Novels by Ujunwa Chukwu

As Harrison stepped into the luxurious Gulfstream G700, the gentle thrum of the Rolls-Royce engines enveloped the private hangar. Outside, Monday's gray sky unfolded over New York's skyline, with clouds drifting lazily across the horizon. The new week dawned, bringing its share of spotlights.Harrison moved with calm assurance, dressed in a sleek, custom-tailored Tom Ford suit in charcoal gray, paired with a crisp white shirt and a silver-toned Omega watch. His tailored black trench coat was draped over his arm, exuding modern sophistication. At the foot of the cabin stairs, his personal assistant Rachel waited, portfolio and handbag in hand.“Good morning, sir,” Rachel said with a nod, following him into the cabin as the stairs folded away and the door sealed shut behind them.Inside of the jet was surrounded by its sleek and modern interior. The comfortable leather seats and shiny metal accents gave it a luxurious feel. The large windows showed the clouds outside, and the soft light

It was well past midnight in the crumbling neighborhood tucked beneath the shadow of New York City. The city’s hum was distant here, muffled by the low groan of trains overhead and the occasional siren echoing like a ghost in the night. Beneath the dim glow of a broken streetlight, Thomas stood in front of a worn-out three-story tenement, his clothes still stained with dried blood and dust from the earlier chaos. He clutched his side, his ribs bandaged haphazardly beneath his jacket, and his eyes red—not just from pain, but from the truth that weighs him down.This was Marco’s home. A two-bedroom apartment in a run-down brick building with rusted fire escapes and windows patched with duct tape and plastic sheets. He’d been here once, long ago, back when Marco brought him around as a brother. But tonight, there was no warmth in this visit—only purpose.Thomas raised a shaky hand and knocked firmly at the door.From inside, there was movement. Faint footsteps padded across the wooden fl

A CALL BENEATH THE HILLSThe moon hung low over Beverly Hills, casting a soft silver glow over the manicured hedges and palm-lined streets. From the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse suite along North Alpine Drive, Carmilla watched the lights of Los Angeles flicker beneath her like a sea of gold.Her apartment, pristine and tranquil, was filled with quiet opulence—Italian marble floors, soft jazz humming in the background, and a fireplace flickering gently in the modern living room. She’d just set down a glass of white wine on the edge of her sleek coffee table and was curled into one end of her cashmere-covered sectional, the city shimmering far below.On the counter, her clutch lay open beside an elegant ivory envelope: the Global Best Business Awards invitation, embossed and heavy with importance. She had been nominated. “Innovative Businesswoman of the Year.” A part of her still hadn’t fully processed it. She had only been in business not up to six years and she was gettin

The blaze at 181 Eldridge Street had started its death rattle.By 10:47 PM, thick jets of water had finally begun to outmatch the relentless flames. What was once a roaring inferno was now a wheezing furnace, its last embers clinging to warped beams and shattered masonry. The acrid scent of smoke hung low and heavy over the Lower East Side, mixing with burnt rubber, fuel, and something else more visceral—flesh.The FDNY’s Battalion 8, working with two aerial units and three pump crews, had contained the fire after a brutal two-hour fight. Sheets of blackened steam hissed from the collapsed roof, and water trickled down the street in greasy rivulets, swirling ash and soot into nearby drains.Chief Peterson stood beneath the burnt remnants of a fire escape, his hands on his hips, jaw set tight. His coat smelled like smoke now. The brick wall beside him was charred a deep obsidian, blistered in some places, and split in others. Behind him, the fire department’s structural engineer stood

Outside St. Mary’s Hospital, twilight draped the city in shades of orange and violet. The air was thick with the tang of antiseptic and summer humidity. Sirens still hummed faintly in the distance, remnants of the earlier chaos on the 6th Street Viaduct, now cordoned off with floodlights and barricades. Inside the hospital’s fourth floor, the atmosphere was calmer—but only just.Detective Ling sat upright in her hospital bed, a pair of crutches leaning against the wall beside her. Her ankle was now stabilized in a clean cast, and her bandaged knuckles rested atop the thin white sheet like silent testaments to survival. She stared blankly through the window, her thoughts somewhere far away—maybe on the bridge, maybe on Leo, maybe on the blood she had washed from her hands hours ago.Chief Peterson stood near the foot of her bed, speaking softly with the attending nurse. His badge glinted faintly under the soft overhead lights, and his posture—normally commanding—had slumped under the w

AFTER THE CROSSFIRE The wail of sirens cut through the afternoon air as the ambulance finally surged onto the 6th Street Viaduct, weaving through the makeshift police barrier. Chief Peterson rode close behind with his escort SUV, blue lights flashing, sirens blazing. The aftermath of the assault lay strewn across the concrete span: smoldering bullet casings, shattered glass, and the bodies of fallen officers and assailants—all lying under a cruel, indifferent sky.Officers from both teams swarmed the scene, corralling anxious bystanders and reporters. Uniformed men and women in gloves and masks hastily marked locations, gathered debris, and pulled yellow crime-scene tape tight between orange cones. Some officers physically held back anxious civilians, their voices low but firm: “Please step back… don’t cross the line.”Amid the chaos, paramedics rushed between bodies, checking for signs of life. A few groans answered their prayers; more lay silent.Chief Peterson got out of the SUV,