Abuja was a city of glass and deception. Behind the marble walls and smiling politicians were wolves in tailored suits. Michael had seen them once before—from a distance, when he was just a pharmacy student. Now, he was being called into their den.
He stepped off the private jet in a crisp black suit, his eyes shielded by dark sunglasses. An IIS transport was waiting. No insignia. No plates. Just a faceless driver who offered a silent nod and drove without a word.
They didn't take him to the IIS headquarters.
They took him to a private estate nestled in the hills of Asokoro—where deals were made off the books, and men disappeared in silence.
James Effiong was waiting by the pool, dressed in linen like a retired general on holiday. But Michael could see the tightness in his jaw, the tension under his smile.
"You're early," Effiong said, offering him a glass of zobo spiked with gin.
"You said Abuja wanted to see me. I assumed time mattered."
Effiong's smile faded slightly. "You're not here for a performance review, Michael. You're here because you crossed a threshold. You cracked the Jackal's network. Abuja is impressed. But also… curious."
Michael took a sip, unbothered. "Curious about what?"
"About how far you're willing to go."
Effiong nodded, and a second man stepped into the courtyard. Colonel Abdul Kareem—head of IIS black operations. A man known for making enemies vanish with bureaucratic precision.
Kareem didn't speak. He simply handed Michael a folder.
Michael opened it. Inside: a single photo, a location, and a name.
Target: Chief Jide Owolabi — National Assembly member, cartel financier, and silent partner to the Jackal.
"Kill him," Kareem said finally. "Make it look like a robbery. We need to send a message—but subtle. Quiet. Elegant."
Michael stared at the photo. The man looked harmless. Soft features. Greying beard. But the dossier showed otherwise—warehouses full of meth precursors, shell companies across Africa, and military protection.
Kareem stepped closer. "This isn't just a hit, Michael. This is your blood oath. After this, there's no going back. No outside. Only the war."
Michael smiled coldly. "I burned the bridge the day I walked into your jungle camp. Give me a gun."
Chief Owolabi lived in a gated estate in Maitama, surrounded by armed guards and luxury. His security was tight—ex-military mercs from Chad and Sudan. His paranoia was justified.
Michael didn't plan a frontal assault.
He waited. Stalked. Mapped patterns for two days, sleeping in a safehouse run by IIS operatives in Wuse II. Owolabi's mistress visited every Friday night—always wearing perfume strong enough to choke a lion.
By the third Friday, Michael was in the compound.
Disguised as a newly assigned driver, he got through the front gate with forged documents and a cloned ID tag. The guards barely glanced at him. Inside, the mansion was quiet, the kind of silence that only bloated wealth could buy.
He found the Chief in the study, drinking cognac and watching reruns of old National Assembly sessions.
Michael didn't speak.
He pulled the silenced pistol from beneath his blazer and fired two shots—one through the forehead, one through the heart.
No last words. No drama.
He wiped the gun, slipped it back into his inner holster, and scattered broken glass and cabinet drawers to mimic a robbery. By the time the guards noticed something was wrong, Michael was already driving out through the rear gate in a different car.
Hours later, back at the IIS compound, Michael dropped the bloodstained gloves into an incinerator and lit a cigarette. His phone buzzed.
Effiong:
"Abuja is pleased. You're cleared for Ascension Protocol. Full induction."
Another message followed.
Unknown Number:
"Room 44. Transcorp Hilton. 11 PM. Come alone. You'll meet the real handlers."
Michael crushed the cigarette beneath his heel.
So it begins, he thought.
No more tests. No more fake names. He was no longer a recruit.
He was a weapon now.
And Nigeria's shadow empire was just starting to sharpen its blades.