Chapter Eighteen: Between Tigers and Jackals

The rain came heavy in Lahore that night.

It slicked the alleyways behind the ISI safehouse where a deal was about to go wrong—very wrong. Michael watched from a distant rooftop, the hood of his coat drawn low, a thermal monocular fixed over one eye. Below, in the dim pool of light cast by a faulty streetlamp, two Pakistani field agents argued with a man who didn't belong. His posture, his calm, his silence—it screamed training. And Michael had seen enough mercenaries to know one when he saw one.

The shipment was real—two crates of American-made Stinger missiles, routed from Afghanistan through a rogue cell in Balochistan. But the payment was fake, and the ambush had already been set. RAW operatives waited in the dark, fingers on triggers, ready to tip the first domino.

Michael didn't call it off.

This was his game.

He adjusted the focus on the monocular and waited.

Thirty seconds later, chaos erupted. Gunfire shredded the stillness, flashes of muzzle fire blinking like lightning bugs. The ISI men dropped first—one instantly, the other screaming into a comm before a round silenced him. The courier bolted. And Michael, ever the puppeteer, turned and vanished from the rooftop before the dust even had time to settle.

By the time the Indian news outlets carried the story—"Foiled Terror Cell Linked to ISI Arms Smuggling"—Michael was already back in Delhi, briefing a member of the Indian Cabinet behind closed doors. He spoke in tones of urgency and loyalty, painting the events in Lahore as evidence of a rising tide of extremism within Pakistan's own intelligence apparatus. He had carefully leaked just enough to point the finger, but not enough to reveal his hand.

The minister nodded gravely, unaware he was only another piece on the board.

"You've done India a great service," he said, "and struck a blow against chaos."

Michael bowed slightly. "Chaos is a luxury we can no longer afford."

He left the building and was back in his car within minutes, tapping into the secured line to Abuja. The call connected to the Presidential Situation Room. Not even the Director-General of IIS could reach this line unannounced, but Michael was no longer bound by those constraints. Nigeria had long since learned to trust him—or to fear him.

"The Lahore operation was a success," he reported. "Both sides blame each other. The diplomatic strain is rising. Within a month, Pakistan will be forced to recall key assets. India's border operations will expand unchallenged."

A pause.

Then the President's voice crackled through.

"Well done, Director Ogunlade. What's your next move?"

Michael leaned back in his seat, watching a train crawl across an overpass in the distance.

"Something permanent. I want to dismantle the Haqqani network's Gulf funding. If we sever the arteries, the body will rot. And in return, India will owe us everything. I'll need access to their northern signal intercepts. I'll make sure they hand them over."

"Make it clean," the President said.

"Nothing I do is clean," Michael replied, and the line went dead.

Later that evening, at a lavish reception hosted by the Indian Intelligence Bureau, Michael stood under chandeliers with diplomats and generals who toasted him like a war hero. The air buzzed with Hindi and Urdu, laughter masking suspicion, alliances forged over glasses of imported Scotch.

Across the room, his eyes met those of Alina Khan, the daughter of a Pakistani senator—now serving as a cultural attaché in Delhi. Her gaze lingered too long. She knew he wasn't just a Nigerian diplomat. She was also the bait he had set six months ago, a sleeper liaison trained by ISI, turned by whispers and disillusionment.

They walked the terrace alone minutes later, the noise of the party muffled by marble walls. She spoke in low tones about movements across the LOC, about funding trails tied to Dubai, about generals on both sides preparing for something big.

Michael listened, but not as a friend. As a predator.

When she finished, he kissed her hand, pressed a burner phone into her palm, and said, "Use this only when you want the world to burn."

Her fingers trembled slightly. "Do you think it will ever end?"

Michael looked toward the horizon, where fireworks cracked the sky in false celebration.

"No," he said. "But I'll be the last man standing when it does."