Chapter 02

Chapter 02

Phantom Protocol

The knock came again—firm this time.

Kofi didn’t reach for a weapon. Not yet. He reached for the light switch and killed it, letting the room fall into shadow. The streetlight outside flickered once, then steadied. Power was still on. That alone told him whoever was outside wasn’t improvising—they’d planned for normal conditions.

He moved barefoot to the door, every step measured.

“What do you want?” he asked quietly.

A pause.

“Major Adeyemi,” a voice replied. Calm. Controlled. “We don’t want trouble. We want your cooperation.”

Kofi unlocked the door and opened it just enough to see two men in plain clothes. No weapons visible. That meant weapons were very visible.

“I resigned,” Kofi said. “You’re late.”

“You resigned from the military,” the man said. “Not from the problem.”

Kofi studied them. One local. One foreign. The foreigner’s eyes moved constantly—windows, corners, exits. IMF habit.

“Come in,” Kofi said. “Or arrest me.”

They stepped inside.

The foreigner placed a small device on the table. No holograms. No drama. Just a map, grainy satellite imagery, and a blinking red dot near a coastal city.

“Phantom Protocol,” the foreigner said. “You disappear. We disappear. This never happened.”

Kofi folded his arms. “I don’t work rogue.”

“You already are,” the local man replied. “You just don’t know it yet.”

Three nights later, Kofi was crouched inside the rusted shell of a shipping warehouse, fifty meters from a private dock that officially did not exist.

The mission was simple in theory.

Extract Colonel Idriss Bako—former regime logistics chief turned liability—before he vanished permanently. Bako controlled financial routes, arms supply lines, and had memorized transaction codes that could unravel the entire government.

IMF would’ve sent a team.

Africa sent silence.

Kofi checked his watch. The time window was closing—not because of alarms, but because fishermen were starting to arrive. In fifteen minutes, the dock would be alive.

Phantom Protocol meant no trace. No witnesses. No noise.

Kofi moved.

He crossed open ground using shadow and timing, sliding between stacks of containers as guards passed within arm’s reach. Their radios crackled with idle conversation. Nothing alert. Nothing urgent.

At the dock, Bako sat inside a luxury SUV, engine running, phone pressed to his ear.

Kofi saw the problem immediately.

Two armed escorts. One nervous driver. And a third man leaning casually against the vehicle—too relaxed. Too aware.

Counter-intelligence.

Kofi adjusted.

He dropped from the container stack silently, came up behind the first escort, clamped a hand over his mouth, and pulled him backward into darkness. The man went limp without a sound.

The second escort turned just in time to see Kofi’s elbow connect with his jaw.

He went down hard.

The relaxed man reacted instantly—gun up, finger tightening.

Kofi fired first.

One suppressed shot. Shoulder. Not fatal.

The man screamed anyway.

So much for phantom.

Kofi sprinted.

He yanked the SUV door open, grabbed Bako by the collar, and slammed him into the seat.

“Out,” Kofi said.

Bako stared, frozen.

Gunfire erupted behind them. Bullets punched into metal. Glass shattered.

Kofi floored the accelerator.

The SUV burst through the dock gate and onto the service road, fishtailing as tires screamed against concrete.

Behind them, headlights flared to life.

“They’re coming,” Bako shouted.

“I know,” Kofi replied, weaving through traffic that had no business being there at this hour.

A pickup truck tried to block the road.

Kofi rammed it.

The impact sent both vehicles spinning. The SUV skidded sideways, slammed into a barrier, and died.

Kofi was already out, dragging Bako with him as rounds snapped overhead.

They ran.

Through narrow alleys. Over wet stone. Past closed shops and sleeping guards who would wake confused and angry.

At the river, a small motorboat waited—engine running, lights off.

Kofi shoved Bako aboard and jumped in after him just as bullets hit the water behind them.

The boat disappeared into darkness.

Only then did Kofi allow himself to breathe.

Phantom Protocol had failed in theory.

But in practice, the asset was alive.

Kofi stared at the city lights fading behind them.

This wasn’t a resignation anymore.

It was a war—one that didn’t care about titles, protocols, or retirement.

And somewhere ahead, the real mission was just beginning.