The Lagos Directive

Sandton, South Africa.

4 weeks after Prime Meridian Advisory siege

“It’s time,” Chief Okagbue said as the Obsidian Circle settled. “We push beyond our borders, and expand our power.”

The room held its breath. Madam Adaeze Nworie, the Matriarch, let her bracelets settle without a whisper. Kasali Okunola, the Broker, stilled his pen. Dr. Lindiwe Maseko, Glass, rested a tablet that cast a cold wash across the table. General Isa rolled one knuckle until it clicked, then went stone-still.

Dr. Etim raised his tablet. The big screen in front flared to life, a living map exhaled logistics in real time. Supply chains throbbed. Borders blinked. The room fell silent.

He glanced at Okagbue, then spoke.

“Efe, the analyst Falaye lost, built a sophisticated model that doesn’t just predict. It warns. It simulates the global economic shockwave of a pathogen deadlier than COVID. Sector by sector. Nation by nation. It lets us front-run volatility and reroute capital before the world even flinches.”

He tapped the screen. The data surged.

“Spread factor by movement channels. Bed burn-rate by region. Logistics bottlenecks, tracked hourly. It’s not just a model, it’s a weapon.”

Glass tapped on his tablet, the screen roared, Europe in full view. “We strike quietly, targeting flights, stadiums, pilgrimage corridors, logistics hubs. Exploit winter crowding. No alarms till week three.”

The Matriarch’s voice was ledger-flat. “The pathogen?”

Glass nodded: “Airborne. Long pre-symptomatic window. Anticoagulant havoc, unexpected strokes. A silent deadly killer. We own the antidote and control the supply.”

Etim swiped the timeline; grids flickered, then collapsed.

“Airways, campuses, wards, cargo. We won’t track death; we’ll exploit fear. When countries gasp, we’ll be the ones vending life.”

“And the antidote?” the Matriarch asked, bracelets still.

Glass swiped his tablet, map shifting to West Africa. Ouémé wetlands, Benin. He tapped again and a wet jade leaf took over the screen.

“Ewé Kpɔnù, bitter-leaf resin loaded with precise fusion inhibitors. With this rare plant, we would control the global market’s response to the pathogen. Without it, ward duration instantly quadruples.”

Etim’s smile stayed thin. “We hold the concession through a biodiversity trust fronted by a French NGO. On paper, theirs. In truth, ours.”

The Matriarch kept her eyes on the map. “How will the West react?”

Etim didn’t blink. “Expect compulsory licensing from Brussels, TRIPS-waiver theatrics from Geneva, OFAC threats, and ‘solidarity’ export bans. Emergency-use grabs, foundation pressure, think-tank letters. We’ve modeled counters to every move. The inhibitor resin is soil-locked, efficacy anchored to one ecology. Only one site hits therapeutic grade. We control it. Green lanes at our ports. Harvest locked by federal contract. Our certification or nothing. Anyone skirting us gets shortages and weak yields.”

The Matriarch nodded approvingly. “If Benin protests?”

“They won’t,” Glass replied. “And if they do, Aso Rock will badge it as cross-border security. Etim controls the signatures. The General has military influence. Soldiers will come in humanitarian vests.”

Okagbue’s voice cut through the tense air: “How will you bury every trail?”

The Broker leaned back, unbothered. “Crypto sinkholes. Halo funds. Co-ops. Offshore to shells to mixers. Loop it till the trail dies. Auditors find blank pages. Regulators find fog. I’ll decide which maps they see.”

“Phase One,” Okagbue declared, voice steely. “We silently seed Europe, our roots take hold before they even know we exist.

“Phase Two: deploy the partial cure, lock down Ewé Kpɔnù behind iron fences, and let whispers set the price.

“Phase Three: flip the switch, open green lanes at our ports and force the world to buy on our terms.”

Etim hesitated half a heartbeat. “Sanusi remains a variable. If he’s feeding Ogun—”

Okagbue raised his palm, silencing Etim, then met General Isa’s eyes. “End this insect now! No more excuses! Nothing, no one, derails the Obsidian Circle.”

Uyo, Nigeria — Raffia Palm Depot

9 weeks after Prime Meridian Advisory siege

Sanusi sent Ogun an encrypted message. “Uyo outskirts. Raffia palm depot behind the timber market. 48hrs. Burn your trail.”

Ogun felt the urgency in the ping. Makx caught the shift in the air. Her posture sharpened. Something was in motion.

