The moon rides low in the Lagos sky as I enter the ad hoc safehouse—down a dim corridor of a featureless apartment block two streets back from the old waterway hatch. The atmosphere is filled with the smell of dust and stale incense, a cumulative stink that hangs on the walls. Dante’s teams are assembling: 6 men in nondescript black fatigues, assault rifles slung, faces mean. Marco is positioned near a folding table that has been set up with night‑vision goggles, walkie‑talkies and hot cups of coffee steaming in the twilight.
I clear my throat. “Okay,” I say, with a steadiness that belies how shaky I really feel. “Listen up. We are here to intercept Salazar’s distribution channel before day breaks. I’ll lead you through the tunnels, but at no time must you get separated. No heroics.”
They nod curtly. Most one soldier’s eye — a tall, lanky kid, maybe fresh out of boot camp. I want to alert him, but I have no breath to spare. Instead, I adjust the strap on my own rifle and sling my backpack over one shoulder. Inside it? More ammo, a silenced gun, some smoke grenades, and Dante’s tablet with the map.
I approach Marco. "Your secondary units are in place?" I whisper.
He taps his earbud. “Three men, each hatch point. Tonight they’re eyes and ears — no contact unless they go bad.” His tone is clinical. “We’ll have backup in 20 minutes.”
I nod and tuck the tablet under my arm, heading off. The group streams into the corridor, heels clattering in the uncarpeted hallway. By the door to the stairwell I count four guards — the same as last night. My heart thumps but I remain impassive. I give a well-rehearsed flick of my wrist and nudge one of the slender panels concealed beside the woodgrain finish. The door clicks open.
We descend into near‑silence, following flickering emergency lights down three flights of stairs. The air is still and smells of rust and damp concrete. My heart races; every footstep echoes too loudly. The noose tightens with each hour beyond daylight.
At last, we come to a steel hatch on the floor. I drop to my knees, feel round the locks with my fingers and pull the release. The panel swings away, revealing the yawning mouth of the water tunnel: an ancient passage choked with decades’ worth of detritus. Wet pools of water gather at the sides, catching our torch beams like mercury.
I slide down first, clutching the cold metal with my arms, and splash myself in the ankle‑deep water beneath my boots. The men walk after, in single file, their rifles at their shoulders. I guide them into the tunnel, crouching in the low places where the ceiling's canted in, a skirt of darkness squeezing us in all around.
I radio, “Team A, breach point one. Keep watch. Team B, breach point two. Stand by for visual.” The sizzle of static confirms the message was received.
We travel fast, the tunnel winding under the local streets. Far above, the lights of private homes amalgamate into darkness. I have to stop thinking about whoever lives in those houses—sleeping, unaware of our transgression.
Ten minutes later I stop at a fork. Just three pipes, leaking slow drops from above. I raise up a gloved hand at the map, and then toward my lips—signalling to stop.
“Which direction?” murmurs one of Marco’s men, a burly bloke named Silva.
I point right. “Shortcut into the market warehouse. I realize its steel‑reinforced, but there’s a delivery chute we can break into from beneath. It “avoids the primary loading docks.”
Silva gives me a wary glance. “You sure it’s accessible?”
“Trust me.” I turn and feel the weight of their eyes. “Move.”
We enter the thinner arm of tunnel, and I point my flashlight downward. I sometimes slide on slippy concrete in my boots. My mind flies through all the childhood treks I ever made through these passageways: My father leading me by the hand, promising to reveal a secret cavern. Those days ended in blood and treachery. Here I was back, leading men with guns into the belly of the cartel’s structure.
And then we hear it: muted voices, Spanish accents. Then the sound of a metal door being unlocked. I stop, thumbs feeling out magazine releases on my rifle.
“Cartel scouts,” I hiss. “Two o’clock, thirty meters.”
The team fans out, weapons drawn. I make out seven figures — lean, armed, carrying crates. They haven’t seen us yet. Good. I press in closer, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure they can hear it.
Through the radio I murmur, “Wait for me to let you know. Keep them quiet - get them before they can signal for assistance.
I slide a smoke grenade off my belt. Filmy as a breath, I thumb the pin and roll it into the scout group. It clinks once, then hisses. At the very same moment, I yell, “NOW!”
The grenade lands among them, clanking off the ground as a dense cloud of white smoke billows through the corridor. And we shoot — muffled, the rounds blue-gray and measured. I witness bodies crumple, there is the sickly bounce of bullets off crates.
Chaos reigns. I run, feet sliding in inches of water. Another scout attempts to run further into the tunnel; Silva stops him with a burst from his rifle. Another takes aim with his weapon, but is shot in the head by Marco.
Within seconds, it’s over. The smoke rises in empty air; the bodies stay where they are. I sniff for gas—none. Good. We advance, guns sweeping.
I go over to the closest downed scout and kick his arm so that he lands on his back. He whimpers, his eyes wide in the smoke. I shake my head. “No time.” We need to move.
I gesture toward the ceiling in the opposite wall, in which a rusted, square panel hangs ajar. “There—chisels and pry bars.”
Silva and two other men pull the panel away, exposing a narrow chute that was lined with aged wooden boards. On the other side is the heart of the cartel’s contraband hub, where I can practically smell the opium and diesel.
We squeeze in single file. I just feel so… watched in this tight space. Vulnerable. But I swallow it down. I have a job to do.
One by one we emerge into a cavernous room: crates printed with Salazar’s mark, stacks of plastic jugs, burlap sacks bulging with god‑knows‑what. In the half‑light everything looks like a surreal painting. I pan my torch light around the warehouse – poison gas barrels, crates of plastic explosives for shipping up north, and in the middle of it all, a posse of Salazar's lieutenants tallying cash and crates.
