Jos Military Cantonment – Two Days Later
The world returned to Emmanuel in fragments: the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, the antiseptic smell of alcohol and gauze, the distant echo of boots on tile. He floated between pain and awareness, trapped in a haze until a cold hand gripped his wrist, checking his pulse.
"He's stable," a voice murmured. "We almost lost him."
He blinked.
It took effort, but his eyes opened—slowly, painfully. The ceiling above him was white, unfamiliar. He tried to sit up, but fire lanced through his side. He groaned, collapsing back onto the thin mattress.
"You're in Jos, soldier," came another voice—firm, low, familiar.
Emmanuel turned his head. Sergeant Dahiru stood at his bedside, arms crossed over his chest, eyes sharp but tired.
"You made it," Dahiru said. "Barely."
Emmanuel swallowed, his throat dry. "The mission…"
The sergeant's expression darkened. "We neutralized the camp. Cleared out most of the resistance. Took heavy losses. But we didn't find her."
The words hit Emmanuel like a second bullet. He tried to push himself upright again, ignoring the searing pain in his ribs. "What do you mean?"
"Amina wasn't there," Dahiru said bluntly. "There were captives, yes. But she was gone. Moved. Likely days before we arrived."
Emmanuel's chest tightened. "No..."
"She was there, Emmanuel. Locals confirmed it. One of the girls we rescued said a high-value prisoner was moved upriver. East. Toward the Komadugu."
Emmanuel's hands curled into fists. He stared at the ceiling, fury and helplessness boiling in his veins. He had been so close. He had seen her. Touched her, almost. And now—gone again. Ripped from him like a cruel joke.
"I need to go after her," he said through gritted teeth.
"You can barely breathe," Dahiru snapped. "You nearly bled out in Biu. The bullet tore through muscle and grazed your kidney. You'll live, but not without help. And not without time."
Silence fell between them. Outside the window, Jos was calm—its distant hills painted in hazy gold by the morning sun. But Emmanuel felt no peace.
"We're sending you to Germany," Dahiru said finally. "Military hospital in Hamburg. Specialists. You'll be flown out tomorrow."
Emmanuel looked away. "What's the point?"
The sergeant stepped closer. "The point is survival. You've been through hell. You think this war ends with one mission? You think you can help her like this? You want to be her shield? Then heal. Regroup. Come back stronger."
"I can't just lie in a hospital while she's out there," Emmanuel murmured.
"And what good will you be to her dead?" Dahiru countered. "Let us do our job. Let the others take the next step. You already carried the weight farther than most."
Emmanuel didn't respond. His thoughts were already racing—through forest paths, over rivers, past checkpoints and fire. He had seen her. He knew she was alive. And now she was gone again.
That night, as the lights dimmed and the hallway fell silent, Emmanuel asked for his Bible.
The nurse brought it over. Inside, between worn pages, was the letter. The one he never sent.
He unfolded it with trembling fingers.
Amina,
If you're out there… I will find you.
I don't care how long it takes.
I will tear through forests, deserts, and mountains.
I will walk through fire.
You're not forgotten.
I fight for you.
He stared at the final line.
He had found her—and lost her again.
He picked up a pen from the bedside table and added a new sentence:
I'll keep fighting.
---
Somewhere Along the Komadugu River – Same Night
Amina sat in the corner of the dim hut, her knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. The air was heavy with heat and smoke from the nearby cookfire. Outside, the insurgents moved with urgency—shouting orders, loading supplies into trucks under the cover of darkness.
They were preparing to move again.
She had heard them talking. The camp near Biu had fallen. Soldiers had stormed it. Some of the girls had been freed. Some hadn't.
Her heart had nearly stopped when she'd heard gunfire two days ago. She had dared to believe it was him—that Emmanuel had come. She thought she had seen him. But it must have been a dream, a fever of hope.
Now, she was deeper in the wild than ever before. The forest was thick here, dense with shadows and noise. And fear. Always fear.
Bilal hadn't spoken to her since the evacuation. But he watched her. Always watched her. Like something he owned. Like something he would never let go.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember better days—before the trucks, before the chains, before the shouting and the heat and the silence. She saw a schoolyard. She saw a boy with soft eyes and quiet strength. A Bible in his hand. A promise in his voice.
She held onto that image like a lifeline.
---
Jos Military Airstrip – The Next Morning
The stretcher rolled across the tarmac, its wheels rattling against the cracked pavement. The sky was a pale blue above, cloudless and still. The C-130 transport plane loomed ahead, engines idling, the flag of Nigeria and the medical cross painted on its hull.
Emmanuel lay flat, strapped in, his side bandaged, an IV in his arm.
Dahiru walked beside him.
"You still don't want to go," the sergeant said, reading his silence.
"No," Emmanuel replied quietly.
"But you will," Dahiru said. "Because this isn't the end. This is the middle. And when you come back, you'll be ready."
Emmanuel stared at the sky. "She's still out there."
"We know," Dahiru said. "And we'll find her."
The ramp opened. The stretcher was wheeled in. Emmanuel closed his eyes as the roar of the engines grew louder. He gripped the letter in his fist, the paper now soft and wrinkled from sweat and blood.
He would heal.
And then he would return.
Because Amina was still out there.
And he hadn't finished fighting for her.