The Lagos night hummed with a different kind of energy than the daytime chaos. The air was cooler, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine and the distant throb of music. Under the cloak of darkness, Mateo and I moved with a practiced stealth that felt both familiar and repugnant. The burner phones directed us to Mr. Alade's street, the quiet lane now shrouded in shadow.
We approached his house cautiously, sticking to the edges of the narrow road, our senses heightened. A single light glowed from a window on the ground floor, casting long, dancing shadows on the curtains. The silence was broken only by the chirping of crickets and the occasional distant bark of a dog.
Mateo signaled for me to take the rear. He moved with a fluid grace, his years of hard-won survival etched into every step. I circled around the back of the house, my hand instinctively resting on the cold steel of the pistol tucked into my waistband. The back door was secured with a simple latch, easily bypassed.
Inside, the air was still and close, carrying the faint smell of cooking spices. The layout matched the sketch in the file. The lit room was a small living area, sparsely furnished with a worn sofa and a small television flickering silently. Mr. Alade was nowhere in sight.
A creak from the floorboards upstairs sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. Mateo and I exchanged a quick, silent glance. He moved towards the stairs, his movements deliberate and soundless. I covered his advance, my weapon raised.
The stairs led to a narrow hallway with two closed doors. Mateo tried the first door; it was locked. He nodded towards the second. I positioned myself against the wall beside it as he slowly turned the handle.
The room was a small bedroom, illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the window. Mr. Alade was asleep in the single bed, his breathing shallow and even. On a bedside table, a framed photograph showed him smiling alongside a woman. It was a simple, domestic scene, a stark contrast to the violent intrusion we were about to make.
A wave of nausea washed over me. This felt wrong, deeply wrong. He was just a man sleeping in his bed. Whatever his alleged transgression against Lambda, did it warrant this?
Mateo's gaze flickered from the sleeping man to me, a silent question in his eyes. I could see a flicker of something similar in his expression, a weariness that went beyond the physical.
Before either of us could act, a voice cut through the silence, sharp and unexpected.
"Don't move."
We froze, our bodies tensing. Standing in the doorway behind us was a woman, small in stature but holding a pistol with a steady grip. Her eyes, though narrowed in the dim light, held a fierce intelligence.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice low but firm. "What are you doing in my father's house?"
The photograph on the bedside table suddenly clicked into place. This wasn't just a liability; this was someone's father.
The carefully constructed plan, the cold efficiency we had been forced to embrace, shattered in that instant. We were no longer faceless operatives; we were intruders in a home, confronted by a daughter protecting her father. The clean, clinical task had become messy, complicated, and undeniably human. The shadows of Lagos suddenly felt a lot darker.