The air in Lagos hit us like a wall – thick with humidity and the exhaust fumes of a thousand unseen vehicles. The vibrant chaos Silas had alluded to was immediately apparent, a symphony of car horns, hawkers' cries, and the rhythmic pulse of music spilling from open doorways. We were met at the airport by a driver who held up a discreet sign with the name "Thorne" scrawled on it. He didn't speak, his eyes darting nervously as he ushered us into a black SUV with tinted windows.
The drive was a blur of crowded streets and unfinished buildings. Mateo, ever vigilant, scanned our surroundings, his gaze sharp and assessing. I found myself staring out the window, trying to reconcile the energy of the city with the grim task that lay ahead. It felt incongruous, this vibrant life existing alongside the cold efficiency of Lambda's operations.
We were taken to a nondescript apartment building in a relatively quiet district. The apartment itself was sparsely furnished but clean, with two bedrooms and a small kitchenette. Silas had provided us with burner phones and a thick envelope containing local currency.
"Mr. Alade's routine is predictable," Silas's voice echoed from a pre-recorded message on one of the phones. "He leaves his residence every morning at 7:00 AM to visit a local market. He returns around 8:30 AM. He lives alone. The details of his residence are in the file."
The file contained a photograph of a modest, two-story house with a corrugated iron roof, along with a rudimentary sketch of the layout. It also included a brief biography of Mr. Alade – a former government official who had apparently fallen out of favor. The reasons for his "liability" were vague, but the implication was clear.
Mateo laid the file on the small table. "So, a clean and simple snatch and grab?"
I shook my head. "Silas said 'tidying up.' That doesn't sound like a friendly chat."
A heavy silence settled between us. We were both killers, the weight of our past convictions a constant shadow. But there was a difference between the violence that had landed us in prison and the cold, calculated execution of a man who posed a threat to a shadowy organization. This felt different, somehow more morally corrosive.
Mateo picked up one of the burner phones, his brow furrowed. "We need to scout the location. Get a feel for the area, any potential complications."
I nodded in agreement. "Let's go. The sooner this is done, the sooner we can figure out what the hell we've gotten ourselves into."
Stepping back out into the Lagos heat felt like entering a different world. We moved through the crowded streets, two ghosts trying to blend into the vibrant tapestry of the city. The market was a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds, a sensory overload of spices, fruits, and the chatter of vendors. It was hard to imagine the quiet routine of the man we were tasked to eliminate unfolding amidst this lively chaos.
We found Mr. Alade's street, a quieter lane lined with small houses. We observed his residence from a distance, noting the lack of security and the predictable rhythm of the neighborhood. As we watched, an elderly woman emerged from a neighboring house, chatting with a young boy. A sense of unease settled over me. This wasn't some abstract target; this was a man living a life, connected to a community.
Back in the sterile anonymity of the apartment, the weight of our task pressed down on us. Mateo cleaned the pistol with methodical precision, his movements betraying none of the internal conflict I felt churning within me.
"We do this," he said finally, his voice low. "We do what they want, and then we figure out our next move. We don't have a choice, Daniel."
Daniel. The new name felt foreign on my tongue, a flimsy shield against the reality of who I was and what I was about to do. Marcus. Mateo's new identity sat just as awkwardly on his hardened features. We were playing roles in a play we hadn't written, with a script that was stained with blood. As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the city, I knew that whatever choice we thought we had was about to be taken away from us, one bullet at a time.