THE WOLF’S DEN

The safehouse in Lokoja buzzed with tension. The windows were sealed. Curtains drawn. Every creak in the wood sounded like a warning. Zainab hadn't slept since the botched ambush at the docks. Obi kept watch from the upstairs loft, one hand always near his holster, eyes on the street below.

Zainab sat cross-legged on the floor of the war room—what was once a dining room now transformed with maps, files, decrypted emails, and photographs pinned across the walls. The air smelled of ink, paper, and resolve.

At the center of it all was the movement of a single red dot—her tracker embedded in the Jackal's shoulder. It had moved for two straight hours before stopping.

A remote estate just outside Jos. Isolated. Guarded. Silent.

Zainab exhaled. "This is it."

Obi came down, wiping sweat from his brow. "We'll need more hands. We can't walk into a private fortress uninvited."

"I already called Fatiha," she replied.

Obi raised a brow.

"She's in Enugu," Zainab continued, "but she'll get here by dawn. She has contacts in the Plateau. Quiet ones."

"Fatiha?" Obi chuckled lightly. "You sure she's ready for this kind of heat?"

"She survived Lagos. She's one of us now."

The next morning, they met Fatiha at a fuel station off the expressway. She was dressed in black jeans, a hijab wrapped tight, and a long, tactical coat that didn't match her usual vibe.

But her face?

Warrior.

"Three ex-soldiers, one retired DSS agent," she said as she stepped out of a tinted SUV. "They owe me favours. We're covered."

Zainab nodded. "Good. We move tonight."

Obi turned to Zainab. "Let's be clear. What's the goal?"

Zainab didn't blink.

"Capture him alive. Extract the names. Leak them. Collapse the system."

Obi swallowed hard.

"No pressure then."

The estate sat like a myth on the mountainside—surrounded by trees, nestled behind electric fences and satellite dishes. Drones buzzed overhead. The driveway was long and coiled like a serpent's tail, leading to a three-storey mansion built like a fortress.

They approached from the rear, under cover of darkness.

Zainab carried a cloth pouch filled with handmade EMP patches—Raji's final invention. Touch it to a surface, it disrupts tech within five feet. She slipped one onto the security panel by the side gate.

The lights blinked—then cut.

They moved fast.

Inside the compound, silence reigned. They took down two guards using sleeping darts and made their way through the servant's quarters undetected.

Upstairs, the Jackal was on a call. His voice filtered through the vent system.

"…the Bureau is not dead. It's just reforming. Zainab thinks she's won, but she's only disturbed the soil. New seeds will grow. I will—"

CRASH.

They stormed the room.

The Jackal turned—eyes wide, gun half-raised.

Obi fired first, hitting the wall beside him.

The Jackal dropped the weapon.

Fatiha cuffed him.

Zainab stepped forward, staring him down.

He smirked. "You think cutting one head ends the beast? This isn't a fairytale."

She leaned closer.

"No. It's a tailoring job. And I'm not done stitching."

In the underground room of the safehouse, the interrogation began.

The Jackal was defiant. Cold. Unbreakable.

But Zainab didn't use force.

She used truth.

Played recordings of his own voice, leaked documents, videos from victims.

And finally… a photo.

A girl. 10 years old. Wearing a dress sewn by Zainab.

"The daughter of the woman you had killed in Port Harcourt," she said.

The Jackal's lips trembled—for just a second.

That was all she needed.

He broke.

Names spilled. Accounts. Secret meetings. Locations. Codes.

It was enough to light the country on fire.

Zainab backed away slowly.

"I didn't just come for revenge," she whispered. "I came to end your legacy."

Three days later, the files were uploaded.

Zainab didn't wait for applause.

She and Obi took a train to Ibadan. Fatiha returned to Enugu.

As the train hummed along the tracks, Zainab stared out the window at Nigeria rolling past—still broken, still beautiful.

"You think we did enough?" Obi asked quietly.

Zainab didn't answer right away.

Then, softly—

"No. But we've started. And sometimes… the stitch that starts the healing is the hardest one."