The Lagos Directive

Port Harcourt – 08:40

The operations room reeked of dust and scorched wiring. On a crooked stack of monitors, a faceless shadow slipped through Prime Meridian’s corridors, always sidestepping a clean angle. Ikenga stood silent, arms folded, eyes tracking the intruder’s rhythm like a sniper reading wind, calculating intent.

“Roll am back ten seconds.”

The feed scrubbed. Corridor B2: lead with the shoulder, muzzle low, head still. Quiet three-count. Centered double-tap; a third controlled shot as the second guard stepped into frame. Bodies dropped instantly. Almost soundless. No twitch. Just death.

“Again.”

Stairwell: he skimmed the lens’s dead angle, one palm on the rail to index elevation without a glance.

Generator yard: timed smoke, just enough to split patrol lanes, not chaos. Sublevel door: he crossed during the camera’s blind frame gap and vanished.

Ikenga felt the chill rise up his spine, not fear, but recognition.

“It’s OW-T!”

Etim stood behind him, breath caught between disbelief and dread. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice low. “He already pulled his sister out. Falaye’s gone. So why me? Why now? This doesn’t track, unless it’s Sanusi. Or another service. Or he’s solo again…”

He paused, eyes narrowing. “What does he want at my door?”

“Get me NEPA outage logs and GSM mast dumps across Trans-Amadi, between five and ten pm last night,” Ikenga said. “Match ingress and exit.”

Ikenga pointed. “Movement patterns are like fingerprints on glass. Corners cleared without a head bob. Checks at elbow height. Mag reloads indexed on the forefinger with tight, deliberate continuity. He never outruns his sights.”

“That’s SD9 doctrine. Layered. Disciplined. He didn’t just learn it, OW-T refined it.”

On his order, a grainy reel rolled, pulled from Falaye’s side channel when he ran SD9’s covert division. Shooter faceless, efficient. Same half-step between targets. Label: SD9 – Ogun Wale-Thomas (Field Eval).

“Overlay the timing.”

Two bars tracked in lockstep.

Etim’s jaw clenched, thoughts grinding. “If it’s him… what’s the message? OW-T’s a ghost. He doesn’t surface unless it’s surgical. He could’ve torched the building. Wiped everyone. But he didn’t. He just showed he could be here.”

Ikenga dialled a secured number on his encrypted phone.

Chief Obi’s voice, measured: “Onye na’ku?!” (Who’s speaking?!)

“Ikenga!” … “Breach confirmed,” … “Five men down. No face but movement profile matches OW-T. No confirmed data or asset exfil, which worries me.”

“Certainty?“

“Ninety. We’re pulling tower dumps, pairing NEPA cuts with patrol splits, re-interviewing contractors. But it’s his handwriting.”

“Use Tier-1 assets. Track him. Neutralise and leave no traces.”

“Contain it. Quietly. Etim stays useful. We will not repeat Falaye.”

“It won’t repeat,” Ikenga said, and cut the line. 

This is why Ikenga was placed on Etim after Falaye – oversight without noise.

Corridor A3 rolled: The intruder ghosted past a printer, eyes flicking to the copier lid, reading angles off its reflection instead of risking a peek. Then he moved.

“He studied us before he entered.” Ikenga said calmly.

“Pull the guard interviews. Run every staff member again.” Ikenga told the tech, voice flat. “Find the one who broke routine, the one who never does. That’s either our anchor… or our leak.”

“And perimeter?”

“Vendors. Power, cleaning, water, maintenance. If he breached, he prepped. He touched something twice, or had help.”

Etim hovered, restless. “If he’s coming for me —”

“He’s coming through you,” Ikenga cut in.

“I don’t report to you,” Etim snapped.

“You report to consequences,” Ikenga said. “Right now, consequences walk like him.” Pointing to the screen.

The tech cleared his throat. “No flagged data loss, but two anomalies: a mirror-ledger backup that’s suspiciously pristine, and a visitor-log gap with a valid stamp.”

“Quarantine both,” Ikenga said. “Treat them as real and forged. Build two trees and see where they diverge.”

He flicked from the overlay to Corridor A3’s ghost. “Everything on OW-T, training partners, instructors, injuries, favored ranges, casework. I want to know what he eats when he can’t sleep.”

“You’re obsessed,” Etim said.

“I’m precise. Obsession is when you can’t stop looking; precision is when you don’t need to look twice.”

A runner filled the doorway, breathless. “NEPA confirms no unscheduled cut matching the window but the MTN’s mast at Nzimiro logged a handset that lit once, then dark. Burner.”

“Good,” Ikenga said. “Give me a radius from that ping. Assume he walked the rest.”

He straightened. “Lock down. No chatter outside essential channels. Tell the General an investigation is underway and we may need more men. Let me tell the Chief what I can prove.”

Etim stared at the paused silhouette. “And if it is him?”

“He’s no ghost,” Ikenga said. “Just a man. Flesh, patterns, and habits.”

Epe – Dusk

The lagoon wore a lace of gold as Ogun eased the door shut. Efe looked up, tired, steady. Makx slid across the tiles to him, tail waggling.

“You’re early,” Efe said.

“Fewer variables on the road,” Ogun replied, scratching Makx. “They’ll be busy. Confused, not blind.”

“He’ll ask what I would: why him, why here, why now?”

Ogun drank, set the glass down. “Because the question is the trap,” he said. “Answers make them move.”

“The next stage?”

He nodded to the map on the wall. “We’re ready.”

Outside, dusk cooled the air. But somewhere in Port Harcourt, a cold man rewound footages, counting steps, mapping intent.

“Let them come searching,” Ogun said, calm as a held breath. “They’ll find nothing but a ghost and the dread for looking.”