CHAPTER 68
The storm broke at dawn.
Rain hammered the tin roof of the safehouse, drowning out the whir of servers and the muffled groans from Obi's cot. Zainab stood at the control table, staring at the digital map Hassan had activated—each blinking blue dot a footsoldier, a thread she had once spun into strength.
"Ifeoma has switched sides," Hassan said without turning.
Zainab blinked. "You're sure?"
"She used your phrase. 'The needle cuts both ways.' Only two people ever said that."
A pause.
"She's given them your location."
Zainab said nothing. Her heart beat slow, heavy.
Obi coughed behind them.
"We move before dusk," she said. "Everything burns."
By noon, the plan was laid.
Operation Threadfire.
Twelve decentralized strikes across Bureau outposts. Not bombs—stories. Each node would upload a new leak: court affidavits, drone footage, whistleblower interviews. It was not just exposure—it was erosion.
"Truth spreads like dye in white linen," Zainab whispered.
They packed USBs into false linings. Printed encrypted QR codes onto labels, face masks, wedding invites. A courier in Kaduna would hide them inside puff-puff bags. A tailor in Calabar would stitch them under agbadas sent to senators.
Outside, thunder rolled.
A convoy of black jeeps turned onto the Kogi highway.
Inside one of them, Ifeoma adjusted her earpiece. "Confirm ground heat signature."
A sniper spoke through comms. "We've got movement inside the target building."
"Do not engage till I say," she ordered.
Zainab placed a final call to Amaka in Lagos.
"It's time."
"I'm scared," Amaka confessed.
"Good," Zainab replied. "Fear is faith's shadow."
Obi, pale but determined, stood with a crutch. "They'll come through the forest path."
"Let them," Zainab said.
An hour later, they left the safehouse.
But not before Zainab typed one last command into the server.
EXECUTE BURN PROTOCOL: YES
Every terminal wiped clean.
They took only a bag, the hard drives, and their will.
The Bureau arrived ten minutes too late.
Ifeoma kicked open the door.
Empty.
Smoke rose from fried circuits. A single piece of cloth fluttered from the ceiling fan—a red scarf with a stitched message:
"You taught me to fight in silence.Now watch me speak in thunder."
She cursed.
On the road to Jos, Zainab rode in a truck driven by an old mechanic.
She stared out at the red horizon.
She didn't look back.
Obi beside her, whispered, "Where next?"
"North," she replied.
"The head of the Bureau has a farm there."
Obi frowned. "We're not assassins."
"No," Zainab said, "We're tailors."
She held up a new piece of cloth.
A plain wrapper.
Untouched.
"We're just going to leave him… a suit of consequences."