Chapter 38: The Devil Wears No Target

They called it Operation Leviathan's End. A joint effort whispered through the shadows of Western intelligence circles, rogue Israeli handlers, and bitter Iranian hardliners.

Michael Ogunlade had become more than a threat—he had become an anomaly.

He wasn't supposed to win.

Not as a Black man.

Not as a Nigerian.

Not as a pharmacist turned spymaster.

Yet he had outplayed Tehran, outmaneuvered Tel Aviv, and made Washington look like amateurs. He turned Africa into his chessboard, and now the West, bleeding influence and billions, was uniting old enemies to end him.

The plan was simple.

But nothing involving Michael ever was.

A French-Anglo intelligence initiative would serve as the spine. The Israelis would provide access. Their loyalists in Tel Aviv, angry at Michael's rising shadow, were in position. Iranian operatives would provide muscle via their European sleeper cells. The target: Michael's convoy in Lagos, during a discreet visit to a tech hub said to be securing Nigerian digital infrastructure.

"Car bomb, drone strike, and chemical dispersal unit," said the MI6 handler.

"Redundancy. We can't afford failure."

Mossad agreed. So did the IRGC sleeper agents in the Balkans.

But even as they plotted, something was… off.

Michael knew.

He always knew.

Long before the whispers left Parisian cafes and Tel Aviv safehouses, the IIS was listening. The plan hadn't even finalized before three MI6 contacts were found dead in their hotel rooms in Senegal. Their throats cut with surgical precision. No cameras. No suspects.

In Jerusalem, an Israeli general collapsed mid-briefing.

Ricin.

His death was ruled "natural causes" until two more senior officers linked to Michael's surveillance were killed in traffic accidents within the week.

In Beirut, an Iranian arms coordinator suffered a seizure in front of his wife. His private phone, still active, would later reveal taped conversations with Western intelligence.

The operation was never truly launched.

It died stillborn, buried under the weight of its own paranoia.

Then came Michael's response.

Not public. Not loud. But unmistakable.

A Western journalist, a known CIA asset covering "human rights abuses" in Nigeria, went missing. A week later, a video surfaced online: the journalist, chained, confessing to espionage, naming names. The video was taken down in hours, but the damage was done.

In Tel Aviv, a building housing Mossad's cyber division caught fire.

No survivors. No alarms triggered.

Official report: gas leak.

In Tehran, a senior Quds Force commander defected to Nigeria.

He brought dossiers, funds, and betrayal.

Beijing and Moscow watched silently.

They had been approached by the West to "assist" in restraining Michael.

Instead, they smiled and waited.

Let the West bleed.

Back in Abuja, Michael met with the President, the Minister of Defence, and top IIS commanders. He laid it out:

> "The West will not stop until we are chained again. The Middle East wants revenge. But they all made one mistake—they forgot who I am."

The room was silent.

Michael stood, dressed in a simple suit, face expressionless.

> "From this point forward, all Western diplomatic and intelligence assets will be monitored under Protocol X. Any contact with foreign NGOs or media outlets is a threat. All foreign agents operating without authorization will be neutralized. You speak against Nigeria in this moment, you are the enemy."

A pause.

Then he added, softly:

> "And tell Tel Aviv and Tehran… I'm still watching."

Africa belonged to him now.

The West, Israel, and Iran?

They learned the truth too late:

You don't target the devil.

The devil targets you.