The Glove Remembers.

Chapter 8: Surgery

“On the ground!” Sergeant Nnenna Okeke shouted again. “Now!”

Her four tactical officers didn’t wait. They swarmed room four. Vests. Rifles. Laser sights cutting red lines across Dasuki’s gray suit.

Dasuki didn’t raise his hands. Didn’t flinch. He just finished buttoning his jacket. Like Okeke was a waiter with the wrong wine.

“Sergeant Okeke,” he said. Radio voice. Calm. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Am I?” Okeke stepped forward. Young. 29. No fear. “Funny. I have a warrant. Signed by the IG. Your name’s on it, _sir_.”

She said _sir_ like a curse.

The two nameless tactical officers behind Dasuki went for their hips.

Okeke’s team clicked their safeties off. One sound. Four guns.

The room went dead silent.

Mrs. Abah’s phone was still up. 4,891 viewers. Comments flying: _“OMG IS THAT DASUKI??” “SOMEBODY CALL CNN” “Amara runnn”_

Ife hadn’t moved. She was still by the crash cart, one hand on the defibrillator paddles. Like she could shock a police commissioner to death.

Tunde was on his knees. Hands up. But his eyes weren’t on the guns.

They were on me.

On my throat.

Where the SD card had gone down.

“Check her,” Dasuki said to A. Bello. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to. “Scalpel’s sterile. We’ll do it here.”

A. Bello took one step. Her hand was shaking. The scalpel caught the light.

Ife slammed the paddles together. _CRACK_. Sparks. “You come near her with that and I swear to God—”

“Enough,” Okeke said.

She didn’t shout. She didn’t need to.

She pulled out her own phone. Hit play.

A voice filled the room. Dasuki’s voice.

_“...Phase one was containment. Close the case. Discredit the sister. Make it suicide...”_

Room four’s CCTV was down. But Mrs. Abah’s f*******: Live wasn’t. And Okeke had been streaming it to SCID HQ for the last 90 seconds.

Dasuki’s smile finally died.

“Phase two,” Okeke said, “is you in cuffs.”

She nodded. Two officers moved. One on Hayes. One on Dasuki.

Hayes went quietly. Too quietly. He let them take his gun, let them cuff him. But as they walked him past me, he leaned in.

His breath smelled like mint. Cop mint. The kind you chew after a crime scene.

“She’s awake, Amara,” he whispered. “And she’s not your sister.”

Then he was gone.

Dasuki wasn’t as easy.

He looked at his two nameless officers. Didn’t speak. Didn’t nod.

They dropped their weapons.

Put their hands up.

Surrendered.

Just like that.

Dasuki held his wrists out to Okeke. “You’ll regret this, Sergeant. Systems don’t die. Remember?”

“People do,” Okeke said, cuffing him. “Zara Eze did. Because of you.”

She shoved him toward the door.

He stopped. Looked back at me.

At my throat.

At the place where Zara’s evidence now sat in my stomach acid.

“You swallowed it,” he said. Not angry. Almost... impressed. “Your sister would be proud.”

Then he laughed.

And walked out. Calm. Head high. Like he was late for a meeting.

The room exhaled.

Ife dropped the paddles. Ran to me. “Amara. Talk to me. Are you—can you breathe? Does it hurt?”

“It’s plastic,” I said. My voice was raw. “I think.”

“You _think_?” Ife was already on her phone. “I need a GI consult. Stat. Foreign body ingestion. Possible obstruction.” She looked at me. “We have to get it out. Now.”

Tunde was on his feet. “No scalpels. No surgery. Not after what we just saw.”

“Then she digests it,” Ife snapped. “And Zara’s evidence goes into the Abuja sewage system. Is that what you want?”

Okeke holstered her weapon. “No one’s cutting her open. Not tonight. We stabilize. We scan. We get a warrant for... extraction.” She said _extraction_ like it tasted bad.

Mrs. Abah lowered her phone. Live ended. 12,204 viewers. “My data finished,” she said. Apologetic. “But I saved it. All of it.”

She looked at me. My 67-year-old neighbor who made the best jollof on the estate.

“Your sister came to me once,” Mrs. Abah said. “Three months ago. Asked me to keep my door open. At night. ‘Just in case,’ she said.” She touched my face. “You’re in case, Amara. So I called Ife. And I called that girl.” She nodded at Okeke. “Zara told me to. Said ‘if anything happens to me, find the sergeant with the scar.’”

Okeke had a scar. Thin. White. Left eyebrow to temple.

I’d never noticed it.

Okeke’s radio crackled. _“Sergeant, we’ve got movement. Dasuki’s lawyer is here. IG’s office is calling. They want him transferred to Defense HQ.”_

Okeke’s jaw locked. “He’s not going to Defense. He’s going to SCID holding.” She looked at me. “You’re coming with us. Protective custody.”

“Like hell,” Ife said. “She needs an endoscopy, not an interrogation.”

“She needs to stay alive,” Okeke said. “Dasuki has people in every hospital. Every lab. Every morgue.” She looked at A. Bello.

The nurse was still standing by the door. Scalpel on the floor. Hands up. Crying.

“My brother,” A. Bello whispered. “He’s in Kuje. They said if I didn’t—”

“Your brother’s out,” Okeke said. “We pulled him 20 minutes ago. He’s safe. You’re not.”

A. Bello collapsed. Sobbing.

I looked at Tunde. He was staring at the floor. At the glove. The right one. Still on the bed. Cold. Dead.

“Amara,” he said. “What Hayes said. ‘She’s awake. And she’s not your sister.’ What did he mean?”

I didn’t know.

But my stomach rolled.

Not nausea. Not fear.

Something else.

Like the SD card had just turned on.