Chapter 05

Chapter 05

Priest Protocol

The meeting took place before sunrise.

No coordinates were sent. No phones were used. Kofi followed a chain of quiet confirmations—one man nodding at a street corner, a woman unlocking a side gate, a boy pointing down an unlit alley. By the time he reached the compound, the city was still asleep, wrapped in the fragile calm before morning prayers.

The church sat between a mechanic’s shop and a row of shuttered stalls. Its paint was faded, its bell cracked, but the courtyard was full.

Not of worshippers.

Of leaders.

Imams in simple robes. Pastors with worn Bibles. Traditional priests whose authority came not from books, but from memory and bloodlines. Men and women who had survived every government by outlasting it.

Kofi stopped at the entrance.

A pastor raised a hand. “No weapons.”

Kofi hesitated, then slowly unholstered his pistol and placed it on a table.

Trust was the first requirement of Priest Protocol.

Inside, the air was heavy with incense and suspicion.

“They say you’re a soldier without a flag,” an imam said.

“They say you’re stirring trouble,” a traditional priest added.

Kofi placed a small drive on the table.

“They say many things,” he replied. “This tells the truth.”

He let them watch.

The files played out silently—financial trails, intercepted orders, footage from inside the high-rise. Proof that the Council’s decisions had bled communities dry while hiding behind politics and religion.

No one spoke for a long time.

Finally, the pastor sighed. “If this is released carelessly, people will die.”

“Yes,” Kofi said. “If it’s buried, more will.”

Priest Protocol was not about exposure. It was about timing. About who spoke first—and who carried the message.

“We don’t overthrow governments,” the imam said. “We survive them.”

“Then help me change how this one ends,” Kofi replied.

By evening, whispers spread.

Not on social media—that would be shut down. In markets. In mosques. In churches. In compounds where radios still mattered more than screens.

Truth traveled faster than soldiers.

The Council responded with force.

That night, Kofi was cornered in a narrow street as armored vehicles sealed both ends. Loudspeakers ordered him to surrender.

He didn’t run.

He stepped into the open.

From the rooftops, voices rose—chants, prayers, songs. People filled the street, unarmed, unafraid.

The soldiers hesitated.

Orders crackled over radios. Confusion followed.

Kofi stood still.

Somewhere in the chaos, he remembered Ethan Hunt again—running, fighting, escaping the impossible.

“This is where you’d sprint,” Kofi thought. “I’m standing.”

The commander lowered his weapon.

The vehicles backed away.

That night, the city didn’t sleep.

The Council realized something they’d forgotten.

Faith was older than fear.

And Kofi Adeyemi had just turned belief into a weapon.