The basement of the old warehouse near the Lagos docks smelled of stagnant seawater, ancient stone, and the cold, metallic tang of history. This was the womb of the WATCHMEN, the limestone sanctuary established in 1914. While the world above in Marina had transformed into a skyline of glass and corporate greed, this subterranean level remained trapped in a colonial stasis. Mahogany desks, manual typewriters, and brass telegraph machines sat like tomb offerings.
Silas, Amaka, and Major Hamza collapsed into the space as the heavy iron elevator door hissed shut. Hamza was pale, his shoulder soaked in blood from a graze during the garden firefight. Amaka immediately began tearing into a first-aid kit she had salvaged from the car, her hands steady despite the adrenaline. Silas, however, walked straight to the center of the room, where a massive, hand-cranked printing press stood.
[SCENE START]
INTERIOR: LIMESTONE HEADQUARTERS - NIGHT
The only light comes from humming, battery-powered lanterns. SILAS runs his hand over the iron frame of the printing press. HAMZA is leaned against a limestone pillar, watching him with a mixture of exhaustion and suspicion.
HAMZA: You dragged us into a tomb, Silas. The NSDI has the docks surrounded. They have thermal imaging, satellite relays, and enough C4 to level this entire block. Your 'Victorian sanctuary' is just a well-decorated coffin.
SILAS: (Without turning)
The NSDI has technology, but they don't have the frequency. This building was lined with lead and copper mesh in 1914 to prevent telegraph interception. We are in the only 'black hole' in Lagos. Their sensors can't see through these walls.
AMAKA: (Applying a bandage to Hamza)
Hold still, Major. You're lucky the bullet was as tired as you are. Silas, the digital purge I triggered it's only a temporary fix. The NSDI analysts in Abuja will eventually find the redirection codes. If we don't release the truth now, they'll just rewrite the history books by morning.
SILAS: That's why we're here. (He gestures to the press) This is the Final Sentinel. It's a literal printing press, but it's also a transmitter. Lugard knew that eventually, the wires would be cut. He built a low-frequency radio array into the foundation of this warehouse. It broadcasts on a band no longer monitored by modern intelligence the old maritime distress frequency.
HAMZA: (Laughing weakly)
A radio broadcast? Who's going to listen? The fishermen? The ghosts of the colonial navy?
SILAS: Every major news agency in the world still has an emergency maritime listener. It's international law. If we broadcast the Lugard Files the real onesit won't go to the Nigerian press first. It will go to the BBC, the UN,and the Pentagon. By the time the NSDI realizes what's happening, the National Security they're trying to protect will be public property.
[SCENE END]
The drama of the night intensified as a muffled thump vibrated through the ceiling. The NSDI had arrived at the warehouse above. They were clearing the floors, room by room. Major Hamza struggled to his feet, checking the magazine of his sidearm. He looked at Silas, then at the heavy iron chest containing the Ledger.
"I spent my life believing that secrecy was the only thing keeping Nigeria together," Hamza said, his voice raspy. "I thought if the people knew how the sausage was made, they'd burn the kitchen down. But looking at you, Silas... looking at what we've become... maybe the fire is necessary."
[SCENE START]
INTERIOR: LIMESTONE HEADQUARTERS - CONTINUOUS
SILAS: Amaka, start the sequence. The Ledger is the key. The first ten pages are the encryption ciphers for the broadcast.
AMAKA: (Opening the chest)
If I do this, every name in here every bribe, every execution goes live. Silas, your name is in here too. From the '70s. The 'cleansing' of the Lagos port.
SILAS: (Pausing, his face a mask of stone)
I know. A Watchman who can't face his own shadow has no right to watch the light. Load the ciphers.
Suddenly, the ceiling groaned. Dust rained down. A tactical breaching charge detonated at the top of the elevator shaft. The NSDI wasn't coming down the stairs; they were coming down the throat of the building.
HAMZA: (Positioning himself behind a mahogany desk)
Go! Get the broadcast started! I'll give you the five minutes you need.
SILAS: Hamza, you don't have to do this. You can walk out with your hands up. You're a hero of the state.
HAMZA: (Smiling for the first time, a grim, bloody expression)
I haven't been a hero since I shook Abacha's hand ten years ago. I'm a Watchman now, Silas. Isn't that what you wanted? Someone to stay behind in the dark?
[SCENE END]
The first of the NSDI Section Defense operatives rappelled down the shaft. They were masked, silent, and armed with MP5s. Hamza opened fire, his shots precise and measured. The limestone basement, once a place of silent observation, became a roaring chamber of gunfire and flying stone chips.
Amaka worked frantically at the old telegraph-turned-transmitter. The brass keys clicked with a frantic rhythm as she input the 1914 codes. Silas stood by the printing press, hand-cranking the mechanism that powered the underground antenna. The physical labor was immense; he was literally pulling the truth out of the earth with his bare muscles.
[SCENE START]
INTERIOR: LIMESTONE HEADQUARTERS - COMBAT SEQUENCE
The room is filled with gunsmoke. HAMZA is pinned down. Two NSDI operatives lie dead near the elevator. BELLO the ruthless agent Silas had spared in Abuja lands in the center of the room, his face twisted in a snarl.
BELLO: (Screaming over the noise)
Give it up, Hamza! The General is dead! The money is gone! There's nothing left to save!
HAMZA: (Changing magazines)
There's the truth, Bello! But I suppose a man like you wouldn't know what to do with it!
Bello fires a burst that shatters the mahogany desk. Hamza rolls, firing back, hitting Bello in the thigh. Bello stumbles but keeps coming.
AMAKA: (Shouting)
Silas! The signal is live! It's broadcasting!
SILAS: (Grunting as he turns the crank)
Keep it open! Don't let it drop!
[SCENE END]
On the monitors of the NSDI command center in Abuja, and in the listening stations of the world's superpowers, a strange, archaic signal began to pulse. It was a digital ghost, a stream of data formatted in a way that modern firewalls didn't recognize as a threat. It was the Lugard Ledger.
Page by page, the secret history of Nigeria began to appear on screens across the globe. The 1976 assassination plot, the 1993 annulment bribes, the exact chemical composition of the Inheritance poison, and the names of the Lagos Elite who had funded the NSDI's rise. The Broad Forces of the intelligence agency were being unmasked in real-time.
In the basement, the battle reached its peak. Hamza was down, his leg shattered. Bello stood over him, raising his weapon for the execution. Silas abandoned the crank and lunged across the room. He didn't use a gun; he used a heavy limestone paperweight an original 1914 relic.
The impact was silent and final. Bello collapsed.
Silas knelt beside Hamza, who was breathing in shallow, wet gasps. The radio transmitter hummed with a final, long tone. The broadcast was complete. The Ledger was no longer a secret.
"Is it... out?" Hamza whispered.
"The whole world is reading it, Major," Silas said, his voice cracking. "The ghosts are finally home."