BULLETPROOF HEART

THE PROPOSAL

BULLETPROOF HEART - CHAPTER 15: THE PROPOSAL

The Hague in November was nothing like Port Harcourt.

No rain that sounded like war. Just cold, clean wind off the canals, bikes everywhere, and buildings that looked too honest to hide a man like Colonel Price.

Marcus testified for two days. Amara sat in the front row, in a navy blue suit her father had bought, holding her little notebook where she wrote "BREATHE" every time Marcus's voice got tight.

He told them about Bayelsa. About the convoy. About Dele's voice on the video. About his brothers.

When it was done, the judges said Price would not be leaving detention. Ever.

Outside the court, Marcus didn't say anything. He just walked to the canal and put his hands on the rail and stared at the water.

Amara stood next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

"You did it," she said.

"We did it," he said.

He reached into his tactical bag — same bag, now patched, that had held the drive from Room 7 to Borokiri to the Air Force base to Abuja — and pulled out a small black box.

Not velvet. Not jewelry store.

Metal. Fingerprint lock. Military issue.

Amara stared at it. "Marcus, if that's a ring in a tactical box I'm going to laugh and then say yes."

He laughed, that real laugh again. "It's not a ring."

He thumbed the lock. Inside: a badge. Not Nigerian. Not American. Interpol Civilian Liaison — with her name on it. AMARA COLE - OPOBO.

And under it: a folded letter. US Department of State - Permanent Security Contractor Assignment: Chief Amara Opobo-Cole Detail.

She looked up. "What is this?"

"Agent Laurent called it a proposal," Marcus said. "She said Interpol wants you as a consultant for oil fraud in West Africa. And they want me assigned to you. Permanently. Not 48 hours. Not until safe. Permanent."

He picked up the badge and pinned it carefully to her suit jacket, hands steady.

"So I'm not proposing you quit your father's company and follow a soldier," he said, voice low so only she heard over the wind and bikes. "I'm proposing the soldier quits wandering and follows you. Everywhere. As your job. As your..."

"As my what?" she whispered, eyes already wet.

"As your Rule 2. You don't leave my sight. Ever."

Amara touched the badge, then his face — scar, jaw, that American exhaustion that was finally gone.

"You carried me barefoot through mud, through rivers, through markets," she said. "You jumped roofs for me. You learned to eat akara at 5 AM for my father."

"And?"

"And you think a badge is going to make me stay?" She smiled, that dangerous small smile from Chapter 1, but soft now. "Sergeant, I was staying since you said you failed Rule 3."

He pulled her in, right there on the canal bridge, in front of Interpol lawyers and Dutch cyclists.

It wasn't the desperate kiss from the safe house. It wasn't the first proper kiss from Abuja.

It was a The Hague kiss. Public. Certain. Like a contract.

When they broke apart, her forehead against his, she whispered:

"Does this mean I have to call you Sergeant Johnson forever?"

"No," he whispered back. "In The Hague, it's Officer Johnson. Son-in-law rank comes later, when your mother approves."

She laughed and hit his chest.

Behind them, Agent Laurent pretended to be on her phone, but was very obviously taking a photo.

From Port Harcourt rain to The Hague wind — one assignment, one briefcase, one bed, one bullet.

One bulletproof heart, finally done running.

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*END OF SEASON 1