The compound rose out of the red earth like a steel tomb.
Fifteen-foot walls, floodlights, security drones circling like vultures, and armed men in black tactical gear posted every twenty meters. This wasn't a hideout. It was a fortress. And it had only one purpose—to keep something in… or someone.
Amadi crouched behind the thick brush on a hill overlooking the Obsidian Shield facility. Night was falling fast, the last glow of daylight bleeding into the savannah. Through a stolen scope, he watched their routine—two-hour shift changes, a rotating team on the north wall, and a patrol route that looped every seven minutes.
He had exactly three to get inside once the gap opened.
Baba's voice crackled in his ear. "Intel confirms: Ife was moved here 36 hours ago. She's still alive. But whatever they're planning, it's happening soon."
"What else do you know about Project Resurrection?"
Silence.
Then Baba said, "It's not just about ransom. It's political. Boma's building an army. Ghost soldiers. Black ops funded by dirty money from old regime loyalists. Your daughter is leverage against someone powerful."
"Who?"
Another pause.
Baba's voice dropped. "The vice president. She's your daughter's godmother, isn't she?"
Amadi's stomach turned cold.
"Yes."
"Boma's going to force her hand. He wants immunity, funding, and a seat back at the table. Your daughter's just the knife he's holding to Nigeria's throat."
Amadi exhaled slowly and moved.
Three minutes.
He slipped through a drainage tunnel beneath the outer wall, crawling through muck and rusted iron. He emerged inside the outer perimeter, wiped blood and grime from his face, and kept low.
Two guards ahead.
One turned.
Too late.
Amadi surged forward like a panther—his knife a blur, the first man silenced instantly. The second reached for his comms.
Amadi snapped his arm, crushed his larynx, and lowered the body gently.
One minute in.
He moved fast through the shadows, disabling cameras with a silent jammer Baba had provided, and approached the central building—a black steel monolith buzzing with encrypted signals. Inside that box was his daughter.
He needed a way in.
On the eastern side, he found it.
A delivery truck was unloading equipment—three men on duty, half-distracted, armed but casual. Amadi circled behind the container yard, grabbed a discarded uniform, and stripped the logo patch from one of the fallen guards.
Thirty seconds later, he was rolling a crate through the back service entrance like just another security grunt.
He walked past two guards, flashed the patch, and kept moving. No one stopped him.
Inside, the building reeked of bleach and gun oil. The halls were lined with steel doors and biometric locks. Monitors buzzed with heat signatures and coded chatter.
He found a door marked: "Isolation – Tier 3".
Behind it—her voice.
Soft. Humming.
A tune he'd sung to her every night for years. The one she called "the lion song."
Amadi pressed his forehead against the cold metal.
Then he blew the lock.
Smoke hissed. Alarms blared.
He burst in with his pistol drawn.
And there she was.
Ife.
Alive. Curled in a corner. Eyes wide.
"Papa?"
He rushed to her, swept her into his arms. "It's me, baby. I've got you."
Then he heard the click of a safety.
Turned.
And saw him.
Colonel Boma Diri stood in the doorway.
Older. Bulkier. Face marked by a scar from the explosion Amadi left him in. But the eyes—those cold, godless eyes—were the same.
"Onome," Boma said, voice like gravel soaked in kerosene. "I was hoping it'd be you."
Amadi shifted Ife behind him. "Let her go."
Boma raised a brow. "You came alone?"
"You'll wish I hadn't."
Boma smiled faintly. "Still righteous. Still trying to be the good killer. But you forget who trained you. Who made you. Who taught you to trade souls for order."
"I learned how to stop monsters like you."
Boma cocked the rifle. "Then die proving it."