It was a magnificent, luxurious sitting room — the kind you’d think belonged inside a presidential villa because of its beauty and splendor. A wealthy old man, about 68 or 69 years old, sat inside wearing expensive clothing that glittered as though sewn with diamond stones. Beside him was another rich man dressed in similar attire, wearing a traditional cap. Two elegantly dressed women — both around 49 or 50 years old — also sat with them in royal outfits that practically screamed wealth.
Everyone in the room looked tense and worried. No one spoke; only whispers of inner thoughts filled the air. The only sound came from the old man’s wristwatch ticking loudly, making everyone turn to look at him. He adjusted himself, cleared his throat, and finally spoke.
“This is exactly 72 hours,” he said, “since we delivered the ransom they demanded, yet there’s still silence. They haven’t released the girl, nor have they called.” He sat back down quickly, his eyes on the crying woman — though she didn’t allow her tears to fall, dabbing them with a tissue. The woman beside her, likely her close friend, rubbed her back gently and said, “Noor is only four years old. Today makes it five days in captivity.”
Suddenly the older man jumped up as if stung by something and hurried toward the door. Another elderly man followed him quickly, asking, “Where are you going, Your Excellency?” Without stopping, he replied anxiously, “I’m going to see Khaleelu.”
As the security guards — about ten of them, dressed in military uniforms — opened a large door, he entered another luxurious sitting room dimly lit. He turned on the light, walked to the elevator, and went upstairs. The room he entered was perfectly air-conditioned and silent. When he opened another door, he stood in awe; the room’s beauty alone could earn a place in the world record book.
Inside sat a young man on a soft fur carpet, wearing only ash-colored joggers and a white t-shirt, his back turned. His thick, coily black hair — like that of a Fulani man — covered much of his head. The elderly man hurried toward him, knelt beside him, and said softly, “Khaleely, Khaleel, son!”
The young man didn’t move. The other old man stood by the door watching. Gently, the father lifted his son’s chin and said again, “Khaleel.” Slowly, the young man opened his eyes — big, bright, and framed with long black eyelashes, brows thick and full. His hair and lashes were rich and curly, lips pink and full, nose tall and sharp. Looking into his eyes, you could immediately tell they were father and son.
Emotion overcame the father. Placing a trembling hand on his son’s neck, he said, “Look how thin you’ve become, my boy. Six days now, and you haven’t eaten properly. How do you expect me to feel, Khaleel?” He gripped his son’s shoulders and added, “I can’t just sit and watch while those damned kidnappers warn us not to involve the police. Do you expect me to fold my hands while something happens to you and my granddaughter?”
Finally, Khaleel spoke quietly, his voice pained. “Pops, if anything happens to Noor, I don’t know what will become of me.”
The father replied immediately, “I know, Khaleel. If anything happens to you, I wouldn’t survive it either. Listen—”
Khaleel pushed his hand off his shoulder. “Pops, I don’t want to hear it. Don’t involve the police! I don’t care if they ask for more money. They should keep calling — I’ll give them everything I own if it brings my daughter back.”
As his father tried to speak again, Khaleel stood up angrily, pointing at the door. “Leave my room, Pops! I want to be alone!”
When his father hesitated, he repeated sternly, “I said leave, Pops. Go! I’ll handle it if they call again.”
The old man looked at him with eyes full of love, pain, and pity, then stood and said softly, “Let’s go, Musbahu.”
As they stepped out, he ordered, “Get me DIG Awaya on the phone.” Musbahu hesitated, worried, but the old man continued, “I know what I’m doing. I’ll never endanger my granddaughter’s life, but this nonsense must end. Let’s go to my office.”
They entered his large, richly furnished office — one that clearly belonged to someone in power. A plaque on the wall read “Senate President Alhassan Mangal.”
Sitting down, he said to the DIG on the phone, “What I’m about to tell you must not leak to the media. It concerns my granddaughter — a four-year-old girl.”
He paused, then continued, “On the 21st of this month — five days ago — she was taken to the park as usual with her two international nannies, one Nigerian nanny, and two security men, including her driver. Right under their noses, she was abducted. The kidnappers demanded ₦100 million. We paid at the exact location two days ago, but since then — nothing. No call, no sign of Noor. They warned us not to involve the police, or we’d never see her again. My son is breaking down, and I need your help, DIG. I need your best team to rescue my granddaughter unharmed — discreetly. Whatever it costs, I’ll pay.”
The Elite Task Force
In a respectful tone, the DIG replied, “Your Excellency, I’m honored that you reached out during this difficult time. I have the best task force in the country — a three-member team: the Tech Genius, the Powerhouse, and the Criminologist, with the highest record in decoding, profiling, and tracking kidnappers. Trust me, Your Excellency, this case will be easy for Miss Hawwa.”
The Senator responded, “I think I’ve heard that name — Hawwa.”
