Kevo didn't remember the exact moment his luck ran out in the darkness of the arcade.
One minute he was crawling through shattered glass shards behind a row of repair stalls, and the next, a heavy tactical boot had slammed brutally into his ribs.
The blow knocked the breath completely out of his lungs and sent him crashing into a metal display rack.
Now, he found himself tied securely to a rusted, high-backed metal chair inside a dimly lit office on the ground floor.
The single overhead light bulb cast long, menacing shadows across the room.
His face was bruised, blood trickled from a cut on his lip, and a sharp pain radiated from his left shoulder.
Standing directly in front of him was Sergeant Mwangi, calmly unbuttoning his heavy leather jacket and tossing it aside.
On a cluttered desk sat Kevo’s backpack, its contents completely turned inside out, and the cloned SIM card lay glistening under the light.
"You're a remarkably stubborn kid, Kevo," Mwangi said, leaning down until his face was just inches away from Kevo’s.
His breath smelled heavily of...