Without them seeing, he quickly wrote a note, scribbling as much as he could remember from the blabbering behemoth in the black suit. It was a long shot, but he had to at least try and leave breadcrumbs just in case things went south, which they’d done within the past hour.
The giant of a man who’d tied Baraka up to the chair was now swinging his enormous clenched fist at his monkey-faced partner. This meant that none of them noticed Baraka fidgeting with the pen and paper he’d nabbed from the behemoth’s pocket moments earlier.
Though Baraka had orchestrated it all, the kerfuffle had turned out so much worse than he had planned which was very good for him. In the commotion, he’d managed to crumple the piece of paper and drop it as well as the pen ever so nonchalantly behind him. None of the wrestling goons noticed of course, seeing as how they were too distracted by their own cock fight which, thanks to Baraka, was more one-sided than fair from the start.
Baraka was a terrible shot and even worse at open combat, but being bullied all through high school had its advantages. He may not have been the strongest agent at Buruburu Police Station, but he knew a thing or two about distractions. The muscle Wanjala had hired weren’t dumb jocks, but deep down they were bullies; three independently hired bullies to be specific.
To make it worse, their allegiance was more to who got the bigger share and Baraka had just dangled the juiciest bone over them. Now all he had to do was sit back and wait until the behemoth had eliminated his competition then Baraka would have just one goon to deal with.
Either which way though, the note would explain Wanjala’s plan to whoever came out of the warehouse alive, just in case he didn’t. It was coded as per his training and most of all, it led the police straight to Maria. He had to keep hoping for their sake that she was still alive. She had to be, otherwise it would all have been for nothing.
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