Chapter 15:MADRID
1886 Words
For two days.
Two days on buses.
Two days on trains.
Two days sleeping in stations.
Elias hurt.
But moving.
Always moving.
Madrid.
Big.
Loud.
Crowded.
Good.
Easy to disappear in crowds.
Hard for 200 million naira to find you.
We found a hostel.
Cash.
Fake names.
Luis and Maria.
Spanish this time.
David and Amara were dead.
Burned in Seville.
Elias sat on the bed.
Small room.
Bunk beds.
He took the bottom.
I took the top.
Like we were kids.
We were not kids.
He pulled out the phone.
New one.
Bought in a train station.
No contacts.
Except one.
Damian.
He dialed.
Put it on speaker.
Looked at me.
Waited.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“Luis?”
Damian’s voice.
Tired.
Older than last time.
“It is me,” Elias said.
Not Luis.
Not David.
Me.
Silence.
Then—
“You are alive.”
Not a question.
“Barely,” Elias said.
“Morocco.”
“I know. I saw the news. Hospital.”
“You sent Jacob.”
“I did.”
Another pause.
Heavy.
“We are in Madrid,” Elias said.
“I know,” Damian said.
Of course he knew.
He always knew.
“Vera is coming,” Elias said.
“I know.”
“Her father is coming.”
“I know.”
“200 million.”
“I know.”
Elias closed his eyes.
“Send everything,” he said.
Voice flat.
No emotion.
Just fact.
“Everything you have. Guns. Money. Men. Send it all.”
Damian was quiet.
Long time.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Finally.
“Ending it,” Elias said.
“How?”
“I do not know yet. But it ends here. Madrid. No more running.”
More silence.
Then—
“Okay,” Damian said.
Simple.
“Okay.”
“You will help?”
“I raised you,” Damian said.
“You are my son. Even if you do not call me Dad. Even if you hate me. You are my son.”
Elias flinched.
Like he got hit.
Did not speak.
Could not speak.
“I will send what I can,” Damian said.
“Jacob will contact you. 48 hours.”
“Thank you,” Elias said.
Not Dad.
But close.
Closest he ever got.
“Elias,” Damian said.
Before he hung up.
“Yeah?”
“Keep her alive.”
He meant me.
“I will,” Elias said.
“Keep yourself alive too,” Damian said.
“I will try.”
Click.
Elias threw the phone on the bed.
Put his head in his hands.
Fingers in his hair.
Pulling.
“Hey,” I said.
Dropping down.
Next to him.
“Hey. Look at me.”
He did.
Eyes red.
Not crying.
Just tired.
So tired.
“Rule 7,” I said.
“We live.”
He nodded.
“We live,” he said.
Back to me.
Like a promise.
Like a prayer.
---
Day one in Madrid.
We did not leave the room.
We slept.
We healed.
We waited.
Day two, Jacob called.
New phone.
New number.
“Plaza Mayor,” he said.
“Noon. Come alone.”
“I do not go anywhere alone,” Elias said.
“Then bring her. But be careful. City is hot.”
We went.
Noon.
Plaza Mayor.
Tourists everywhere.
Cameras.
Pigeons.
Noise.
Jacob was there.
Bench.
Feeding pigeons.
Like a normal man.
He was not normal.
He was Damian’s man.
He did not look up when we sat.
“Under the bench,” he said.
Quiet.
“Bag. Do not open it here.”
We did not.
Elias grabbed it.
Heavy.
“Keys,” Jacob said.
Slid them across.
“Warehouse. South district. Address is inside. Go tonight. After dark.”
He stood.
Walked away.
Did not look back.
Pigeons scattered.
We walked away too.
Other direction.
Bag between us.
Like it was nothing.
Like it was not guns.
Like it was not the end.
---
Night.
Warehouse.
South district.
Smelled like oil and rust and old blood.
Inside.
Men.
Six of them.
Not Damian’s usual.
New ones.
Mercenaries.
Scars.
Guns.
No names.
“Luis?” one said.
Looking at Elias.
“Yeah,” Elias said.
“Damian sent us. We are yours for 72 hours. Then we are gone.”
Elias nodded.
Opened the bag.
From Jacob.
More guns.
Money.
Phones.
One file.
He opened the file.
Pictures.
Vera.
Her father.
Flight manifests.
“Private jet,” one merc said.
“Lands tomorrow. 09:00. Barajas Airport. Private terminal.”
Vera.
Here.
Tomorrow.
Elias looked at me.
I looked at him.
No more running.
“Plan,” he said to the men.
They gathered around.
Map on the table.
Airport.
Terminals.
Exits.
I did not listen.
I watched Elias.
His face.
No boss anymore.
No mask.
Just a man.
Who was done running.
Who was ready to end it.
---
Morning.
08:00.
Airport.
Private terminal.
We were there.
Early.
Elias.
Me.
Six mercs.
Two cars.
Black.
Windows tinted.
Elias wore a suit.
First time since Lagos.
Since Day 1.
“You are fired.”
Felt like a lifetime ago.
He looked good.
Dangerous.
Like the man I met.
Like the man I fell for.
Before the blood.
Before the running.
“You do not have to do this,” he said.
To me.
In the car.
Waiting.
“You can wait here. Be safe.”
“No,” I said.
Simple.
“Rule 3.”
He smiled.
Sad one.
“No one takes you from me,” he said.
“No one,” I said.
08:45.
A car pulled up.
Not Vera’s.
Security.
