BULLETPROOF HEART

PORTHARCOURT, SIX MONTHS LATER

BULLETPROOF HEART - CHAPTER 19: PORT HARCOURT, SIX MONTHS LATER

Port Harcourt hadn't changed. Same rain on zinc. Same bikes. Same smell of oil and fried plantain from Mama Nkechi's stall.

But Borokiri Church had a new roof. And Chief Opobo's company building had a new sign.

*OPOBO-COLE & JOHNSON SECURITY CONSULTING*

Amara stood under it in yellow again — not the soft dress from Abuja, a proper Ankara dress now, with her name stitched small on the sleeve: _CEO, A. Cole._

Marcus stood next to her in a suit that did not fit. Agent Laurent's husband had tried to tailor it in Brussels. It still didn't fit.

"I look like a bodyguard at a wedding," he muttered.

"You are a bodyguard at a wedding," Amara whispered. "My cousin's wedding. You said you'd try."

Chief Opobo came out of the building in white kaftan, holding two bottles of Star.

"Son-in-law! You are sweating. Good suit does that," he laughed. "Come inside, the Air Force men are here. They want to hear about Brussels."

Inside, same office where it started — Room 7 — but no panic. No bag under the desk. Just a desk, two chairs, and a photo on the wall: the old Toyota Hilux in front of Gate 2, muddy, with all three of them in it — Chief breathing hard, Marcus driving, Amara holding the drive like a baby.

Agent Laurent had framed it and sent it from Lyon with a note: _First Assignment._

Marcus looked at it.

"You know," he said to Amara, quiet while Chief poured drinks for the soldiers outside, "when you hired me, you said 48 hours."

"I did."

"It's been 213 days."

"You counted?"

"I counted every day I didn't get fired."

Amara leaned against the desk, where she'd once hidden.

"I have a new assignment for you," she said, reaching into her drawer — same drawer — and pulling out not a drive, but a small wooden box. Old wood. From the baptism pool tunnel.

Marcus stared. "Amara, if that's—"

"It's not a tactical box," she said, fast, smiling despite herself. "It's my grandmother's box. For kola nut. But now..."

She opened it. Inside: no ring. A key. One key. Brass, old, to the safe house in Abuja that Interpol had decommissioned and given to her as a thank-you.

"They let me keep it," she whispered. "So I thought... maybe we keep it. Together. Not for hiding. For when we need a place that is just ours. No Interpol, no Papa at 5 AM with akara, no Belgian police with watches."

Marcus took the key, heavy in his palm.

"You want me to move in? To a safe house?"

"I want you to stop counting days you don't get fired and start counting days we get to stay."

Outside, rain started again — Port Harcourt rain, loud, honest.

Marcus put the key in his pocket. Then he pulled her in, right there in Room 7 where he once said "Ma, you can't do this," and where she once said "I just did."

This time he didn't say Rule anything.

He just kissed her, proper, like in Abuja, like in The Hague, like in Brussels — but now with no sirens coming, no doors to kick, no clock ticking.

Chief's voice from outside: "AMARA! YOUR MOTHER IS ON VIDEO! SHE WANTS TO SEE THE SUIT!"

Amara didn't move. "He's never going to stop calling you son-in-law, is he?"

Marcus smiled against her hair. "Good stuck, remember?"

"Best stuck," she whispered.

And the rain fell on the new roof of Borokiri, and the sign outside swung a little in the wind — Opobo-Cole & Johnson — and inside, one assignment that was supposed to be 48 hours became a forever assignment.

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*END OF SEASON 1* 🔒❤️