Breaking off the edge of his cigar roughly with his teeth, Director Aina Adekunle of the National Intelligence Agency (NIA) raised his ornate, phoenix-shaped lighter to his lips. The flame flickered briefly before igniting the rich, dark tobacco. He sucked in his cheeks, letting the blue noxious fumes of his custom cigar blend circulate through his body. The scent of burning tobacco mingled with the faint tang of leather and steel that permeated his office.
Feeling invigorated, he tapped a discreet button embedded in his polished mahogany desk. "Let her in," he ordered.
There was no reply, but a moment later, the small indicator above his office door blinked to life, announcing someone was requesting entry. The blinking green light flickered rhythmically, a subtle detail in the otherwise imposing space.
"Open," the Director commanded in a measured tone.
The door swung open silently on its hydraulic hinges, revealing Agent Olivia Stone.
She stepped inside, battered and scarred. Bandages adorned her body, peeking from beneath her torn, bloodied tactical suit. Her left arm was supported in a sling, and her movements were slow and pained. Her shoulders slumped as she stood in the doorway, her face turned to the floor, too ashamed to meet the Director's piercing gaze.
"Olivia," Adekunle barked, his voice sharp as a whip. "Give me a situation report!"
He rose from his chair, his towering frame silhouetted against the enormous floor-to-ceiling glass window behind him. The Abuja skyline stretched out beyond the reinforced glass, a sprawling maze of life and power. The towers of the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN) glittered in the distance, their sleek designs cutting into the horizon like jagged teeth. To the north, the silhouette of Zuma Rock loomed ominously, bathed in the faint glow of the city's lights.
Adekunle's fist slammed onto the desk. "What went wrong? Where is my prize—my alien tech? Where is it?" he thundered.
Olivia flinched but straightened her posture, summoning what little dignity she had left. Her voice was shaky as she began. "They are killers… cold-blooded murderers…" she stuttered.
"I didn't ask for your feelings!" Adekunle roared. "Give me the sit-rep!"
Her breath hitched, but she complied. "After I took custody of Dr. Hassan, we were ambushed. Hassan and her husband overpowered the agents guarding them. Taiwo Hassan is no ordinary man—he fought with precision, using techniques that felt almost inhuman. He disarmed and incapacitated my men one by one."
She paused, wincing as the memory resurfaced. "Modupe seized a rifle and disabled the lock on the rear door of the ATOV. She climbed to the roof while Taiwo took out the remaining guards. I tried to regain control, but Taiwo threw me off the ATOV. I hit the ground hard…" Her voice cracked. "I broke my arm, fractured my ribs, and lost consciousness for a moment. By the time I called for backup, they were gone."
Adekunle's nostrils flared, but he remained silent as she continued.
"I requested immediate extraction," she said. "An Arclight MK VII transport craft was dispatched. It's the fastest in our fleet, equipped with VTOL capabilities and electromagnetic shielding. The craft landed precisely in my coordinates. I boarded, but I… I failed to retrieve the Hassans. They escaped into the ship."
Her voice faltered as she finished, her head hanging low. "That's all, sir."
Adekunle inhaled deeply from his cigar, exhaling a plume of smoke that hung in the air like a specter. "So… you failed," he said, his tone cold and dripping with disdain.
He paced toward the massive glass window, his hands clasped behind his back. "You, an ex-SEAL…" He paused, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "No, scratch that. A SEAL is always a SEAL. Olivia… I was the only one who offered to hire you after your court-martial. I gave you a second chance when no one else would."
He turned abruptly, his eyes blazing with fury. "And now, you've lost me my prize. My alien tech. My path to power."
The weight of his disappointment pressed heavily on the room. Adekunle walked back to his desk and tapped the button embedded in its surface.
"Wright," he said curtly.
"Yes, Director?" came the clipped reply through the intercom.
"Prep Electric Chair O⁴ in the basement," Adekunle ordered, his voice devoid of emotion. "And inform the Stone family that their daughter was killed in action. Extend my condolences."
"Yes, Director," Wright replied without hesitation.
Olivia's head snapped up, her eyes wide with disbelief. Tears brimmed at the edges, but she swallowed hard, forcing them back. She would not beg. She would not plead. She knew the rules—failure meant death.
Adekunle leaned back in his chair, taking another drag from his cigar. He exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on her. "It would have been better for you not to come back alive, Olivia," he said, his tone laced with finality.
The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of the city outside. Olivia stood there, battered and broken, knowing her end was near.