Several hundred kilometers away, across the border from Zarakhanda, a matte-gray C-130J touched down hard on the cracked, dimly lit runway of a remote airstrip. The four turboprops screamed in reverse thrust, kicking up clouds of dust and grit that stung the eyes. The rear ramp dropped with a hydraulic whine. A blacked-out Toyota Land Cruiser waited just beyond the wingtip, engine idling.
A man descended the ramp first, tactical duffel slung low on his shoulder. He wore faded civilian trekking clothes, but his economy of movement and the way his eyes swept the perimeter screamed "operator." Two local intelligence handlers in plain clothes approached.
"No paperwork. No stamps," the senior one muttered, already turning toward the vehicle.
Merced gave a single nod. Ninety seconds later, the SUV was rolling, headlights off, toward the frontier.
The night felt unnaturally still. No wind. Just the low hum of tires on dirt.
After a perfunctory checkpoint cleared by pre-arranged authorization, the vehicle pushed north for hours. Eventually, they crossed into territory held by Moto wa Mapinduzi. A small convoy of technicals waited in the tree line, headlights masked with tape. One of Sefu's senior officers stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Agent Merced," the officer said.
Merced didn't reply. He simply stared at the man, gave a nod, and shook his hand.
The officer opened the door. Merced climbed out of the SUV. As soon as he was clear, the full convoy began rolling out.
"So," Merced said quietly, "did the man talk?"
The officer shook his head. "Not yet. But he's starting to think about it. You can see it in his eyes now."
-Psychological Pressure
The metal door slammed behind Emmanuel with a finality that vibrated in his teeth.
The interrogation room was brutally bright after days in near-darkness. A single LED panel buzzed overhead like angry hornets. In the center of the scarred metal table sat his encrypted satellite phone—mockingly untouched.
A militia intelligence officer lounged in the chair opposite. Two guards stood motionless against the wall, rifles ready. To the side, a thin young man in a plain gray shirt hunched over a ruggedized laptop, eyes bloodshot from hours of work.
Emmanuel was shoved into the seat. Plastic zip-ties bit into his wrists.
The officer picked up the phone, turning it slowly in calloused fingers.
"Modern phones are bastards to crack," he said conversationally. "But nothing is impossible. Not when you have time… and the right tools."
He placed it back down. The IT specialist plugged in a cable. The laptop screen flickered with lines of code, failed brute-force attempts, and encryption warnings.
The officer slid the phone an inch closer to Emmanuel.
"Last chance. Password. We all go home earlier."
Emmanuel stared straight ahead, jaw locked.
The officer sighed, almost bored. "Fine."
He nodded at the technician. The tapping of keys filled the room—slow, methodical, relentless.
Minutes dragged into an hour. Then the officer spoke again, voice soft.
"You know what fascinates me, Mr. President? Not the password."
Emmanuel's eyes flicked up.
The officer glanced at the screen. "What did you get?"
The young technician hesitated, then turned the laptop. Procurement documents glowed under the harsh light: Su-35 Flankers, S-400 batteries, T-90M tanks, two Project 636M Kilo-class diesel-electric submarines. Delivery schedules. Shell companies.
The officer let out a low whistle. "Very ambitious. You were building a real military."
Emmanuel said nothing.
More files opened. Blockchain transaction logs. Anonymous wallets. Tens of millions routed through mixers and offshore exchanges. Mining concession maps. Energy infrastructure projections—billions in foreign capital.
The officer leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head.
"A rising regional power. That was the dream, yes?" He smiled without warmth. "The world suspected. But your phone… your phone confirms it."
He let the silence stretch.
"We can keep working on the password. Tonight. Tomorrow. Next week." His voice dropped. "But every hour you sit here, you'll wonder if speaking now would have spared you what's coming."
From somewhere deeper in the complex, a raw, guttural scream echoed down the corridor.
Emmanuel's hands began to tremble. He couldn't stop it.
The officer noticed. He smiled.
"Psychology is the sharpest knife, Mr. President."
He stood.
"Take him back."
As the guards hauled Emmanuel toward the door, the officer added quietly, "Leave the phone on the table."
Emmanuel glanced back. The screen was black, but the six-digit code burned behind his eyes like a brand. Worse, a new terror had taken root: they would soon stop caring about the phone. They would want the 24-word seed phrase.
And he knew exactly where it was hidden.
-Arrival at the Militia
As the convoy arrived at the militia compound, an SUV door opened and Merced stepped out. The militia fighters stared at him intently.
"The Americans are here!" one of the fighters shouted.
Hours later, the door opened again.
Emmanuel was already strapped to a heavy metal chair, wrists and ankles zip-tied to the frame, his shoulders rigid with exhaustion and defiance. Sweat and dried blood caked his face.
Merced stepped inside slowly, his movements controlled. His eyes catalogued everything: the prisoner, the open laptop with its damning files still glowing, the two guards, and the IT specialist who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
Without speaking, Merced set a small 4K camera on the table, mounted it on its miniature tripod, and adjusted the angle until Emmanuel's face filled the frame. The red recording light blinked on.
It was a live feed. Someone important was watching.
Only then did Merced speak, his voice low and flat.
"What have we got?"
The militia fighter slapped the IT specialist hard on the shoulder. The young man flinched, then turned the laptop toward Merced.
"Quite a lot," he muttered.
He opened several files. Military contracts. Weapons inventories. The numbers were staggering: twenty-four Su-35s, two S-400 systems, thirty-two main battle tanks, and two Kilo-class submarines. Total acquisition cost: $2.3 billion.
Merced's expression didn't change.
"Payment?" he asked.
Blockchain records appeared, along with wallet addresses and massive transfers. One cold wallet still held roughly $570 million.
Sefu, who had been standing in the shadows, stepped forward. His voice was almost reverent.
"Half a billion dollars. Your war chest."
Emmanuel met their eyes without flinching. "I will not help you loot my country."
Sefu's face hardened. He nodded once.
The guards moved quickly. They forced Emmanuel's head back and strapped it to a metal frame. A thick cloth was laid over his face. The IT specialist looked away.
Sefu crouched beside the chair, almost conversational.
"Waterboarding is elegant. No broken bones. No visible scars. Just the body's ancient terror of drowning."
He gave a small gesture.
The first pour came without warning.
Emmanuel's body convulsed violently against the restraints. Every muscle locked. His lungs burned, screaming for air that would not come. Pure, animal panic flooded his system. Time stretched and warped.
The water stopped.
Emmanuel retched and gasped, sucking in desperate, ragged breaths as water streamed from his nose and mouth.
Sefu leaned close.
"Where is the seed phrase?"
Coughing. Shaking. No answer.
Merced watched silently from the side. He understood the real game. As long as Emmanuel still believed rescue was possible — Russia, diplomacy, some last-minute extraction — he would hold. Hope was the enemy.
Sefu gave another nod.
The cloth went back on.
The water poured again.
Somewhere in the shattered chaos of Emmanuel's mind, one desperate thought surfaced between the drowning waves:
Will anyone come for me… before I break?