The victory over Sotunde's contract had been a triumph of the mind, a clean, bloodless battle waged and won in the arena of logic and law. In Lagos, though, when you win a battle of the mind, the people you have defeated react in the language of the alleyway. Elian knew this. The System had warned him of "escalation," and he had been waiting for its form. He had not expected that it would be subtle.
It hit on a sweltering, moonless night. The compound's usual symphony—the screaming neighbors, the crying babies, the blaring radios—had faded to the low, steady drone of a sleeping city. Elian was returning from a late meeting with Alabi Mbeki, his mind full of supply chain models and inventory turnover rates. The unsealed, narrow passage that led to his room was an abyss of darkness, the sol
