Rain fell hard over Lagos like the sky itself had broken its pact with the earth. The city, once humming with the mechanical rhythm of survival, now churned with the chaos of reckoning. In the wake of Dapo's broadcast, streamed across hijacked government channels, projected onto digital billboards, and whispered in back-alley bars, the power structure trembled. What had once been hidden in shadows now blazed under scrutiny. The covenant that held the elite together had shattered.
Inside a derelict wing of the old Lagos Central Library, Dapo sat in the glow of flickering lanterns, surrounded by printed dossiers and hacked drives. His voice was hoarse, his hands bandaged from a confrontation the night before. Kike paced nearby, scanning messages on a burner phone, while Marcus stood by the boarded window, peeking through a sliver at the swelling crowd outside.
"They're calling for resignations," Kike said, eyes darting across the screen. "And not just the fake ones this time. The people want real heads. Bala. Hassan. Even the Vice President."
Marcus chuckled darkly. "About damn time."
Dapo exhaled. The storm outside had found its echo in the city's streets. The broadcast had revealed the extent of Project Abattoir, how politicians had funneled funds through security votes to private militias, orchestrating chaos as a cover for personal gain. It wasn't just corruption; it was engineered fear.
"Is the compound ready?" Dapo asked.
Marcus nodded. "Yes. I have men there. It's secure, but we need to move before sunrise. If they track us,"
"They will," Kike cut in. "It's only a matter of time."
In the next moment, thunder rolled, and the lights flickered again. Dapo stood and walked to the center table, placing a weathered photograph on top of a satellite map. The photo showed a younger Hassan with a man believed to be the elusive head of the Black Shroud, a private network of mercenaries once thought to be disbanded.
"We strike tonight," Dapo said. "We go to Gbara Compound and bring out the evidence. Not just data. Physical proof. Let the people see what they built their kingdom on."
Ikoyi, Gbara Compound, 3:12 AM
The convoy of black jeeps moved without headlights, weaving through back routes and relying on encrypted GPS. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and fog blanketed the city like smoke that had lost its fire.
Kike adjusted her grip on the semi-auto in her lap. Across from her, Dapo stared into the dark, mind racing. Every decision now was war. There were no more neutral zones. The air itself seemed to buzz with treachery.
As they reached the outer perimeter of the compound, Marcus's voice crackled in the comms. "We're here. The outer gate's been breached. Minimal resistance."
But Dapo didn't relax.
They stormed the compound, splitting into teams. Kike and two operatives secured the server room. Marcus headed for the underground vault rumored to hold physical ledgers and hard drives. Dapo moved through the main hall, where portraits of governors and oil tycoons lined the walls like a gallery of ghosts.
Then came the gunfire.
A burst. Then three more. Dapo ducked behind a pillar and returned fire. One of the Black Shroud remnants had been waiting. Not many, but enough to slow them. Enough to stall the truth.
In ten minutes, the shootout was over. Marcus emerged from the vault with a case in his hand, bruised but alive.
"We got it," he panted.
Dapo didn't smile. "Move. We have five minutes."
Morning, Downtown Broadcast HQ
Dapo stood before a cracked camera, eyes sunken but burning with clarity. Behind him, technicians worked to loop the broadcast to all remaining open networks. Kike uploaded the files, visuals, confessions, and financial trails. Proof of atrocities committed under the guise of democracy.
"Lagos," Dapo said, voice sharp. "They tried to silence us. They failed."
The video rolled, images of mass graves, bank statements, and intercepted communications.
Across the city, people stopped. In markets. In banks. In cars. To watch. To listen.
The Presidential Villa, 10:12 AM
President Bala watched in horror. Around him, aides scattered like roaches, phones ringing off the hook. General Hassan was gone. Rumors said he fled through a private airstrip, but others claimed he never left Lagos.
But it didn't matter now.
Dapo's face is on every screen. The truth laid bare.
The alliance was broken.
Evening, Obalende
Fire burned in pockets, not from rioters, but from planned demolitions. Government facilities were being cleared before angry mobs arrived. Police stations, known safe houses, and even stash points, all erased.
Marcus and Kike stood near an abandoned railway line, watching smoke rise from across the bridge.
"Where's Dapo?" she asked.
Marcus didn't answer.
Elsewhere, Location Unknown
Dapo sat in a dark room, lit only by a television showing snippets of the uprising. He leaned back, eyes closed. The cost of truth was high. But the people had seen. The broken covenant had been exposed.
The question now was: who would build from the ashes?
A knock at the door.
He didn't flinch.
A voice whispered, "Phase Two?"
Dapo opened his eyes.
"Yes."