The boy's name was Sunday. His legs were scratched from thorns, and his breathing ragged from fear. Amadi wrapped him in a thick blanket from the backseat of the Hilux, gave him a bottle of water, and sat him in the passenger seat.
"You're safe now," Amadi said, scanning the tree line. "But I need you to stay here. Lock the doors. Don't open them for anyone but me."
Sunday nodded, clutching the water bottle like it was a lifeline.
Amadi grabbed the burner phone and opened a contact saved only as "Baba."
He hadn't called that number in years.
It rang once.
Then a gravel-coated voice answered: "You're alive."
"I need eyes and heat signatures, Baba," Amadi said. "Somewhere around Ogere. Red Scorpions. They've taken school children. One of them's mine."
A pause.
Then: "I heard about Amaka. I'm sorry."
Amadi's throat tightened. "I'm not calling for sympathy. I'm calling in favors."
"You're off the grid."
"Pull me back in."
There was another pause. Then the line cut off.
That was all he needed.
Ten minutes later, a military-grade drone buzzed low over the trees. Baba still had connections—deep ones. Somewhere in an old NIA facility, satellites were shifting, surveillance feeds were opening, and doors were being unlocked for a ghost that was never meant to rise again.
Amadi stood on the edge of the jungle, eyes fixed on the data streaming into his phone.
"Thermals picking up movement," Baba's voice came through in his ear via an encrypted channel. "Two trucks parked 2.3 kilometers northeast. Guards on perimeter. Looks like a small camp."
"How many hostiles?"
"Fifteen. Lightly armed. AKs, maybe a few old FN-FALs. One heat signature is smaller than the rest—could be kids."
That was all Amadi needed to hear.
He moved like a shadow between the trees, each step calculated, his breath steady. The jungle was thick with the scent of wet earth and old leaves. He hadn't felt this alive in years. The civilian in him died back at the crash site. What walked now was something else. Something darker.
Ten minutes in, he reached the edge of a clearing and went prone. Through the scope of his tactical monocular, he saw them—armed men drinking, laughing, confident. One stood out: a tall figure with a red scorpion tattoo wrapped around his neck, just like Sunday described.
"Target marked," he whispered.
Baba's voice crackled through. "That's Felix Danladi. Mid-level Scorpion. Smuggler. Gun-runner. Real scum."
"He has my daughter."
Amadi drew a slow breath.
Then he began.
The first guard never saw him coming. A whisper behind the trees, a flash of steel, and he crumpled soundlessly, his throat open.
Amadi dragged the body into the underbrush and took the man's comms unit, switching it to low volume. Voices filtered through. Casual, unaware. He moved around the camp like a ghost, mapping their movements, noting weak points.
Two more guards patrolled the southern edge—laughing about something, their rifles slung loose.
Amadi slipped behind one and drove the knife into his kidney, silencing him before he hit the ground. The second turned too late—Amadi was already on him, crushing his windpipe with a swift strike from his elbow, then snapping his neck clean.
Three down. Twelve to go.
He spotted the kids—huddled in a canvas tent, guarded by a single man who was too busy scrolling on a cracked Android phone to notice the shadow creeping behind him. Amadi took him out with a single, silent shot to the head. The body dropped without a sound.
He ducked inside.
Ife wasn't there.
But the other kids were. Eyes wide. Tear-streaked faces.
One of them—a girl, maybe nine—looked up and whispered, "Are you a soldier?"
Amadi shook his head. "I'm a father."
He handed her a small flare.
"When I say go, you run. Light this and head south. There's a truck parked near the big tree line. There's a boy named Sunday inside. He'll let you in. Lock the doors and stay down."
"But… what about the bad men?"
He gave her a half-smile. "They're not a problem."
He exited the tent and stalked toward the main firepit. Felix was laughing, mid-story, holding a bottle of ogogoro in one hand and a rifle in the other. The rest of the men sat in a circle—relaxed, cocky.
Amadi raised his Glock.
One shot.
Felix's bottle exploded in his hand, shattering glass and silence.
Panic erupted.
In that chaos, Amadi moved.
The second shot dropped a man reaching for his gun. The third took out the camp's light source. Screams filled the jungle as shadows turned against them.
Felix scrambled behind an oil drum, barking orders.
Amadi didn't care.
He was already inside the storm.