The bar was the kind of place where hope went to die.

  Dim lights, cracked leather seats, and a ceiling fan that creaked like it was gasping for its last breath. A single TV flickered above the counter, playing an old football match nobody cared about.

  Mike Otieno sat at the far end of the bar, rolling a bottle cap between his fingers. His drink sat untouched. Cheap whiskey. Burned on the way down, but he liked the reminder that he was still alive.

  The bartender, a grizzled man with a scar across his cheek, leaned in. "You hear about the latest disappearance?"

  Mike didn’t look up. He’d heard enough.

  "Another girl?"

  "Two," the bartender muttered. "Gone without a trace. Like the others."

  Mike exhaled through his nose, staring at the warped wooden counter. He wasn’t here to play detective. He was just passing through.

  At least, that had been the plan.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Then the door opened, and trouble walked in wearing a leather jacket and a grin too sharp to be friendly.

  Felix.

  Mike’s fingers stopped spinning the cap.

  Felix Onyango was the kind of man who could sell you a bullet with your own money. An old friend. A bad one.

  "Mike," Felix drawled, sliding into the seat across from him. "Still drinking the cheap stuff like a broke PI?"

  Mike sighed. "What do you want, Felix?"

  Felix smirked, flagging down the bartender with two fingers. "Relax, man. Can't an old friend say hi?"

  Mike just stared.

  Felix chuckled. "Alright, alright. Business, then. I need a favor."

  Mike scoffed. "Not interested."

  Felix leaned in. "Even if it’s about a certain missing person?"

  That got Mike’s attention.

  Felix saw the shift, the flicker in his eyes, and smiled like a fisherman reeling in his catch.

  Mike pushed his drink aside. "Talk."

  Felix tapped the table. "You know Barasa?"

  Mike frowned. He knew the name. Ezekiel Barasa. The kind of man you only heard about in whispers. He owned half the corruption in Makueni—guns, drugs, and people.

  Felix lowered his voice. "He's got a shipment moving tonight. And it’s not drugs."

  Mike’s jaw clenched.

  "People," Felix said. "And one of them? Might be someone you’re looking for."

  The bar suddenly felt hotter. The old ceiling fan groaned overhead, struggling to push the thick, humid air.

  Mike leaned back, eyes narrowing. "Why tell me?"

  Felix grinned, leaning in. "Because I know you, Mike. You can’t ignore a fight."

  Mike exhaled slowly. He hated that Felix was right.

  But this time? It wasn’t just a fight.

  It was a war.