There are ten names the world knows: Israel, Iran, USA, Russia, China, India, Pakistan, UK, Germany, France. Names that ring with power. Names that boast legacies of intelligence might.
But what truly makes an intelligence agency deadly?
Not the headlines. Not the photographs of operatives paraded before cameras. Not the classified leaks bragging about terrorist cells neutralized. No. The deadly ones are the ghosts. The ones whose files don't exist. The ones that rewrite history without fingerprints.
India's RAW quietly snuffing out separatists in London. Pakistan's ISI pulling the strings behind jihadist empires. Israel's Mossad, lords of blackmail, sabotage, and fear. Russia's SVR, architects of the long con.
The truly deadly ones are the shadows.
And now, Nigeria had birthed its own demon.
His name was Michael Ogunlade.
They called him Agent Umbra.
Three days after the Cameroonian operation, Michael sat alone on the 72nd floor of the IIS black site hidden within the Ministry of Environment building in Abuja. The room was silent, bathed in the low glow of a data wall cycling through intercepts from Mali, Chad, and the Balkans.
The dossier from Operation Nightfall rested beside him. Every page burned into his mind. Every lie. Every trail of blood. He could still hear the scientist scream.
It's airborne You can't stop it
Michael closed his eyes. Not from guilt. From calculation.
He wasn't haunted by the lives he'd taken. He was haunted by the silence that followed. The unspoken weight of power. Victory was a chain, not a crown.
The door slid open.
Emeka Kalu walked in, dressed in gray native wear. His eyes were sharp, but the years had etched caution into his gait.
They're preparing a new list, Emeka said.
Another mission?
Emeka nodded. Europe this time. Vienna. Paris. Two diplomats. One arms dealer. A Nigerian minister's son is in the mix. They say he's defecting.
Michael didn't move. Do they want him silenced or shamed?
Both. And they want it clean. But that's not why I'm here.
He placed a black envelope on the table.
From the Inner Circle?
No. From her.
Michael frowned slightly. Who?
Codename Syren.
He paused. The name echoed from his past like a suppressed memory.
She used to be IIS?
Worse. She trained for us. Then left. Or vanished. Some say she switched sides. Others say she went rogue. But she sent this. Specifically to you.
Michael opened the envelope. A single line was typed:
What you burned in Cameroon wasn't the only lab. Meet me in Zurich. Alone.
Attached was a photo: A man in military uniform shaking hands with a French diplomat. Behind them, barely visible, was the same scarred scientist Michael had set on fire.
Still alive.
He stood.
Zurich, Switzerland. Midnight. Snowfall kissed the cobbled roofs like whispers from forgotten gods. Michael moved through the alleyways near Lake Zurich, his coat blending into the cold.
He arrived at an abandoned church. Inside, the candles were lit in the same triangular formation as in Abuja. Familiar. Ritualistic.
She stood at the altar.
Short hair. Leather jacket. A scar over her brow.
You're supposed to be dead, he said.
So are you, technically. But here we are.
Michael approached slowly. What game are you playing?
Syren smirked. The one you already lost.
She threw a folder at his feet. Satellite images. Maps. Logs.
The Shadow Directive didn't tell you the full truth. Cameroon was a cover. The real lab is in Madagascar. They're using the virus. Testing it.
Michael's jaw tightened. Why?
Power, she said. Control. Fear. The Directive isn't a guardian of Nigeria. They're carving out an empire. You think you're the weapon. You're the product.
He stepped forward. Then why warn me?
Because I loved who you were before they turned you. Because I know you still have a choice. Because we need to burn the entire tree, not just trim the branches.
Michael looked at the image again. The Inner Circle members were there. All of them. Smiling. Standing beside foreign CEOs, arms traffickers, biotech investors.
They weren't fighting for Nigeria. They were selling it.
A weight settled into his chest. Not regret. Rage.
Where do we begin?
We'll need allies. Off-grid. Ghosts.
And the Directive?
Syren's eyes darkened. We cut off the head.
Abuja. 24 hours later.
Inside the Shadow Directive's underground war chamber, the Inner Circle sat in silence. Michael stood before them, face unreadable.
The woman who had led the initiation stared at him. You returned early. Was the mission in Zurich handled?
Handled, Michael said.
And Syren?
Neutralized.
The man to her left smirked. Good. She was becoming a myth.
Michael offered a thin smile. Now I am the myth.
He placed a USB drive on the obsidian table. Everything she had. Locations. Accounts. Collaborators.
As they reached for it, he stepped back.
Play it.
They inserted it.
The screen flickered.
Then it showed them. All of them. Coordinating with foreign enemies. Discussing viral weaponization. Laughing about pawns.
The room exploded into chaos.
Before they could move, Michael pulled the silenced pistol from his coat.
Three shots. Three corpses.
He turned to the others. You're all compromised. But I won't kill you. Not yet.
He held up a small black detonator.
In twenty minutes, this building will collapse. Tell the world it was terrorists. Tell the world it was foreign agents. Tell them whatever you want. But know this
He leaned forward.
Agent Umbra no longer serves the Directive. He commands it.
He walked out as sirens began to wail. Smoke billowed. Glass cracked.
Outside, Syren waited in a black SUV.
Did they buy it?
For now. They think I spared them.
She smiled. You really are the devil.
Michael lit a cigarette.
No, he said. I'm worse.
As the building erupted behind them, the war for Nigeria's soul had begun.
And Michael Ogunlade would not stop until the world bowed.