The motorcycle veered violently off the highway, its tires screeching as the rider swung it down a dark, unpaved alleyway in the heart of Githurai. Behind them, the distant, frantic wails of Sergeant Mwangi’s DCI sirens faded, blocked by a labyrinth of tightly packed tin-shack shops and towering, unfinished concrete flats.
The bike skidded to a halt outside a rusted metal gate. The rider shoved Amina off the seat, forcing her through a narrow door into the damp, freezing basement of an abandoned warehouse.
Inside, the only illumination came from a single, flickering halogen bulb hanging from a frayed wire. Sitting on a wooden crate in the center of the room was Brayo. His face was bloodied, his hands bound tightly behind his back.
"Nimeleta line... na nimeleta na yule mrembo pia," the rider announced, pulling off his helmet.
Amina fell to her knees, shivering from the cold rain. "Brayo..." she whispered, looking at him with tears in her eyes. "Polisi walikuwa...