CHAPTER 64
Obi drove in silence.
Zainab stared out the window of the dusty SUV as they cut through the heart of Yenagoa. Her mind was a whirlwind of timelines, codes, and memories she hadn't yet made sense of. The revelation on the rig hadn't just shaken her—it had realigned everything she thought she knew.
Her mother hadn't died running.
She died fighting.
And now… it was her turn.
"Where to?" Obi asked, keeping one eye on the road and the other on the rearview mirror.
Zainab tightened her grip on her satchel, where the drive from the rig now lay hidden in a false bottom.
"Lagos. We need to intercept a man before he disappears."
"Who?"
She exhaled, voice flat. "Chief Felix Adio. The Jackal. There's a flight manifest. Private jet. He's heading to Cotonou tonight."
Obi blinked. "You got that from the drive?"
"No. From the voice recording. He said a phrase—'Operation Embercoil, concluding within 72 hours.' Embercoil was tied to illicit oil deals tracked by my mum in 2001. It's active again. Which means the Jackal's tying loose ends."
Obi frowned. "Which means you're one of them."
Zainab smiled, cold. "Not if I tie him first."
They arrived in Lagos by 5:30 PM.
The sun was falling fast, and the sky was bleeding red over the skyline. Obi made a sharp turn toward Lekki, where Zainab's contact was waiting: Temi, an undercover tech analyst embedded in Lagos aviation.
She met them in a small boutique disguised as a bridal shop. Sequins sparkled from walls like fake promises. Temi led them to the back room and handed Zainab a folder.
"He's flying out from a private strip in Badagry. Midnight sharp. Registered under an alias—'Mister Fola'. But the pilot's real. His name's Maro. I've tagged the jet with a remote tracer. You'll have 10 minutes before takeoff."
Zainab nodded. "Any guards?"
"Six. Plus two in the tower. Light arms."
Obi chuckled. "Light arms are enough when it's night and you're one woman with a needle."
Zainab reached into her bag and pulled out a folded blouse—one she had designed in Mushin months ago, back when all she cared about was sewing quietly.
She held it up.
Along the inner seams were micro-thin steel threads. Her own invention. Harmless to wear. Deadly when unwound.
Obi whistled. "You've weaponized fashion."
"No," Zainab replied. "I made justice wearable."
By 11:37 PM, they were near the airstrip.
Obi and Temi jammed the tower signals while Zainab moved in from the east fence. Her outfit was simple—native blouse, loose trousers—but every stitch had purpose.
She scaled the side gate in under 30 seconds, avoiding the cameras Temi had temporarily blacked out. She crouched low and sprinted across the tarmac.
The jet's turbine was already humming.
Two guards smoked beside the stairs. Another circled the nose of the plane. The rest were inside, prepping clearance.
Zainab reached the tail and clipped a fiber wire to the underbelly, activating the pulse recorder.
Then she stood tall and walked out—openly—toward the guards.
"Who goes there!" one barked, raising his weapon.
Zainab didn't blink.
She simply raised her arms… and from each sleeve, razor-thin thread snapped outward, wrapping around their wrists in a single motion.
The second guard screamed.
Zainab yanked.
They dropped.
She climbed the steps two at a time.
Inside the jet cabin, the Jackal sat in a leather chair, sipping dark wine.
He looked up. Saw her.
And for the first time in years—Zainab saw fear in the eyes of a man who had made others disappear.
"You," he whispered.
Zainab stepped in.
"No more aliases. No more shadows."
She tossed the flash drive onto the table.
"That's your life. Your crimes. Your confessions. In 6 minutes, it's going live."
The Jackal laughed. "You don't know what you're doing."
She stepped closer.
"No," she said. "I know exactly what I'm cutting."