Akindele security.
Four men.
Suits.
Guns under jackets.
They scanned the terminal.
Did not see us.
We were too far.
Too hidden.
09:00.
Plane.
Private jet.
White.
Gold stripe.
Akindele logo.
Landing.
Smooth.
Like it owned the sky.
It taxied.
Stopped.
Door opened.
Stairs came down.
First, her father.
Chief Akindele.
Old.
Gray.
But power in his shoulders.
In his eyes.
Man who built an empire.
Man who put 200 million on our heads.
Then, her.
Vera.
Black dress.
Red lips.
No tears.
No act.
Just rage.
Pure.
She stepped onto the tarmac.
Like she owned it.
Like she owned Spain.
Like she owned us.
She scanned the terminal.
Slow.
Methodical.
Looking.
For him.
For Elias.
And for me.
For the first time since Lagos, I saw her in person.
No screens.
No pictures.
Real.
She was beautiful.
I hated that.
She was hate.
I hated that more.
Elias went still next to me.
In the car.
Hand on the door handle.
Ready.
“Wait,” one merc said.
Radio to his ear.
“More cars coming. Not ours.”
More cars.
Three.
Black.
Pulled up.
Men got out.
Not Akindele men.
Different.
Spanish.
Police?
No.
Not police.
Too many guns.
Too little uniforms.
“Who are they?” I asked.
Elias did not know.
Mercs did not know.
Vera saw them.
Smiled.
Walked to them.
Like she expected them.
Her father joined her.
They talked.
Laughed.
Pointed at the terminal.
Pointed at the cameras.
“They knew we would be here,” Elias said.
Voice low.
“Damian was right. Too quiet.”
It was a trap.
The whole thing.
The video.
The 200 million.
She wanted us here.
Wanted us to come to her.
“Go,” Elias said to the driver.
“Now.”
We did.
Tires screamed.
Out of the parking lot.
Away from the terminal.
Away from Vera.
But not away from the trap.
Because behind us, cars started.
All of them.
Akindele security.
Spanish men.
Following.
“Rule 8,” Elias said.
Looking back.
At the cars.
At Vera getting smaller.
But not gone.
Never gone.
“We end this.”
“How?” I said.
Again.
“Not here,” he said.
“Not like this. Not on her terms.”
He pulled out the phone.
Dialed.
“Damian,” he said.
“It is a trap. All of it. Send everyone. Madrid. Now.”
He hung up.
Looked at me.
Hand found mine.
Held tight.
“Scared?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
Honest.
“Good,” he said.
“Scared keeps you alive.”
“Rule 7,” I said.
“We live.”
“We live,” he said.
The cars behind us got closer.
Madrid blurred past the windows.
Sirens started.
Real ones.
Police ones.
Someone called them.
Vera, probably.
We were not running anymore.
We were hunting.
And no one was taking us from each other.
Not Vera.
Not her father.
Not 200 million.
Not the whole damn world with guns.
We drove.
And did not stop.
This was it.
The end.
One way or another.
Rule 8.
We end this.
Together.
Rule 1.
You are fired.
That was Day 1.
Lagos.
Office.
Him in a suit.
Me with nothing.
I thought that was the end.
It was the beginning.
Rule 2.
Do not get attached.
We broke that one first.
In an elevator.
His hands.
My mouth.
No attachments.
Just lies.
Rule 3.
No one takes you from me.
Not Vera.
Not Damian.
Not Chief Akindele with 200 million naira.
Not bullets.
Not airports.
Not Morocco alleys.
Not Madrid terminals.
No one.
Rule 4.
We did not make a Rule 4.
We were too busy running to make it.
Rule 5.
We do not apologize for choosing each other.
Kitchen table.
Accra.
His stitches.
My hands.
We chose.
Every day.
Even when it hurt.
Especially when it hurt.
Rule 6.
We stop running someday.
Someday was not today.
But someday was coming.
I could feel it.
In the car.
In his hand holding mine.
In Madrid sliding past the windows.
Rule 7.
We live.
Not survive.
Not hide.
Live.
Like normal people.
Coffee without looking over our shoulders.
Sleep without guns under pillows.
Names that were real.
One day.
Rule 8.
We end this.
Vera.
Her father.
The money.
The lies.
The 200 million.
All of it.
Here.
Madrid.
No more cities.
No more new passports.
No more Rule 1.
The cars behind us got louder.
Engines.
Tires.
Sirens too.
Real ones.
Spanish police.
Vera called them.
Of course she did.
Elias did not speed up.
Did not panic.
Just drove.
One hand on the wheel.
One hand on mine.
Both hands full.
“Scared?” he asked.
Again.
Always asked.
Like it mattered.
“Yes,” I said.
Again.
Always honest.
“Good,” he said.
“Scared means you are alive. Scared means you have something to lose.”
I had everything to lose.
Him.
He kissed my knuckles.
Still driving.
Still watching the road.
Still watching me.
Both.
Always both.
“I love you,” I said.
First time out loud.
Not in Lagos.
Not in Accra.
Not in Cape Town.
Here.
Madrid.
With death behind us.
With war ahead.
He did not flinch.
Did not swerve.
Just said,
“I know.”
Pause.
Then,
“I love you too, Ava Daniels.”
Not Amara.
Not Maria.
Not Luis and Maria.
Ava.
My name.
In his mouth.
After all of this.
The cars behind us did not matter.
Vera at the airport did not matter.
200 million did not matter.
Chief
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