CHAPTER 72
The Old Court had no roof.
No judge.
No laws.
Only ruins covered in moss and the smell of lost verdicts.
It stood on a hilltop at the edge of the village, where forgotten trees loomed like they were waiting for an apology that would never come. Its stones were cracked, its steps eaten by time, but the wind whispered—this place had seen too much. Blood. Deals. Silences.
Zainab arrived at exactly 11PM.
Alone.
She wore black—no makeup, no jewelry. Her scarf wrapped low. Her steps made no sound. Her eyes, though, burned like candles in a church that had survived war.
A lantern flickered in the middle of the courtroom. Beside it, a man sat on a fallen bench—casually, like he owned history itself.
Mala.
The Jackal.
He looked older than she remembered from Dapo's whispered conversations. But no less terrifying. Sharp grey hair, immaculate white kaftan, and that same disarming smile that made you doubt your own fear.
"Tailor," he said.
Zainab didn't respond.
He gestured at the broken bench opposite him.
"Sit. We're both too old for games."
She walked slowly, every bone in her body alert, every instinct screaming. But she sat.
The silence sat with them.
Crickets. Distant thunder. And the breathing of two people who'd danced around each other for too long.
"You've done well," he said eventually. "Very well. Raven's finished. Bureau's gone. Even Dapo… reduced to ashes."
Zainab stared at him. "You forgot 'yet.'"
He chuckled. "Oh, I haven't forgotten you, my dear. You're not ashes yet. But you're dancing close."
Zainab leaned forward. "That's why I came. Not to beg. Not to run. I want to make you a deal."
Mala's eyebrow twitched. "A deal?"
"I walk away. Vanish. Disappear. You… dissolve your network. Burn the files. End it quietly. Let me go, and I'll let the world forget your name."
He tilted his head, like a hawk watching prey offer its neck.
"And if I say no?"
Zainab pulled out a phone and tapped the screen.
A hologram floated between them—a rotating archive of the Calabar documents. Names. Coordinates. Photographs. Codes. Secret prisons. Transaction routes. Testimonies.
Then she said, softly, "Then the whole world meets the devil they've never heard of."
Mala stared at the display.
His smile didn't fade, but his fingers twitched.
"That's brave," he said. "Or foolish."
Zainab stood. "It's a line. I'm drawing it."
Mala's smile faded.
He stood too, tall and slow, like a storm rising.
He stepped toward her—close enough to see the faint scar on his neck.
"You remind me of her," he said, voice suddenly lower. "Your mother. You know she once tried to do the same thing? Burn the system?"
Zainab froze. "You're lying."
"She was pregnant when she tried to leak files. Your father was one of us. We let her run… for a while."
A beat of silence passed that felt like a thousand nails being hammered in her chest.
"I—" she stammered.
"I was the one who gave the order," he whispered.
Zainab's hand trembled. Rage choked her throat.
Then—bang!
A shot cracked through the trees.
Mala jerked.
A red bloom spread across his shoulder.
Obi's voice rang out from the shadows. "Enough stories."
Zainab didn't move.
She stared at Mala, watched him slump, blood dripping from his arm, that same damn smile still on his lips.
"You'll never kill all of us," he muttered. "But you'll spend your life trying."
She stepped forward, crouched beside him.
"I can live with that," she said.
They didn't kill him.
Not yet.
They took photos, collected evidence, called a private news outlet.
By morning, the Jackal's face was everywhere.
For the first time, the devil had a name.
And Zainab?
She didn't rest.
Because if there was a Jackal…
There was always something worse waiting in the dark.