The Congolese sky cracked with thunder as armored trucks moved through Kinshasa in silence, their insignias covered, their mission unspoken. In the shadows of these streets, a nation's soul was being rewritten—one betrayal at a time.
Michael sat alone in the back of a moving ambulance.
He wasn't wounded.
But inside this hollowed-out vehicle, retrofitted with comms gear and radio scramblers, he was at the center of something far more dangerous than gunfire.
"Confirm again," he said into the headset.
A Kestrel officer replied, voice low and tense. "Presidential Guard compound has internal friction. Five captains loyal to General Kayembe. He's ready to move if given an anchor."
Michael's eyes narrowed. "Tell him the anchor is ready."
He ended the call, pulled out a worn photo from his coat—his father, standing outside a pharmacy in Lagos, smiling without knowing what the future would birth. A boy had grown from that moment. A man had risen. And now, an empire would be forged.
At the same time, Mireille sat across from Élodie in a riverside café.
Both women ordered coffee. Neither drank.
"I know who you work for," Mireille said coolly.
Élodie didn't flinch. "And I know what you've become. You were once idealistic. A patriot. Now you aid a shadow king."
"I aid Africa."
Élodie's smile was subtle. "Then you should know: The Chinese are pulling their offer. The French have promised to support a transitional government if N'Shonda falls—one that excludes Nigerian interests."
Mireille blinked. "And?"
Élodie leaned in. "That means the Americans and British will back the French model. Your operation will collapse under diplomatic weight."
Mireille sipped her untouched coffee, then whispered:
"We're not building a coup, Élodie. We're building a new reality."
Elsewhere, General Kayembe received his signal.
At midnight, four barracks within Kinshasa were sealed off. Known loyalists to the president were placed under house arrest or transferred to "remote duties." The command chain was cracking. The troops didn't understand the orders, but they followed them anyway.
Chaos was beginning to look like coordination.
Michael moved quickly.
He sent Falcon and two Kestrels into the presidential archive.
Within hours, they extracted enough compromising material—recordings, documents, payments to foreign banks—that even the United Nations would turn a blind eye if N'Shonda disappeared.
But Michael wanted more than disappearance.
He wanted history.
The next day, Morgan activated Wraith Echo—a protocol so classified it didn't exist on paper. It authorized the CIA to greenlight operations without oversight from Langley.
That night, two Kestrel operatives were found dead in Kisenso. Their eyes removed. Tongues cut out.
A message.
Michael received the update in silence. Then lit a cigarette.
He knew Morgan was close.
He also knew who he'd send next.
An old friend. A former flame.
Serena Ward—MI6, seconded to CIA, skilled in sabotage, fluent in Yoruba, and once very nearly Mrs. Ogunlade.
She'd land in Lubumbashi within 72 hours.
And she had only one goal: Find Michael. Break him.
Or kill him.
At night, Kinshasa trembled.
Gasoline shortages triggered riots at petrol stations.
State TV was hijacked by a looping video of soldiers looting UN food reserves.
The president's voice, once firm, now cracked with desperation.
Michael watched it all unfold from a rooftop.
Beside him, Mireille said nothing. Just lit a cigarette of her own.
He passed her a file.
"New task. The vice president. We leak the Angola deal. Then the gold reserves. Then… then we set the final date."
She nodded.
Below them, the city burned with the fire of coming change.
At 3:00 AM, Michael received a message on his secure channel:
> "Shadow King: We have a problem. Serena's in-country."
He smiled bitterly.
"The past always shows up before the coronation."