The news of Tunde Ajayi's death spread like black smoke across Lagos. From Ajegunle to Lekki, whispers filled beer parlors, underground lounges, and coded Telegram groups. Tunde wasn't just the leader of The Haven Cartel—he was the engine, the face, the storm and the calm. Now, his sudden assassination left a vacuum no one was ready for.
Inside a tucked-away warehouse off the Apapa port, Jide Ajayi—Tunde's younger brother—stood alone under a hanging bulb, staring at a dusty portrait of their late father. The walls were lined with crates of contraband electronics and sealed packages. The place once buzzed with life; now it felt hollow.
He lit a cigarette with shaky fingers.
He didn't ask for this life.
He didn't even like it.
But blood is louder than desire.
A creaky door broke the silence. Mama Zee entered—wrapped in a faded Ankara with a Bluetooth earpiece glued to her ear. She had run intelligence for the cartel since before Jide hit puberty. "Your brother's death wasn't a coincidence," she said without preamble. "It was a move."
Jide turned slowly. "A move from who?"
"Not the police. Not the press. It's internal." She tossed a flash drive on the table. "Someone sold him out."
Later that night, Jide gathered the council. Shanks—logistics. Wura—the smuggler from Cotonou. Dimeji—the enforcer who rarely spoke, but when he did, rooms fell quiet. No one looked Jide in the eye. He was no Tunde.
But Jide didn't need to be Tunde.
He just needed to be something… else.
He connected the flash drive. Surveillance footage played. A masked figure, dressed in Haven Cartel uniform, entering the private compound hours before Tunde's death. Calm. Precise. Familiar.
"Someone close," Jide said, eyes cold. "We're not under attack. We've been infiltrated."
Silence.
Then Shanks muttered, "So what's the move?"
Jide smiled faintly. "We don't flinch. We infect. We trace the mole… and we bury them alive."
Outside, thunder rolled over the Lagos skyline.
The streets hadn't even begun to bleed.