Across town, Ikenga received a ping for his SD9 mole: “unscheduled absence this week. Recommend shadow protocol.”

Immediately, Ikenga deployed tac teams to tail Sanusi.

Then he called The Frenchman, ex-DGSE, shadow operator. “Confirm if Sanusi and OW-T are in play. No contact.”

Two days later, Sanusi slid into Uyo at dusk, his blue Corolla wore dust like like pride. Five miles in he caught and evaded the first tail; two hours later the second tail searched for ghosts. The third? He never even knew was there.

T-24 hours: Ogun ran a full sweep of the depot and its approaches. Perimeter walk. Interior sweep. Line-of-sight study from bale stacks and press stations. Torchlight checks under eaves and at drain lips. Makx ran scent lanes, flagged recent track compressions and displaced fronds. Alley network sketched with exits, choke points, and fallback turns. Any anomaly got tagged. They were ready for the meet.

Night pressed in. Sanusi approached the depot’s eastern fence line, close and quiet.

Ogun spotted him long before he began his approach. Makx hugged the dark like it knew her.

Her ears etched upwards and immediately Ogun followed her sightline. An anomaly.

Unseen by Sanusi, the Frenchman rode the west-wall blind spot. Collar-cam pulsing green as it fed Sanusi’s trail back to Ikenga. Makx’s ears twitched at a dry static burr from his bone-mic. pop…pop. Ogun sent Makx wide, then disappeared; every step an intent to kill.

The Frenchman’s collar-cam glowed green, relaying back to Ikenga the area Sanusi travailed. He was a second late when it happened.

Ogun didn’t double-take. He arrived.

The Frenchman felt his mistake instantly. Ogun’s forearm cinched his carotid like a vice. He scrabbled helplessly for his pistol that wasn’t there. ‘SNAP!’ … A sharp twist and his body folded.

As the Frenchman’s body hit the ground, Ogun caught the soft green pulse of the collar-cam still recording. He stared, just a beat, then crushed it until it sparked and died.

Ikenga smirked at the last feed, he got his confirmation.

“OW-T’s with Sanusi,” Ikenga said, voice flat as concrete. He toggled the encrypted channel. “Targets OW-T and Sanusi. Execute! Clean in, clean out.”

Three miles out, Ikenga’s tact teams mobilised into fast response action.

Inside the depot, the air was damp sugar and iron. Sanusi stood by the hand-press, fingers on cold steel.

Ogun approached from his right. “You didn’t burn your trail well enough.” He said calmly.

“How long do we have?” Sanusi said frantically.

“Less than five minutes.” Ogun replied.

Sanusi kept his eyes on the press, voice low. “Langley pushed a packet through a trusted line. The Circle’s next move is global, a respiratory agent with a long silent load, plus anticoagulant side effects. The adjunct’s anchored in Ewé Kpɔnù. Soil-bound. Single-source. You know what that means.”

“Do I?” Ogun said. “Or are we reading what they want us to?”

“Your skepticism keeps you breathing.” Sanusi paused. “The source is deep inside the Circle, with two years verifiable intel.”

Ogun studied him. “How’d Langley get inside? Money? Ideology? Leverage?”

“All three, and probably more. They pride themselves in being omnipresent.”

“Does Langley want the Circle bruised or broken?” Ogun said flatly.

“OW-T, I intend to break the Circle from the inside and expose their collaborators. We leak selectively, push audits, split Isa’s militia contracts from clean money, and land real consequences to all players.”

“What’s your endgame?” Ogun asked. “When the Circle’s gutted, what do you keep? What do you burn?”

“I keep what protects people. I burn the green lanes, the corruption that underpins this nation. I want sunlight on deals and jails for the men who sign them. And I want SD9 to be the unit that made it impossible to do this again.”

“And Langley?”

“We use them as a fuse, not a lamp,” Sanusi said. “They give us heat. We choose what burns. They get their theater, we keep the country.”

Ogun let it settle. “You’re either the bravest man in the land or the most reckless.”

“Both,” Sanusi said. “It’s how I’ve stayed alive.”

Makx’s ears pinned forward. Engines found formation.

“Time to move.”

“We split,” Ogun said. “Use the kernel-press corridor. Third compound down, blue gate with a bent hinge. Kick low.”

“And you?” Sanusi’s voice stayed level.

“Makx and I will be right behind you.”

Ogun brushed Makx’s neck, signalling go-time.

“Amaka,” he steely whispered, “let’s make some noise.”

They moved, as the depot came alive.