"It's not the truth that destroys us,it's the silence that follows it."
— Ibrahim Dalhatu's private journal
Zina didn't cry.
She didn't sleep.
She didn't eat.
The flash drive was still warm in her hand hours later. Her laptop battery had died, but she didn't move. The video kept replaying in her mind Gambo accepting a suitcase, a voice murmuring behind the camera, and that final line that splintered through her soul:
"It's about who survives the purge."
She leaned back on the couch in the apartment she no longer trusted. The walls felt closer. The shadows thicker. Her father's journal still sat open on the coffee table, daring her to understand what he had died for.
She had always known Abuja was full of liars.
She just didn't expect them to wear her family's last name.
At 7:13 a.m., the silence broke.
Aurelian was gone. No calls. No texts. She checked the hotel cameras his car left the building at 3:19 a.m. She called his number. Straight to voicemail.
She checked her messages.
Nothing except for a new anonymous email:
Subject: Whisper Street.
Message: "Come alone. 13B. Don't trust Royce."
Her breath caught.
Royce? Aurelian?
She stared at the screen, heart thudding.
Could she trust anyone?
Whisper Street wasn't a real street. Not on GPS. But old journalists and informants had whispered about it for years. A safe house. Or a trap. Or both.
The sky was gray as she stepped out of the car. The air was damp, heavy with secrets.
The house at 13B looked abandoned boards over windows, ivy eating the stone. She slipped through the crooked gate and stepped into a corridor that smelled like mildew and dead promises.
Inside, she found a shrine of evidence.
Photos pinned across walls. Newspaper clippings. Satellite maps. Red string linking figures like a madman's conspiracy board except it wasn't mad. It was painfully real.
A woman stood at the center. Sharp eyes. Tense posture. No smile.
"You're late," the woman said.
Zina didn't blink. "Who are you?"
"I'm the reason you're still breathing. Call me Sparrow."
Sparrow explained it all.
She had worked with Ibrahim Dalhatu. Secretly. As an embedded analyst inside the Financial Crimes Bureau. Her job was to track the untrackable military bribes, NGO scams, oil backdoor deals. She had tried to go public once. Barely escaped with her life.
"Your father protected me. And then they came for him."
She handed Zina a small device. An old courtroom audio recorder.
"Everything's on there. One of their final meetings. He recorded it all."
Zina held it as if it were her father's heart.
"Why now?" she asked.
"Because you're next on the list. And because you're the only one reckless enough to finish what he started."
She returned to her car and played the recorder.
Ibrahim Dalhatu: "We can still stop this. Go public. Force their hand."
Senator Gambo: "There's no court strong enough. No jury brave enough. You go public, and your daughter dies first."
Ibrahim: "She's not part of this."
Gambo: "She is now. They've seen the fire in her eyes. She burns too loudly."
Zina paused the recording.
Tears brimmed but did not fall.
Her father had known. Known she would inherit his war. Known they would come for her.
Aurelian's voice echoed in her memory:
"This is bigger than politics. This is power baptized in blood."
And then her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
"The man you trust the most already signed the deal. Ask him why your father died."
She gasped.
Could it be Aurelian?
She rushed to the hotel, storming into Aurelian's suite like a storm.
It was empty.
But there, on the bed, sat a manila envelope.
She tore it open.
Inside were documents contracts. Transfers. Pages of classified Senate minutes.
And at the bottom: a non-disclosure agreement signed by Royce Aurelian.
Dated three weeks before her father's death.
She collapsed onto the bed, chest heaving.
No. It had to be a lie. A setup.
The man who had defended her in court, who had held her hand through funerals, couldn't be the same man who watched her father fall.
Could he?
Her world spun.
Then her phone rang again.
Aurelian.
She answered.
"Zina listen to me. Don't go home. Your location's been compromised. I'm coming to get you."
"Where were you?" she demanded. "What did you sign? What did you know?"
Silence on the other end.
Then:
"I'll explain everything. But right now, get somewhere safe."
She hung up.
She had heard enough.
On her way out, a black car swerved to block her path.
The window rolled down.
A familiar voice called, "Get in. Now."
It was Sparrow.
Zina hesitated then jumped in.
As the car sped off, Sparrow spoke calmly.
"There's something you don't know. Your father didn't just die."
Zina's voice cracked. "What are you talking about?"
Sparrow pulled out a photo from her glove box.
It was Colonel Musa alive, in uniform, at a private airport.
"Your father went to meet him the night he died. Colonel Musa was the last person to see him alive."
"But he's dead," Zina whispered. "He died months ago"
"No," Sparrow said. "That's what they wanted us to think. But he's back. And he's hunting down every loose end."
Zina's pulse spiked.
"Was he at the train yard?"
Sparrow nodded. "And he'll come for you next."
Zina returned to her apartment to grab her case files and laptop, but the moment she entered, her instincts screamed.
Something was wrong.
The lights were off. The windows closed. But the air was disturbed.
She reached for her phone.
Then she saw it a photo on her pillow.
It was her.
Sleeping.
The timestamp read: 2:47 a.m. just hours ago.
She staggered back, pulse racing.
How?
Then she heard it.
A soft, mechanical click.
Behind her.
She turned slowly.
The closet door opened.
And there he stood.
Colonel Musa.
Very much alive.
Gray uniform. Cold eyes. A scar across his neck.
He didn't speak.
He just stepped forward.
Zina froze.
He raised a gun. Small. Silenced.
"No one has to die today," she said, voice shaking.
He smiled.
Then, from behind him, Sparrow crashed through the bathroom door, tackling him to the ground.
The gun slid.
Zina grabbed it.
Musa swung and slammed Sparrow against the wall.
He lunged for Zina.
One shot.
Silence.
He fell.
Blood staining her rug.
Her hand trembled.
Sparrow gasped, holding her shoulder. "You okay?"
Zina stared at the body.
"No," she said. "But I'm done running."
That night, Zina filed a classified leak to an international human rights bureau attaching a portion of the flash drive and her father's audio.
She knew they might never publish it.
But now it was out.
The truth had escaped its cage.
And she was no longer afraid of being hunted.
But one thing haunted her still...
As she cleaned the blood from her carpet, her phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
"Musa was never the head of the operation. Just the hound. The real monster wears your father's wedding ring."
She dropped the phone.
Because her father had never taken off his ring.
Not even when he died.
HEY READER
Zina just came face to face with the truth and death. Now things are moving too fast to stop. But who really killed her father? Who's behind the purge? And can she trust anyone now?
Drop your thoughts below:
- Who do you think is pulling the strings behind it all?
- Was Aurelian involved or being used?
-Should Zina seek revenge or justice?
Tap like, share your theories in the comments, and follow for the next heart-racing chapter we update daily!
Let's solve this mystery together.