My skin prickles. This is the nucleus. If Dante’s other teams can cripple the flow here, the cartel falls.
I kneel behind some crates and whisper into the radio, “Target confirmed. Lieutenant Vargas and four lieutenants. Two heavy crates. Start breach in five … four … three …”
The room shakes violently as smoke grenades are rolled in from the other side of the hatch (where Marco entered from). The lieutenants scream, rushing to grab their guns. My team starts shooting, and everything is momentarily reduced to a blaze of muzzle flash and the sound of screaming.
I lean out of cover, adrenaline pumping hard, harder than it has all match. I shoulder‑check a lieutenant as he dives toward his rifle, put him on his ass and send two rounds into his shoulder. He falls back, eyes terrified. The taste of gunpowder burns down my throat as I run to the next man, heart in my mouth. The operation I’m in charge of plays out and I’m right there: two of our guys smash through the primary doors, blocking off any means of egress from the room; the rest of the cartel guys stumble into room, blind-sided.
Three more breathless minutes, and it’s done. The lieutenants lie groaning; the weapons of Salazar’s men are stacked at the door like waste prizes. I check the scene—smoke drifting by crates, our men slapping on prisoners, the dead body of Vargas melting over barrels.
I remove the tablet from my bag and tap the screen: “Job done. Retrieving intel and casualties count. Extraction in ten.”
The men are silent now, tired but victorious. I realize that Silva is wiping his brow of sweat. His gaze finds mine, respect and relief in them. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to believe we might actually do it.
I stack up some ledger books and chipboard folders — delivery schedules, code names, financial sheets. Exactly what Dante needs. I slip them into my pack as the first pale fingers of dawn glimmer through high windows.
Then suddenly, alarms go off—a screeching, mechanical scream that rips through the air. My blood turns ice‑cold. A silent alarm of some kind was tripped — a crate sensor, a pressure plate, something of the sort.
I shout, “Move! Exit, now!”
We run back through the warehouse, past the crates and the bodies, retracing our steps toward the chute. But when I ease into its tight embrace, I hear a set of heavy steps and yelled curses coming up behind us. The rest of this cartel support — more than likely a couple of full squads — are beginning to rally to our position.
My chest tightens. We’re trapped.
I worm up to the hatch, force up the panel, and can close the hatches, levers scratching at metal. But something stops—wood planks are broken off from our previous escape. The hatch jams halfway.
I yank at it, panic rising. “Hurry!” I bark. “Get out!”
One of the men pushes by me, limping out of the tunnel. At last, the hatch relents, and I shut it behind me. I jump to my feet, landing on my knees, choking as bullets ping off the metal ceiling.
Heart hammering, I slither back into the tunnel. My teammates chase after me — wet water flying with every step. Marco comes running back down the fork of the path.
I grab his arm. “They’re behind us—fast.”
Marco aims his rifle at the mouth of the tunnel. His finger tenses on the trigger. “Cover fire. Move!”
We run, the tunnel’s twists and curves concealing our escape. I risk a look over my shoulder: six furious outlines block the entrance, guns drawn. They shoot a volley; I press my hot body to the cold wall of the blackout - a string of their bullets overhead.
I grind my teeth and step my legs up further. There is Marco, behind me, calling out azimuth to the secondaries. The hatch points will release a suppressive rain of fire in minutes and cease all cartel re-enforcements.
My boots slide, my rifle arm quivers. I remember Dante’s promise: answers. Revenge. Legacy. It’s what keeps me moving, through the dark tunnel, feet pounding the ground.
At the fork we tear past the left branch—toward the evacuation hatch near the apartment building. My lungs burn. My ears ring. I dare to hope we’ll make it.
One last burst of bullets clatters off the ceiling of the tunnel. Marco curses. “Almost there!”
And then we burst into the stairwell panting and charge up two flights to street level. The sun is too bright for me, hot and reaping. Fatigue crashes in every muscle. But I lurch forward, willing my legs to work.
At last, we arrive in a back street behind the safehouse. A convoy of unmarked vans comes peeling around the corner — our ride. The men file,” rather, pile in, doors banging. I sink into the back of the first van, toss off my pack, and slide down its wall.
The hatch closes. The warmth of the engine's hum beneath us. Tires squeal as the van peels off.
I close my eyes. My chest heaves. My heart is fit to burst.
Marco is crouched next to me, loading ammo into his gun. “You did good,” he says softly.
I look at the floor, my head spinning. “We lost two men.”
He nods. “Collateral.”
I swallow. “They were young.”
Marco looks me in the eyes — no pity, just the truth. “We win the war by paying the price.”
I close my eyes once more and think about that. I wanted revenge. I wanted power. I craved answers. But this — this brutal calculus — I’m still getting the hang of.
The convoy trundles through deserted streets on its way to Dante’s compound. Dawn steals like bloodshot glass across the city, staining the towers behind it pink. From this island, the skyline of Lagos seems tranquil and unaware of the violence that continues to churn below.
She throws my phone, and it passes through the open portal again before I stand up and dust myself off. I straighten out my jacket and continue to run my hand over my face, wiping off any sweat. No point in second-guesses; tomorrow we debrief, organize our next strike and move that much closer to Salazar's core.
And somewhere in Dante’s penthouse, he’ll be waiting — with offers and threats and replies I really don’t deserve.
And I brace myself for what’s next. For in the shadows and the gunfire of this world, only the strong are left standing.
And I plan to be heartless enough to follow through.