“Yes, sir,” said the DIG. “You must have. She’s a government asset. Thanks to her, we rescued almost all the kidnapped victims at the ECOWAS summit in Washington DC.”
The Senator nodded. “Yes, I remember now.”
The DIG continued, “I’ll bring them over for a full investigation. They’ll ask questions and plan Noor’s rescue. In 24 hours, if they gather all the needed data, they’ll find her.”
The Senator said, “Okay, but come without uniforms or official vehicles — I believe the kidnappers are monitoring my movements.”
“No problem, sir. We’ll be there in an hour,” the DIG assured before hanging up.
The Senator sighed deeply. Musbahu asked, “Will Khaleel agree to this?”
The father replied slowly, “He has no choice. I can’t fold my hands and watch him suffer.”
Moments later, two men in suits entered the DIG’s office. He ordered, “Send them in.” A woman’s feet appeared first — wearing black heels, navy-blue trousers, and a striped sky-blue shirt that reached mid-thigh, partly covering her figure. A navy scarf wrapped around her neck, an ID card hanging over her chest.
Her face was makeup-free, her light-brown skin glowing naturally. She wasn’t too light nor dark, about 6 feet tall, with round fish-shaped eyes, small pink lips, a sharp nose, and perfectly carved black brows. She looked around calmly, closed the door, and walked to the desk.
“Sir,” she said in a composed, melodious voice.
The DIG smiled slightly. “At ease, Hawwa.”
She lowered her hands as he looked proudly at the three of them — Hayatu, Abraham, and Hawwa. “You three are my greatest assets. I’m proud to have trained you to this stage. The nation is proud of you. No one speaks of crime-solving in this country without mentioning your names. Today, it’s time to prove yourselves again.”
He stood, walked around the table, and faced them directly. “The granddaughter of our Senate President, Alhassan Mangal, has been kidnapped. Today marks the sixth day in captivity — she’s only four years old. The family paid ₦100 million two days ago, yet the child hasn’t been released. They avoided police involvement due to the kidnappers’ threats, but now the case is on our desk.”
He paused, took a deep breath, and said firmly, “Team!”
They all responded, “Yes, Sir!”
He looked at them sharply. “You have 24 hours to rescue that innocent little girl. Hawwa!”
“Yes, Sir!” she answered confidently.
“I trust you,” he said. “But today, I want you to make me extremely proud. Don’t let His Excellency regret calling us. Saving that child is a must. Am I clear?”
Description
The Missing Girl
It was a magnificent, luxurious sitting room — the kind you’d think belonged inside a presidential villa because of its beauty and splendor. A wealthy old man, about 68 or 69 years old, sat inside wearing expensive clothing that glittered as though sewn with diamond stones. Beside him was another rich man dressed in similar attire, wearing a traditional cap. Two elegantly dressed women — both around 49 or 50 years old — also sat with them in royal outfits that practically screamed wealth.
Everyone in the room looked tense and worried. No one spoke; only whispers of inner thoughts filled the air. The only sound came from the old man’s wristwatch ticking loudly, making everyone turn to look at him. He adjusted himself, cleared his throat, and finally spoke.
“This is exactly 72 hours,” he said, “since we delivered the ransom they demanded, yet there’s still silence. They haven’t released the girl, nor have they called.” He sat back down quickly, his eyes on the crying woman — though she didn’t allow her tears to fall, dabbing them with a tissue. The woman beside her, likely her close friend, rubbed her back gently and said, “Noor is only four years old. Today makes it five days in captivity.”
Suddenly the older man jumped up as if stung by something and hurried toward the door. Another elderly man followed him quickly, asking, “Where are you going, Your Excellency?” Without stopping, he replied anxiously, “I’m going to see Khaleelu.”
As the security guards — about ten of them, dressed in military uniforms — opened a large door, he entered another luxurious sitting room dimly lit. He turned on the light, walked to the elevator, and went upstairs. The room he entered was perfectly air-conditioned and silent. When he opened another door, he stood in awe; the room’s beauty alone could earn a place in the world record book.
Inside sat a young man on a soft fur carpet, wearing only ash-colored joggers and a white t-shirt, his back turned. His thick, coily black hair — like that of a Fulani man — covered much of his head. The elderly man hurried toward him, knelt beside him, and said softly, “Khaleely, Khaleel, son!”
The young man didn’t move. The other old man stood by the door watching. Gently, the father lifted his son’s chin and said again, “Khaleel.” Slowly, the young man opened his eyes — big, bright, and framed with long black eyelashes, brows thick and full. His hair and lashes were rich and curly, lips pink and full, nose tall and sharp. Looking into his eyes, you could immediately tell they were father and son.
Emotion overcame the father. Placing a trembling hand on his son’s neck, he said, “Look how thin you’ve become, my boy. Six days now, and you haven’t eaten properly. How do you expect me to feel, Khaleel?” He gripped his son’s shoulders and added, “I can’t just sit and watch while those damned kidnappers warn us not to involve the police. Do you expect me to fold my hands while something happens to you and my granddaughter?”
