Chapter 7
1090 Words
They spent three days planning.
Mila made the call from a burner. Voice shaking just enough to sell fear.
She named the place.
Old shipyard near Badagry. Abandoned dry dock. Massive. Rusty. Full of places to hide. Full of places to die.
She said she would bring the full drive. All codes. All routes. Everything.
She wanted the boy safe first.
The voice on the other end sounded pleased.
Midnight. Three nights from now.
Bring no one.
Or the boy dies before you reach the gate.
Click.
Darian listened to the recording three times.
Then he started building the net.
Victor brought ten men. Best ones. Quiet. Loyal. Armed heavy.
They scouted the shipyard at dawn. Twice at dusk. Once at night.
Darian mapped every angle. Every blind spot. Every escape route.
Mila practiced drawing the hidden Glock from her ankle holster. Over and over. Until the motion became muscle memory.
She practiced the vest too. How it felt under loose clothing. How to breathe in it. How not to panic when the weight pressed her ribs.
Night before the meet Darian could not sleep.
He sat on the edge of the bed watching her breathe.
She opened her eyes.
“Come here,” she whispered.
He lay beside her.
She curled into him.
They did not speak.
Just held each other.
Skin to skin.
Heartbeat to heartbeat.
When dawn came they dressed in silence.
Black clothes. Dark jackets.
Mila strapped the vest tight.
Darian checked every buckle.
Then he kissed her.
Long.
Hard.
Desperate.
She kissed back the same way.
They drove separate cars.
Darian left first. Parked two kilometers out. Moved in on foot through scrub and shadows.
Mila drove the last stretch alone.
She parked outside the main gate.
Got out.
Hands visible.
Wind off the water smelled of salt and decay.
She walked through the open gate.
Huge cranes loomed like skeletons.
Dry dock empty. Concrete cracked. Puddles reflecting moonlight.
She stopped in the center.
Waited.
Minutes passed.
Then headlights swept across the yard.
Black van.
No plates.
Doors opened.
Five men stepped out.
All armed.
One in front.
Tall. Broad. Face half in shadow.
He walked forward.
Stopped ten meters away.
“You brought it?” he asked.
Mila lifted the flash drive.
“Boy first.”
He laughed low.
“No boy. Not until I see proof.”
She tossed the drive.
He caught it.
Plugged it into a rugged laptop one of his men held.
Screen glowed.
He scrolled.
Nodded.
“Looks real.”
“It is.”
He closed the laptop.
“Now you come with us. We verify. Then the boy lives.”
Mila shook her head.
“That was not the deal.”
“Deal changed.”
He raised his gun.
Mila stared down the barrel.
Darian watched from the catwalk above. Fifty meters. Angle good.
He signaled.
Victor men moved.
Silent.
Fast.
Gunfire erupted from three directions.
Men dropped.
The tall one spun.
Grabbed Mila.
Used her as shield.
Pulled her backward toward the van.
Darian vaulted the railing.
Dropped fifteen feet.
Landed rolling.
Came up running.
Gun up.
The tall one fired.
Bullet grazed Darian shoulder.
Burned.
He ignored it.
Kept coming.
Mila stomped the man’s instep.
Elbowed his throat.
Broke free.
Dropped flat.
Darian fired twice.
Both hits.
Center mass.
The man fell.
Mila rolled. Grabbed the fallen gun.
Fired at the last two men trying to flank.
One dropped.
The other ran.
Victor men cut him down.
Silence fell.
Sudden.
Deafening.
Darian reached Mila.
Pulled her up.
Checked her.
No blood.
She checked him.
Shoulder bleeding.
Not deep.
They looked around.
Bodies.
Smoke.
Stillness.
Victor approached.
“Clear.”
Darian nodded.
Mila exhaled shaky.
“It is over?”
Darian looked at the tall man’s face.
Recognized him now.
One of Marcus distant cousins.
Family business.
Always family.
He knelt. Checked pulse.
Nothing.
He stood.
“Not over,” he said. “But closer.”
They walked out.
Wind colder now.
Stars sharp.
Mila leaned against him as they moved to the cars.
Darian wrapped his arm around her.
Shoulder throbbed.
Worth it.
Victor drove them to a clinic Victor owned.
Quiet place.
No questions.
Doctor stitched Darian shoulder. Gave antibiotics. Told him to rest.
He laughed.
Rest.
Funny word.
Back at the temporary apartment they showered together.
Water hot.
Blood and gunpowder swirling down the drain.
They touched careful.
Kissed softer than usual.
Fear still lingered.
But so did relief.
They climbed into bed.
Mila curled against his good side.
Hand over his heart.
He covered her hand with his.
“We get Amila tomorrow,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Then we disappear for a while.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere warm. Quiet. No ports. No guns. Just us.”
She smiled against his skin.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
They fell asleep like that.
Breathing matched.
City outside kept moving.
But inside.
For the first time in weeks.
Quiet.
Real quiet.
Next morning they drove to Lekki.
Amila saw the car from the window.
Ran out the gate.
Arms wide.
“Mama! Dada!”
Mila reached him first.
Lifted him high.
Spun him.
Laughed through tears.
Darian joined them.
Wrapped both in his arms.
Amila kissed his cheek.
Then Mila’s.
“Home now?” he asked.
Darian looked at Mila.
She nodded.
“Yes baby. Home.”
They drove.
Not to the penthouse.
Not to the new apartment.
To the airport.
Private charter.
Small island off the coast.
No name on the manifest.
Just three passengers.
One child.
One woman.
One man.
All tired.
All alive.
Plane lifted off.
Lagos shrank below.
Darian held Mila hand.
Amila slept between them.
Mila leaned her head on Darian shoulder.
“You think they will follow?” she asked quiet.
“Maybe.”
“What then?”
He kissed her temple.
“Then we finish it.”
She nodded.
“But not today.”
“No.”
“Today we rest.”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes.
He watched the clouds.
Thought about the next threat.
The one after.
The one after that.
Then he looked at his family.
Amila small hand in his.
Mila breathing slow.
And for the first time he let himself believe.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
They could win.
Not forever.
But long enough.
Long enough for mornings with pancakes.
Evenings with stories.
Nights with her body against his.
Long enough for ordinary.
He closed his eyes.
Let the plane carry them away.
For now.
That was enough.
- Writer
