NEEDLES AND GUNFIRE

The river was silent.Too silent.

Obi crouched behind a barrel at the dock's edge, binoculars pressed to his face, scanning the darkness. Across the misty water, four boats cruised in slow formation—no music, no lights. Just shadows drifting with purpose.

Zainab stood two steps behind him, gloves on, hoodie up, nerves quiet.This wasn't Mushin.This wasn't Ilorin.This was war.

"They're almost at the checkpoint," Obi whispered.

Zainab nodded.The team from Minna had already embedded themselves at the coast. Their instructions were clear: intercept the boats, identify the Jackal, extract him if possible—neutralize if necessary.

But things are never that clean.

At 2:16 AM, the first explosion hit.

Not from the team.

From the boats.

A hidden mine, rigged to float just under the surface, detonated beneath Boat 2. A bloom of fire swallowed the night, the boat split in half, and bodies flung into the air like shattered puppets.

"Ambush," Obi growled, grabbing Zainab's hand.

Gunfire erupted across the shore.

The Jackal had known.

He wasn't fleeing—he was baiting.

Zainab ran with Obi through a hail of bullets, ducking behind storage containers and abandoned fuel drums. Sparks lit the dark. Screams echoed over the river.

Then she saw him.

The Jackal.

Tall, silver-haired, dressed in white. Standing on the last boat like a ghost king, unmoved by the chaos. His guards closed in tight around him, ushering him toward an escape craft hidden behind the mangroves.

Zainab's heart pounded.

She sprinted forward.

Obi shouted behind her, but she didn't stop.

She reached into her coat and pulled out the custom flare gun—modified by Raji to fire micro-trackers.

One shot.

She took aim.

Fired.

The tracker hit the Jackal's shoulder, embedding deep.

He flinched. Looked around. Their eyes met.

He didn't smile.

He saluted her.

Then vanished into the trees.

Two hours later.

The dock was soaked with blood, smoke, and silence.

Five of their own were dead.

Obi sat on a crate, wrapping a wound on his arm. "It was a setup," he muttered. "They knew we were coming."

Zainab didn't reply. She was busy staring at her phone, watching the tracker signal move north—fast, steady, determined.

She'd lost the battle.

But not the war.

The Jackal wasn't gone.

Just cornered.

Back at their safehouse in Lokoja, Zainab stood in front of a board filled with red string, photographs, coordinates, and maps.

She tore down Dapo's picture.

Replaced it with the Jackal's.

Wrote under it in red:

"LAST THREAD."

Obi stepped beside her, tired, bleeding, but not broken.

"What now?" he asked.

Zainab didn't look at him.

She just whispered, "Now we cut from the inside."