! You are the king of the night!” one friend shouted, holding up his glass as the group erupted into cheers.

“The great Omar Touray! Our one and only star!” another friend added.

“The true shining star of Bamako! All others are fakes!” another piled on.

Omar turned with a broad smile, his posture as regal as his attire, raised his hands to calm the joyous noise. He was used to these shows of endless adulations, and reveled happily in them. “Ah, my brothers, my brothers,” he started, his voice deep, rich and effortlessly charismatic. “You know I cannot shine alone. We all must shine together!”

Reaching into his intricately patterned leather satchel, he pulled out a thick bundle of crisp dollar bills. With a grand gesture, he tossed them into the air.

Just the activity his friends anticipated and loved him for.

“Eh, Omar! You’re too much!” yelled another friend, scrambling to grab a handful of the airborne cash.

“Omar the generous!” someone else exclaimed in playful awe.

A crowd, now gathering near the entrance, clapped and whistled as they watched the spectacle, with some joining in the mad scramble for free money. Omar stood back and nodded, pleased at the mad rush. He simply loved moments like these: giving his people something to be excited about.

Which, of course, was the prospect of getting money they did not have to work for.

“Omar Touray! Omar Touray! Omar Touray!” the group chanted in unison, raising their arms to salute their favourite ‘royalty’.

Once again, Omar raised his hands in a show of humble gladness, that charming smile still plastered on his face. As a sleek black Range Rover pulled up to the curb, driven by a sharp-dressed chauffeur, he turned and nodded.

It was time to head home.

“My people,” he announced magnanimously, “I must be on my way now. But tomorrow, “we do this again. Same time, same place. Life is meant to be celebrated, and I promise you, I will never stop celebrating with you all. To friendship, to family, and to Bamako!”

The group broke out into more cheers, with others still chanting his name fervently. Omar raised a final hand in farewell, surveying the scene before him with pride evident in the glint of his eyes.

As the chauffeur opened the door for him, he waved at them one more time. “Rest well, my brothers!” he called as he entered the car. “Tomorrow, we dance again!”

The cheers and chants continued as the Range Rover drove away.

***

Omar sat back in the spacious rear seat, taking off his cap and placing it on his lap, sighing and looking out the window as the Range Rover smoothly navigated through Bamako’s upscale district.

Beside him rested a polished aluminum briefcase. He reached over and unlocked the case with a practiced flick. As the lid flipped open, a neatly arranged stack of cash comes into view—dollars and euros, banded and pristine.

A satisfied smile crept across Omar’s face. “Perfect,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand slowly over the bundles. “Every cent accounted for. Just as it should be.”

His moment of satisfaction was interrupted by the sudden buzz of his phone.

He looked, and saw the caller ID on the screen: Diallo S.

His smile vanished instantly, and was replaced by a sneer. Narrowing his eyes at the name, he shook his head in disdain. “Tsk. Diallo,” he hissed. “Why won’t he stop disturbing me?”

With a deliberate motion, he rejected the call, the screen going dark as his thumb pressed a little too firmly on the red icon.

“Fool,” he muttered, slipping the phone onto the leather seat beside him. His gaze returned to the briefcase, the sneer still lingering. “There is no way I’m letting you get your hands on this. Not after everything. You had your chance. This? This is mine now.”

He snapped the briefcase shut with a sharp click, as if he was sealing not just the money but his resolve.

The chauffeur glanced briefly in the rearview mirror, catching Omar’s rather dark expression. “Is everything alright, sir?” he asked cautiously but politely.

“Everything is perfect,” Omar replied smoothly, the charisma returning to his voice like a practiced melody. “Take me home. The night has been… fruitful.”

The driver nodded, saying nothing more as the car sped toward Omar’s grand estate.

***

Twenty minutes later, and the Range Rover slowed to a stop before a pair of wrought-iron gates, the entrance to his sprawling estate, a testament to his enviable wealth, with grand marble columns, manicured gardens, and soft golden lights all around.

Omar leaned back, a satisfied smile on his lips. “Le Luxe never disappoints,” he mused, his voice low. “A good meal, good company… and a night to remember.”

As the gates began to open slowly with a metallic groan, he checked his watch, a Hublotbig Bang Sapphire studded with diamonds, and then his phone.

No new calls from Diallo.

He smirked to himself, tapping a finger lightly on the briefcase beside him. “Good that he’s given up,” he muttered. “He’s not getting anything…”

Suddenly, from the shadows near the gate, two figures emerged, hooded and dressed in dark clothing. Omar’s soliloquy was cut short as they moved quickly and silently, each person positioning themselves on either side of the vehicle.

The chauffeur stiffened in fright, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

Omar’s smirk faded into a look of confusion and then concern. “What’s this now?” he whispered under his breath. He reached for his phone, thinking to call for help.

Before his fingers could even brush against the device, though, the figures sprang into action. With a swift, choreographed move, they drew their weapons from beneath their cloaks.

Omar’s heart raced.

He yelled to his driver. “MOVE THE–“

The rapid sound of gunfire silenced him instantly.

For the next few seconds, the sound of bullets hitting metal and glass shattered the night’s calm, with the Range Rover destroyed in this surprise onslaught. By the time it was over, Omar, the so-called ‘king of the night’, and his driver were gone.

Felled by these mysterious armed figures.

***

“They done for?”

Shining a light into the bullet-ridden car, Benyi checked to ensure that the inhabitants were not breathing. Once satisfied, he nodded at Koni, the usual steely look on his face. “Yep, they’re dead. Extremely dead.”

“Hehehe, we really killed them a lot, ain’t we, my nigga? Let’s inform the boss ASAP.”

***

“Boss, it’s done. Omar Touray is dead.”

With his phone on speaker mode, he nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent. Top-notch work from you and Benyi as always. Make your way back to Accra tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir. Benyi and I will be in by midday tomorrow.”

“Good. Will be expecting you.”

As he ended the call, he turned to the man before him and leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing across his lips. “As you can see, Mr. Diallo, my men are not just efficient; they’re ruthless. They get the job done without a whisper of trouble. And they’ve done so once again.”

Mr. Diallo, sitting respectfully in front of him, nodded in acknowledgment. “Indeed, Mr. Rex Bruschi, your reputation as the super-efficient crime lord of the underground is well-earned. Your precision is unmatched. It is no joke when they say your name is synonymous with efficiency and fear. You deserve every cent, sir. Thank you for teaching that thief a lesson. The son of a bitch thought he could strip me of my share of our profit. I’m so glad he’s been dealt with.”

Rex Bruschi nodded, the sinister smirk on his face still plastered. “Well, that’s what we do best: carry out revenge plots like no other. Been doing it for years, and as your referrals informed you, nobody does it better than me and my men at Basilisk Garrison. Now, the rest of my money, please…”

Yep, the dangerous Rex Bruschi is back. Still the ruthless crime boss we got to know back then. And his boys are still doing wicked stuff…