Chapter Twenty-Six: Close Calls.
Location: Pink cafe. Time: 4:00.
Tammy knew the moment she stepped into the tiny tech café in Yaba that she was risking everything. Her hoodie was up, sunglasses on, and she sat in the farthest booth, laptop open and signal-scrambled. But still, something felt off. Maybe it was the guy pretending to code beside her whose screen hadn't changed in twenty minutes. Maybe it was the loud buzz of her burner phone vibrating nonstop in her pocket. Or maybe it was just her instincts—sharp, honed, screaming.
She hit save, yanked out the flash drive, and slid it into the seam of her boots. Then she packed up quickly and bolted. She didn't look back. That's what saved her. By the time two suited men entered the café, Tammy had melted into a crowd of students flooding the street outside.
She didn't stop running until she was far away, hidden in an abandoned studio apartment on the mainland—one she'd once used as a safe space during her teenage hacking days. She locked the door, pulled down the blackout curtains, and slumped to the floor, chest heaving. That had been way too close.
She couldn't afford another mistake. Not when the truth was this close. Not when she'd finally traced encrypted chat logs from Tony Balogun to a foreign syndicate with a name too coded to fully decipher.
Meanwhile, in Jeremy's penthouse office, the air was tense. He stood near the windows, silent, staring out at the city as if it owed him answers. Behind him, Zion dropped a manila file on the table.
"You're not sleeping," Zion said flatly.
Jeremy didn't reply.
"You're not thinking clearly either. You've had every possible outlet scrubbed. If she wanted to be found, she'd have let you. But she hasn't. Doesn't that tell you something?"
Jeremy turned slowly. His jaw was tight. "She ran."
"Maybe she was running *from something*. Not you. Not us. From them. What if she's innocent, J?"
That shut Jeremy up. For the first time in weeks, he didn't have a counter.
Zion walked to the edge of the desk. "You asked me to dig into the hotel night. I did. There's too much that doesn't add up. Tammy's story might be messy, but Tony's is clean. Too clean."
Jeremy's eyes narrowed. Zion added, "Whatever she's doing, I think she's chasing answers. Same as us. Maybe she's not the enemy."
Back in the upscale heart of Lagos, Rita Wright was busy playing her part. At brunches, charity events, and gala rehearsals, she was the perfect socialite—smiling, glittering, graceful. But she was also listening.
Whenever Tammy's name came up—and it did, constantly—Rita would lean in with mock concern and say, "You know Jeremy's very private. They're just navigating personal things, I'm sure." Or, "Tammy's not one for the spotlight. It must be so overwhelming."
It was exhausting, being this poised. But it was working. Whispers dulled. Rumors softened. Rita wasn't just Tammy's shield now—she was her sword.
Tammy, meanwhile, sat cross-legged on the floor of her hideout, laptop humming beside her and flash drive loaded. A new lead had just popped up in the code. One name. One contact. One more puzzle piece.
She stared at the screen. Then whispered, "Almost there."