Chapter 7 Blood in the Water

Chapter Seven: Blood in the Water

The world didn't explode.

It unraveled.

By the next morning, the whistleblower leak had been picked up by five independent news networks. Not mainstream-yet. But enough. Enough to start the fire.

Screens across Lagos lit up with headlines no one had dared speak aloud.

"Black Ops in West Africa - SIRS Tied to Assassination Program."

"Who Funds the Ghosts? A Secret Empire Beneath Nigeria's Security Forces."

"Mafia Pipeline, Intelligence Collusion, Political Silence."

By noon, the first politician denied involvement. By one p.m., another one vanished entirely.

And Leo Madu's face appeared in the center of it all-half criminal, half prophet.

"They've put your picture beside the leak," Zara said, watching the television from a rooftop café they'd commandeered. "They're painting you as the devil with a conscience."

Leo sipped black coffee, unmoved. "The devil still bleeds."

Zara turned off the screen. "It's working. The public is panicking."

Leo smiled without warmth. "They're not panicking. They're recalculating."

At 3:47 p.m., the bullets came.

They were crossing the abandoned third floor of an old rail station near Ebute Metta-scouting an extraction route through the underground canal when Leo stiffened, just half a second before it happened.

Pop-pop-pop.

Zara dropped. So did Leo. Bullets tore through cracked tile where her head had been.

She rolled behind a pillar, gun already drawn.

Leo cursed under his breath. "Sniper. South building. Second window."

Another round cracked. Stone exploded behind them.

"Not SIRS," Zara said, crawling low. "Too messy. This is hired muscle."

"Worse," Leo muttered. "This is freelance."

They moved fast.

Calculated.

Zara took the west flank. Leo charged south. The gunfire cut out abruptly-whoever was shooting didn't want to overplay their hand. The silence was more dangerous than the bullets.

Zara reached the window.

Spotted a retreating figure.

She fired twice-missed the kill, but clipped the shoulder. The figure staggered, then vanished behind the rooftop stairwell.

"Got one," she called into her comm.

"Leave them," Leo responded. "Someone else will pick up the next contract."

She hesitated. "We let them go?"

"No," he said. "We let them run scared. Word spreads faster than blood."

They regrouped at a safe house in Surulere-one of Leo's lesser-known boltholes, disguised as an abandoned artist studio. The metal door was rusted, the walls smelled of charcoal and mold, but beneath it all was steel and silence.

Zara collapsed onto an old canvas-covered bench. Her shoulder ached from diving behind broken tile. Her palms were scraped, knuckles bruised.

Leo remained standing, staring out the dust-caked window.

"They're getting bolder," she said, pulling her jacket off. "Middle of the city in daylight?"

"They're getting desperate," Leo replied. "The leak made them vulnerable. They think killing us contains the damage."

Zara shook her head. "Killing us proves it's true."

Leo gave a tight smile. "Exactly."

She pulled out her burner and tapped into a dark channel. Messages were pouring in-anonymous, encrypted, mostly useless. But one caught her eye.

[UNKNOWN SOURCE]

"The Serpent has risen. Cut the fang, not the head."

She frowned. "We've got cryptics now."

Leo raised a brow. "You know that code?"

"I know who used to use it. Back in SIRS training, it was part of an old disavowed operation: Project Mamba. Psychological ops, asset grooming, internal blackmail."

"Sounds familiar."

She stared at the screen.

"If this is legit... someone inside SIRS is trying to help us."

Leo crossed the room and crouched in front of her. His voice dropped low.

"Or someone wants us to walk into the trap willingly."

Their faces were inches apart now. Close enough to see the burn scar across Leo's cheekbone, the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

She didn't flinch.

"Do you still think I'm lying to you?" she asked.

He didn't answer immediately.

Then: "I don't think you even know the full truth yet."

Zara exhaled slowly.

Neither of them did.

That night, they slept in shifts.

Zara took first watch. She walked the upper floor of the warehouse, gun at her hip, eyes trained on every sound. The city was restless beneath them-sirens, dogs, distant shouting. The kind of chaos that follows truth too long buried.

At 3:21 a.m., a ping came through.

Not SIRS. Not Obsidian.

This one was direct.

AYANDA BASSEY

"Your file was never meant to end like this. You've disappointed everyone."

Zara stared at the message, heartbeat stuttering.

Leo sat up behind her. "Who is it?"

She turned the screen toward him. His jaw tightened.

"She's finally showing her face," he said.

"She's baiting me."

"Or warning you."

Zara's hands trembled-not with fear, but rage.

"She trained me. She knew what I was capable of. She sent me to die anyway."

Leo stood and stepped close.

"She underestimated what happens when her creation falls in love with the target."

Zara swallowed. "You think this is love?"

"I think it's too late if it's not."

Zara didn't sleep after that.

Ayanda's message had peeled open a wound she thought buried. Not fear. Not even anger.

Shame.

She remembered the training. The whispered promises. The tests that broke bones and blurred loyalties. Ayanda didn't teach you how to survive.

She taught you how to destroy, quietly.

Leo watched her from the far side of the room, silent.

She didn't have to explain. He'd seen the damage before-both of them carried it in different languages.

By sunrise, the city had changed again.

Mainstream networks had picked up the leaks.

The Deputy Director of SIRS was now "on leave for health reasons." A scandal was being "reviewed internally." And a dozen names connected to black-market weapons sales were being "investigated," but no one arrested.

It was a cover-up in motion. Professional. Clinical. Public.

And a kill order disguised as protocol.

At noon, the building shook.

The explosion came from below-targeted, precise. Not loud enough to bring the whole warehouse down. Just enough to create panic. Force them out.

Leo grabbed his gun. "They're here."

Zara moved without hesitation. Down the hallway, up through the skylight. She climbed to the roof as Leo kicked through a rusted back door and vanished into the alley.

From the rooftop, she spotted them.

Two black SUVs.

Unmarked. Military-tinted. No plates.

Leo was right-freelancers. Killers. Private sector ghosts.

She radioed: "Northwest corner, two SUVs. Six bodies minimum."

"Copy," Leo's voice came low. "Engage?"

Zara's finger was already on the trigger. "We already have."

Gunfire lit the sky.

Zara dropped two on the roof before they even knew she was above them. Leo came from behind the alley, kneecapping the lead in the second team, then finishing the rest with brutal, fast shots.

They didn't speak until the last body hit the ground.

Blood pooled at the warehouse steps.

Zara leaned against the railing, panting.

"They're not going to stop, are they?"

Leo looked at the carnage.

"No. But they're going to start bleeding more than we do."

He handed her a fresh magazine.

"We take the fight to Ayanda next."

Zara hesitated. "You're talking about killing her."

Leo didn't blink. "She already signed our death warrants. What would you call it?"

Zara looked down at the bodies.

"Justice."

That night, Leo found her in the stairwell, arms folded, eyes staring through the rusted bars into the dark.

She didn't move as he approached.

He stood beside her in silence.

Finally, she said, "You're not afraid of what I used to be?"

Leo shook his head. "You're not what they made you."

She turned to him, voice low.

"And if I am?"

He looked her in the eye.

"Then we burn them for it."

And in that moment, she didn't feel like a spy.

Or a weapon.

She felt like a flame.

And beside her stood a man with gasoline in his blood.