The standoff stretched thin like a tripwire.
Amadi's finger hovered near the trigger, his breath slow and steady. Ife clung to the back of his shirt, eyes locked on the barrel pointed at her father.
Boma stood tall—unshaken. Rifle raised. Behind him, footsteps echoed—backup closing in.
"I gave you power, Onome," Boma said. "Made you feared. And what did you do? Retired. Soft. Domestic."
Amadi's voice was cold steel. "I became a father. That's not weakness. That's purpose."
Boma sneered. "Purpose?" He took a step forward. "You think this is about one girl? This country is a carcass. We're just choosing who eats."
"You always talked about order. But you only ever wanted control."
"I want legacy." Boma's tone shifted. "You and I—we were supposed to rebuild this land. From blood. Fire. Discipline."
"You don't rebuild a nation by stealing children."
"Don't be naive. Nations are built on bones."
Behind Boma, two mercs approached, guns drawn.
Amadi didn't hesitate.
He grabbed a flashbang from his belt, slammed it against the wall, and dove back, shielding Ife.
The blast turned the hallway white.
Screams. Shots. Chaos.
Amadi rolled, fired twice—one merc down. Boma dove behind a steel crate, barking orders.
"I want him dead! Bring me the girl alive!"
Amadi tucked Ife behind a fallen chair. "Stay down, baby. No matter what you hear."
She nodded, trembling.
He moved like wrath.
Shooting. Dodging. Silent and savage.
He tackled one guard into the wall, disarmed him mid-fall, and spun the rifle into the next attacker's gut—boom. Gone.
Alarms shrieked.
The corridor echoed with footfalls and gunfire. Baba's voice crackled through Amadi's comms.
"Sat-feed just picked up movement. You're not alone."
"Explain."
"There's another heat signature entering the compound from the south. Armed. Fast. Not Obsidian Shield."
"Who is it?"
"No clue. But they're clearing Boma's men like weeds."
Amadi's eyes narrowed. Reinforcements?
Or something worse?
He grabbed Ife and ducked through a side hallway. A guard appeared—Amadi shot him in the leg, took his keycard, and kicked open a reinforced door marked "Operations."
Inside: screens. Maps. Communication arrays. One showed a live call on mute—an image of a woman in a navy-blue pantsuit.
The Vice President.
Ife gasped. "That's Aunty Tola…"
Amadi stepped closer.
The call was mid-stream. A message on-screen:
"Deliver the child. Or the tapes go live."
Tapes?
He scanned the table—hard drives. Dozens. All labeled with names—military officials, politicians, journalists. Surveillance. Blackmail.
This wasn't just a ransom plot. It was a coup.
Boma wasn't after money.
He was after the government.
Behind him, footsteps.
Amadi turned—rifle raised.
But it wasn't Boma.
It was a woman—mid-thirties, dreads tied back, tactical armor blacked out. Blood on her blade.
She lowered her weapon slowly.
"You Onome Amadi?" she asked, accent sharp. Northern.
"Who's asking?"
"My name's Zainab Musa. NIA." She flashed a bloodied ID. "I've been tracking Boma for two years. You just blew the lid off the whole damn operation."
"I'm taking my daughter. We're leaving."
She stepped aside. "Not stopping you. But if we don't end this now, your daughter's not the only one in danger."
Amadi stared her down.
Then gave a single nod.
They moved fast—clearing the west wing.
Zainab covered the flanks while Amadi carried Ife close. Gunshots rang out from across the compound. Explosions lit up the night sky as Baba triggered remote failsafes.
"Extraction in ten minutes," Baba called in. "I've got a chopper waiting outside Gwagwalada. But you need to reach the outer yard now."
Then: "Wait. Movement on your six."
Amadi turned.
Boma.
Bleeding. Furious. Holding a detonator.
"One step closer and I turn this place into dust!"
Amadi didn't blink.
"You do that, and you die with us."
"I'd rather burn than kneel."
Amadi stared down the man who once commanded him. Who taught him to be a killer.
And whispered: "Then burn."
Bang.
One shot. Clean. Through the hand.
Boma screamed, the detonator falling.
Amadi lunged, kicked it away, and tackled him hard.
The two men crashed into the steel wall, fists flying. Old rage. Old scars. Training against instinct. Pain against purpose.
Amadi took three hits to the ribs—then elbowed Boma in the jaw, grabbed a shard of broken steel, and jammed it into his shoulder.
Boma gasped.
Amadi leaned close.
"You trained a lion. And you thought he'd forget how to kill."
With one brutal punch, he ended it.
They escaped through the east tunnel.
Chopper blades slicing the dawn.
Ife curled in Amadi's arms, blood on his shirt, dust in her hair.
Safe.
Alive.
Zainab looked back at the burning compound.
"This isn't over," she said.
Amadi nodded, holding Ife tighter.
"It is for him."