Chapter 92: Heading to Wakanda

[ Hotel Suite, King Hotel, Madripoor ]

Daisy raised an eyebrow at the glossy green dress being offered to her, a slinky, impractical thing that glittered like snake scales. She didn't even try to hide her skepticism.

"Sister," she began dryly, arms folded across her chest, "have you considered the wind resistance of this dress when running?"

Across from her, Viper leaned back lazily, her smirk sharp enough to draw blood. "What is that? I don't need to run away. No man can escape from my palm."

Daisy let out a slow exhale. Of course, they were speaking different dialects of logic—hers rooted in practicality and assassination protocols, and Viper's in femme fatale supremacy.

She didn't argue. Instead, she pivoted sharply. "Where is Killmonger?"

Viper blinked, momentarily thrown by the abrupt change in topic. A shadow of confusion passed over her face before she clapped her hands twice.

"You're no fun," she muttered, but her soldiers knew the cue. Within ten minutes, they returned, dragging in a man like a broken statue—tall, dark, dreadlocked, and built like he bench-pressed tanks for warm-ups. He hit the floor with a dull thud, unconscious but clearly formidable.

"This guy," Viper said, tapping her heel next to his head, "was slippery. Killed seven of mine, injured more than a dozen. Took poison smoke and half my patience to catch him." Viper was reminding her, saying that she did not slack off and sacrificed a lot to complete her mission.

Daisy nodded, not out of politeness but acknowledgment. She wasn't here to pat backs, but credit where due—tracking down someone tied to clandestine U.S. operations was no joke. Especially when those groups didn't officially exist. There were so many secret forces in the US military, many of which even the Secretary of Defense did not know about. They usually used code names and pseudonyms. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Viper had performed. That much was clear.

Still, Daisy's gaze fell to the unconscious man—Eric Killmonger, though he'd be called the "Golden Jaguar" in the future. She winced subtly. This guy would leave a scar on his body every time he killed someone, each mark a life taken, a name erased. It made her skin crawl.

"Thank you for your help," she said politely, keeping her eyes on the snake lounging across from her.

Viper, not particularly good with pleasantries, gave a dismissive hum.

"Was there anything unusual in his possessions?"

With a snap of her fingers, one of Viper's men placed a beat-up woven sack at Daisy's feet like it was laced with something contagious.

"I pulled this from his Swiss storage unit," Viper explained with a wrinkle of her nose. "Didn't bother checking it. Smelled like unwashed ambition."

Daisy crouched down and dumped the bag's contents unceremoniously onto the plush hotel carpet. Out spilled a chaotic collection of junk—rhino horn chips, dented wine cups, some jewelry that belonged in a museum—or a pawn shop.

Then her fingers brushed against something that wasn't junk: a brown leather-bound notebook. She flipped it open. Dual languages—English and something older, rougher—filled the pages, the ink etched in heavy, deliberate strokes.

"Where's this script from? Looks... concise," Viper mused, peering over Daisy's shoulder with genuine curiosity. "Is it tribal? African?"

Despite her many vices, Viper had an impressive gift for languages. No fancy powers, just brain and obsession. If it had a grammar system, she'd cracked it.

Daisy, meanwhile, was less linguistically inclined. Her agent résumé proudly boasted Chinese, English, Spanish, French, Japanese and few others—but compared to the Viper, that was the kiddie pool.

"African dialect," she muttered, eyes not leaving the page. The father of this so-called Golden Jaguar must have known his son was more brawn than brains, because the notebook had both languages side-by-side—conveniently readable for Daisy.

She found the ring next. Tucked into the spine of the journal, it looked like royalty had pawned off a planet. Black stone, elegant design, and crafted from something she didn't recognize.

Vibranium.

She rolled the cool metal between her fingers, amused. No, she wouldn't pose as some Wakandan royal, but she wasn't giving this back either. The metal was rare, powerful, and stylish.

Think about it, Black Panther and his gang are just bored and have nothing better to do. The stealing of a little vibranium is like their own father's grave being dug up. And then Wakandans acted like it was national tragedy. In fact, they have so much vibranium that it has taken thousand of years to dig it all out, and the little that was stole was not even a fraction of the original amount.

It would be fine if they always adhered to the principle of never leaking the information about Wakanda and vibranium. And yet, Daisy remembered the Busan car chase vividly in Black Panther movie. A whole car made of the vibranium got trashed, and not a single royal flinched. They cried over piece of vibranium as big as a hammer and forgot they left a tank in the alley.

"Their IQ clearly doesn't scale with the vibranium reserves," Daisy muttered.

"Huh?" Viper raised a brow.

"Nothing important."

"Looks like you found something useful," Viper drawled.

"I did. Thank you again," Daisy replied, still polite, still formal.

But then Viper leaned back, expression shifting. "So... this means I don't need to follow you to Africa? Because I've got my hands full—the Nazi issue has caused me some minor troubles..."

Daisy didn't respond immediately. Their relationship was built on fragile balance—half alliance, half caution. Viper was helpful. Also potentially traitorous. A double-edged serpent.

"Ophelia," Daisy said slowly, using her real name this time. The name buried in a memory they shared. "Are we friends?"

Viper's confidence faltered for the briefest moment. Her gaze darted away, then returned. Finally, after a pause that could measure a career change, she murmured, "If there's no conflict of interest... then yes."

Daisy didn't smile. "Would it hurt your interests if I used your contacts to hire a team to visit this Killmonger's hometown?"

Viper tilted her head. "What kind of visit?"

"You know—murder, arson, chaos. The more dramatic, the better."

"And you?"

Daisy blinked, like it was obvious. "I'm the good guy."

Viper's laughter peeled out, sultry and sharp. "Hehe... You're something else."

But the agreement was sealed, in venom and velvet.

Daisy spent the following week holed up in her suite. Viper handled her cover identity—something sleek and clean—while Daisy immersed herself in Wakandan language.

As for the Killmonger himself—he was carted off, still unconscious. Whether he woke up brainwashed or dissected, Daisy didn't ask. Didn't care. His value had been extracted, and his destiny, if it survived, was irrelevant.

She suspected the reason he hadn't returned to Wakanda earlier was simple: he wasn't ready. Not physically, not mentally. The man had no clear advantage against such a legendary country—just scars and simmering rage.

One week later, Daisy departed Southeast Asia.

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[ Africa ]

She landed in Nairobi with little fanfare. Viper, true to her word, had hired the necessary muscle—mercenaries trained for mischief and mayhem, armed with plausible deniability.

Perfect.

Renting a sturdy jeep, Daisy began the journey north, heading toward the Ethiopian border. Her destination was Lake Turkana, and more precisely, the hidden path that the Killmonger's father had detailed in the journal.

For six days, the land unfolded like a secret. Dusty roads gave way to broken paths. Civilization shrank in the rearview mirror.

On the seventh day, Daisy drove off-road and into the wild. The grasslands stretched endlessly before her, kissed by wind and secrecy. The sun burned overhead, the horizon shimmered with heat, and her vehicle hummed like a war drum.

To Be Continued...

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