Two weeks after the Lahore incident, Islamabad had become a city of whispers.
Michael sat inside a fortified café in the diplomatic enclave, sipping spiced tea like a local. He wore a crisp shalwar kameez, dark glasses, and the posture of a man who belonged. On the table in front of him lay a leather-bound notebook filled with hand-drawn trade routes and crude oil smuggling corridors. Across from him sat Major Tariq Nasir, formerly ISI, now freelance—if such men could ever be called that.
"They know someone's bleeding them," Tariq said in Urdu, eyes scanning the room. "You're too good. They're spooked."
Michael smiled faintly. "Good. Fear clouds judgment."
Outside, the call to prayer echoed from a nearby mosque, its cadence slicing through the dry air like a warning.
Tariq tapped the notebook. "You want access to the Hawala nodes in Doha and Muscat. That's dangerous. Even for you."
"I don't need access. I need names. Bank codes. Meeting schedules."
"You're dismantling the whole pipeline," Tariq said quietly.
Michael didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The funding lines that ran from the Gulf into Afghanistan, Pakistan, and northern Nigeria weren't just lifelines for jihadist groups—they were pressure points. And Michael was turning them into levers. One collapsed account in Dubai could cause an arms delay in Mali. One exposed courier in Quetta could trigger a purge in Maiduguri.
Control wasn't seized with armies anymore. It was mapped in databases, whispered in hotel rooms, killed for in silence.
That afternoon, a convoy of armored black SUVs pulled into the Nigerian High Commission in Islamabad. Michael stepped out and was immediately flanked by Indian bodyguards dressed as trade attaches. A misdirection. Everyone in the city thought the Nigerians were playing catch-up. No one knew they were already inside the machine.
Back in his temporary operations center—disguised as a logistics office—Michael watched satellite imagery of Pakistani generals flying into Karachi for a closed-door meeting. The tags on their vehicles had been spoofed. Their calls had been redirected through Nigerian signal jammers weeks prior. Every move they made, Michael saw first.
Emeka Kalu's voice came through on a secure channel.
"You're tightening the net too fast. The Americans are starting to ask questions."
"Then distract them," Michael replied.
"With what?"
"Give them a leak about uranium trafficking through Sudan. Tell them Tehran's involved."
Silence, then a chuckle. "You're going to get us all killed."
"No," Michael said calmly. "I'm going to keep Nigeria alive in a world built to erase her."
Across the continent, in Abuja's Situation Room, Defense Minister Musa Aliyu watched the unfolding intelligence with a mix of awe and anxiety.
"This man is burning decades of intelligence architecture in three months," he said aloud.
The President, seated at the head of the table, didn't look up from the tablet. "Yes," he said. "Because he knows the new architecture must be built in our image."
That night, Michael returned to his suite in the Serena Hotel. Alina Khan was already there, barefoot, seated by the window with a folder on her lap. She didn't rise when he entered.
"They're deploying drones near Gilgit-Baltistan," she said. "High altitude. Unmarked."
He took the folder from her, flipped through the contents. Raw satellite data. Movement logs. Fuel manifests.
"You've done well," he said.
She looked up at him. "You're going to use this to start a war, aren't you?"
Michael didn't answer.
Because it wasn't about starting wars.
It was about finishing them before they began—on terms only he understood.