The club lights in Victoria Island pulsed like a heartbeat. Every Friday, Club Nebula became the epicenter of Lagos nightlife—and the perfect cover for The Haven Cartel's quiet negotiations. But tonight was different. Tension hung thicker than the DJ's cologne.
Wura sat in VIP, her eyes scanning the crowd while pretending to sip champagne. She wasn't here to dance. She was watching—because someone in that room had leaked the cartel's Marina route to a rival gang.
Meanwhile, Jide and Dimeji had just finished tailing a suspicious SUV from Surulere. It led them—ironically—to Club Nebula.
"Guy, we came here for intel, not party," Jide whispered as Dimeji collected small chops from a passing waitress.
"Intelligence dey better when you chop first," Dimeji replied, chewing puff-puff like it was currency.
Back inside, Mama Zee entered with the confidence of a woman who'd once smuggled diamonds through customs in her gele. Her contact—Seyi "Black Print" Okonkwo, a shady fixer known for switching allegiances like slippers—sat waiting in a corner booth.
"I need names," Mama Zee said coldly, not sitting.
Black Print smirked. "That'll cost you."
She raised one brow. "So will pulling this trigger."
Outside, things turned messy.
Kamsi, the cartel's new tech recruit, was trying to jam signals with a homemade device she built out of an old DSTV decoder and power bank. It sparked mid-use, electrocuting her slightly.
"Yepa!" she screamed, falling into a bush.
Wura's earpiece buzzed. "Contact made. Expect movement."
And then it happened.
The SUV doors flew open. Masked men spilled out, opening fire—on Black Print.
It wasn't the cartel. It wasn't even The Kingsmen. This was a new crew, bold and reckless.
The club exploded into chaos. Jide tackled Black Print. "Who the hell are they?"
Bloodied and panicked, Black Print whispered one word:
"Judas."
Back at Haven HQ, Kamsi managed to restore part of the bugged comms—just enough to play back a voice recording:
"I told you. Once Tunde is out, the cartel falls apart. We move next week."
It was an inside voice.
Someone at HQ was a mole.
As they all regrouped later that night, the only thing they knew for certain was this: the betrayal wasn't just external.
The war wasn't coming. It had already begun.