CHAPTER FOUR – Crossroads of Fire

The rain returned, this time like an interrogation from the heavens. Sheets of water pounded Lagos with a relentless rhythm, as if demanding the truth from a city that had grown too used to secrets. Every drop that struck the pavement felt like a drumbeat in Adesuwa's chest. The USB drive had cracked the Circle open, and what spilled out wasn't just corruption—it was ritual, power, blood.

Zee hadn't slept. Neither had she. Tunde paced the length of the safehouse kitchen while Amaka stared blankly at the video still frozen on the laptop. A masked man stood over the bound figure, knife raised. The symbols on the ground glowed faintly in the firelight.

"This isn't just politics," Zee whispered. "This is a cult."

"We knew that," Adesuwa said. "Now we prove it. Completely."

They couldn't upload it yet. It would be pulled down before it gained traction, the footage dismissed as a deepfake. They needed context. Testimony. More names. That was why they were heading to Badagry.

Juwon had mentioned a place in his last voice memo—an old colonial lodge near the coast, converted into a retreat center by the Circle's financial arm. Zee traced the shell company and confirmed it had been active just days before his death.

If they were lucky, the lodge was still in use.

If they were unlucky, it would be waiting for them.

They left Lagos under the mask of rain and darkness.

The car was quiet for a long stretch. Adesuwa drove, headlights bouncing off potholes and puddles. Tunde sat in the front seat, loading a voice recorder with fresh batteries. Amaka and Zee whispered in the back, sharing intel.

"I still don't understand why you care," Amaka said, her voice laced with exhaustion. "You're not even from here, Zee."

Zee smiled softly. "Secrets like these echo. Across borders, across bloodlines. I've seen people lose everything to shadows they never knew existed. You want to fight? You fight globally."

Adesuwa tightened her grip on the wheel.

The lodge emerged just after midnight.

A wrought iron gate, partially rusted and slightly ajar. Beyond it, a stone path lined with overgrown hedges. The lodge was three stories of forgotten colonial opulence—arched windows, cracked white paint, a veranda that stretched like a grin.

They entered through the side.

Zee's jamming device killed the security feed instantly. Tunde moved with practiced calm, flashlight low. They swept the bottom floor—kitchen, dining hall, storage rooms. Empty. Dust and mildew clung to the walls like a second skin.

The second floor held more promise.

A study. Books on esoterica lined the shelves. Journals bound in leather with gold inlays. Zee flipped through one.

"Ledger entries. Names. Contributions. Ritual cycles."

Adesuwa scanned the room. Then she noticed the symbol—the same circle-and-sun—carved into the fireplace mantel.

"They held ceremonies here."

Amaka shivered. "Can we go?"

"Not yet."

Zee found the trapdoor behind a bookshelf.

The basement smelled of ash.

Candles long since melted stood in crooked holders. Bones of burnt offerings were scattered in corners. The walls were marked with runes. At the center of the room, a stone slab.

Tunde clicked a picture. So did Adesuwa.

"There's a projector," Zee said suddenly. "Old reel-to-reel."

They found the film canisters in a chest.

"Want to know how deep this goes?" Zee asked.

She loaded one. The reel whirred to life, casting flickering light on the basement wall.

The footage showed a younger Obanla. Standing beside a man in full judicial robes—Justice Otumba, recently retired. A circle of elites, half-masked, chanting. A figure—a girl—was dragged to the center.

Adesuwa turned away. Amaka gasped.

"This was initiation," Zee murmured. "They recorded it. For proof. Or insurance."

Tunde whispered, "This is a political time bomb."

They returned to Lagos with copies of the footage, the ledgers, and the journal pages. Zee began encrypting. Tunde made anonymous leaks—just enough to stir the surface.

But the Circle was already moving.

Adesuwa noticed the black SUV trailing her near Ojota.

Amaka's phone went dead, and her flat was broken into.

Zee's safehouse router was hacked.

Then the message came.

A box. Delivered by courier. Inside: a small stone, painted with the circle-and-sun, and a folded note.

"You've seen behind the veil. Walk away, or vanish inside it."

Adesuwa stared at the note.

"They're done hiding."

Tunde nodded. "So are we."

The press conference was set for the following Thursday.

Tunde arranged it under the cover of a university panel. Adesuwa would speak, and behind her, footage would play. She would name the Circle, the lodge, the rituals.

Zee secured backup servers. Multiple journalists were looped in. If anything happened to them, the truth would still come out.

Adesuwa wrote her statement the night before. She stood at the window of her flat, watching Lagos breathe under the stars. Below her, the traffic was eternal. So were the lies. But maybe not for long.

She whispered to herself: "Let the echoes become a storm."