CHAPTER XXXVIII

The first name fell with a quiet resignation.

Chief Hassan Alao — energy magnate, Council financier, political puppeteer.

He stepped down "for health reasons," barely three hours after the leak.

The second name didn't fall — it exploded.

Reverend Musa.

Caught boarding a private jet with three burner phones, a briefcase of cash, and a passport under the name "Michael Uzo."

The arrest was live-streamed by a teenage vlogger outside the airstrip.

Elara watched it in silence, hands clasped, as the man who'd anointed war criminals was handcuffed like a petty thief.

She didn't smile.

She didn't blink.

She just whispered:

"Two down."

The third name was louder.

Justice Omolade Akiyode — the one who had personally dismissed Amara's wrongful death petition.

She wasn't arrested.

She was assassinated.

It happened in the back of a black SUV.

Three gunshots.

No suspects.

The news called it "an act of political vengeance."

But Elara knew better.

"Council cleanup," NUMA said grimly.

"They're eating their own."

Khalid stared at the TV, jaw clenched.

"This isn't just collapse," he said.

"This is disintegration."

NUMA turned from her laptop.

"They'll do anything now.

To stop us.

Or to make us look like monsters."

Later that night, Elara's burner buzzed.

Anonymous number.

Video message.

She opened it.

Static.

Then—her father.

Still imprisoned in their underground safehouse.

He looked tired. Lips bruised. A cut beneath his eye.

But he was smiling.

"You think the list will save you?"

"The list is just the infection."

"The cure is control."

"And control comes through fear."

Elara didn't respond.

She turned the phone over and walked away.

Khalid asked, "What did he say?"

She replied without turning:

"That fear is power."

"He's right."

"So let's terrify them."

The next drop wasn't a name.

It was a ledger.

Financial transactions. Offshore accounts. Council kickbacks.

Each line detailed a payout tied to a burial.

Not of bodies.

But of truth.

Corrupt psychiatrists.

Erased medical records.

Silenced journalists.

Fake autopsies.

And at the center of every network?

The Council's original architect: Malam Foday Zakari.

A man who hadn't been seen in public for over a decade.

NUMA stared at the name.

"This was the brain."

Elara nodded. "The true ghost."

Fatima looked up. "He was my source. Once."

"Still alive?" Khalid asked.

"No one knows."

"But if he is…" Elara stepped closer.

"We end it with him."

NUMA pinged every known database.

The name returned no matches.

No address. No passport. No property.

Then, a breakthrough.

A hacked drone registry in Northern Nigeria — three months ago, registered under the alias "F.Z. Mahmoud."

Delivery location: a private estate outside Kaduna.

High walls. Thermal shielding. Guard rotations.

Elara stared at the grainy satellite image.

"That's him."

They left at dawn.

Khalid drove.

NUMA rode shotgun, modifying a portable disruptor.

Elara sat in the back, cradling a folder of files — photos of Amara, Kayra, Halima, her mother… and the names they fought for.

The estate loomed at the horizon like a myth — tall, cold, built to be untouchable.

But this time, Elara wasn't asking for entry.

She was taking it.

They scaled the back wall at nightfall.

No dogs. No alarms.

Just silence and guards too bored to notice the storm crawling through their garden.

Inside, the halls were glass and gold.

Too clean.

Too quiet.

Until they reached the library.

And found him.

Old.

Thin.

Sitting in a chair, breathing through a tube, his hands trembling over a chessboard.

He didn't look up.

Just said, "You took your time."

Elara stepped forward.

"You're Foday Zakari?"

He nodded once. Slowly.

"I was wondering when the child of Fatima would come."

He didn't run.

Didn't fight.

He offered tea.

And began talking.

"I built it," he said. "The Council. The Silence. The illusion of peace."

"We didn't kill with bullets. We killed with narratives."

"Truth became a diagnosis. Dissent became trauma."

"I wrote the code."

Elara sat across from him.

"Why tell me this?"

Zakari looked up.

Eyes dull.

"Because it's collapsing now. And I want someone to know…"

"…I regret it."

Khalid stepped forward.

"Where's the last file?"

Zakari reached into the chess table drawer and handed him a drive.

"Everything. Names I never gave.

The ones who still pull strings.

Even in your government.

Even now."

As they turned to leave, Zakari said one last thing:

"You won't save the world."

"But you'll remind it what it cost to look away."

Outside, under the starlight, Elara held the drive.

Fatima's voice rang in her mind:

"You weren't born to fix the system."

"You were born to expose it."

Inside the van, NUMA decrypted the files.

And found something no one expected.

A Council heir.

Young. Untouched. Already trained.

Hidden in plain sight.

And the name?

Aderonke Bello.

Elara froze.

"…My father's new daughter."