Finally, Khaleel spoke quietly, his voice pained. “Pops, if anything happens to Noor, I don’t know what will become of me.”
The father replied immediately, “I know, Khaleel. If anything happens to you, I wouldn’t survive it either. Listen—”
Khaleel pushed his hand off his shoulder. “Pops, I don’t want to hear it. Don’t involve the police! I don’t care if they ask for more money. They should keep calling — I’ll give them everything I own if it brings my daughter back.”
As his father tried to speak again, Khaleel stood up angrily, pointing at the door. “Leave my room, Pops! I want to be alone!”
When his father hesitated, he repeated sternly, “I said leave, Pops. Go! I’ll handle it if they call again.”
The old man looked at him with eyes full of love, pain, and pity, then stood and said softly, “Let’s go, Musbahu.”
As they stepped out, he ordered, “Get me DIG Awaya on the phone.” Musbahu hesitated, worried, but the old man continued, “I know what I’m doing. I’ll never endanger my granddaughter’s life, but this nonsense must end. Let’s go to my office.”
They entered his large, richly furnished office — one that clearly belonged to someone in power. A plaque on the wall read “Senate President Alhassan Mangal.”
Sitting down, he said to the DIG on the phone, “What I’m about to tell you must not leak to the media. It concerns my granddaughter — a four-year-old girl.”
He paused, then continued, “On the 21st of this month — five days ago — she was taken to the park as usual with her two international nannies, one Nigerian nanny, and two security men, including her driver. Right under their noses, she was abducted. The kidnappers demanded ₦100 million. We paid at the exact location two days ago, but since then — nothing. No call, no sign of Noor. They warned us not to involve the police, or we’d never see her again. My son is breaking down, and I need your help, DIG. I need your best team to rescue my granddaughter unharmed — discreetly. Whatever it costs, I’ll pay.”
The Elite Task Force
In a respectful tone, the DIG replied, “Your Excellency, I’m honored that you reached out during this difficult time. I have the best task force in the country — a three-member team: the Tech Genius, the Powerhouse, and the Criminologist, with the highest record in decoding, profiling, and tracking kidnappers. Trust me, Your Excellency, this case will be easy for Miss Hawwa.”
The Senator responded, “I think I’ve heard that name — Hawwa.”
“Yes, sir,” said the DIG. “You must have. She’s a government asset. Thanks to her, we rescued almost all the kidnapped victims at the ECOWAS summit in Washington DC.”
The Senator nodded. “Yes, I remember now.”
The DIG continued, “I’ll bring them over for a full investigation. They’ll ask questions and plan Noor’s rescue. In 24 hours, if they gather all the needed data, they’ll find her.”
The Senator said, “Okay, but come without uniforms or official vehicles — I believe the kidnappers are monitoring my movements.”
“No problem, sir. We’ll be there in an hour,” the DIG assured before hanging up.
The Senator sighed deeply. Musbahu asked, “Will Khaleel agree to this?”
The father replied slowly, “He has no choice. I can’t fold my hands and watch him suffer.”
Moments later, two men in suits entered the DIG’s office. He ordered, “Send them in.” A woman’s feet appeared first — wearing black heels, navy-blue trousers, and a striped sky-blue shirt that reached mid-thigh, partly covering her figure. A navy scarf wrapped around her neck, an ID card hanging over her chest.
Her face was makeup-free, her light-brown skin glowing naturally. She wasn’t too light nor dark, about 6 feet tall, with round fish-shaped eyes, small pink lips, a sharp nose, and perfectly carved black brows. She looked around calmly, closed the door, and walked to the desk.
“Sir,” she said in a composed, melodious voice.
The DIG smiled slightly. “At ease, Hawwa.”
She lowered her hands as he looked proudly at the three of them — Hayatu, Abraham, and Hawwa. “You three are my greatest assets. I’m proud to have trained you to this stage. The nation is proud of you. No one speaks of crime-solving in this country without mentioning your names. Today, it’s time to prove yourselves again.”
He stood, walked around the table, and faced them directly. “The granddaughter of our Senate President, Alhassan Mangal, has been kidnapped. Today marks the sixth day in captivity — she’s only four years old. The family paid ₦100 million two days ago, yet the child hasn’t been released. They avoided police involvement due to the kidnappers’ threats, but now the case is on our desk.”
He paused, took a deep breath, and said firmly, “Team!”
They all responded, “Yes, Sir!”
He looked at them sharply. “You have 24 hours to rescue that innocent little girl. Hawwa!”
“Yes, Sir!” she answered confidently.
“I trust you,” he said. “But today, I want you to make me extremely proud. Don’t let His Excellency regret calling us. Saving that child is a must. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Sir!” they chorused.