A hush fell over Lagos like a shroud. The kind of silence that didn't soothe but suffocated.
Inside the government house in Alausa, Acting Governor Obafemi Onile-Ere stood by the long window that overlooked the city's northern skyline. Beneath his tailored agbada, the weight of power pressed against his shoulders, not from its glory but from its cost. The marble floor beneath him gleamed under the early afternoon light, but nothing about the day felt bright.
His Chief of Staff, Ngozi Ibe, handed him a classified dossier freshly decoded from the Office of Internal Surveillance.
"It's confirmed. Two of the commissioners are working directly with the Northern syndicate," she said quietly.
Obafemi did not blink. "Which ones?"
"Commerce and Transport."
He nodded slowly, then turned away from the window, his face unreadable. "Summon Dapo. Now."
Dapo stepped into the executive briefing chamber thirty minutes later, still dusted with soot from the last raid in Ojodu. His eyes were red, not from fatigue, but from what he'd seen. Children used as bait. Informants silenced with bullets. The truth was carved into corpses before it could be told.
"Sir," he said, saluting without emotion.
Obafemi didn't return it. "We've identified the moles. I want them neutralized. Discreetly. No grand theater."
Dapo's gaze hardened. "You want me to kill them?"
Obafemi's voice was iron behind silk. "I want Lagos to survive. Do what must be done."
By dusk, Lagos wore a different face.
At a posh restaurant in Victoria Island, Commissioner for Commerce, Tunde Aderemi, raised a toast to a new trade deal with foreign investors. What he didn't know was that the waiter serving him wine was an undercover operative planted by Dapo's team.
As the commissioner took a sip, he froze. Not because the wine was poisoned; it wasn't. But because he felt a sharp prick on his neck.
He turned, slumping slowly, confusion etched into his features.
The operative slipped a note into his pocket before walking away, disappearing into the crowd. The note read: This is what betrayal tastes like.
Commissioner for Transport, Bola Atunbi, was harder.
She was shrewd, protected, and always moving. She didn't eat out. She didn't sleep in the same house two nights in a row. But she had one weakness: her grandson.
That night, as she entered the hidden compound in Yaba, she found Dapo sitting at her kitchen table, her grandson asleep on the couch.
"I didn't come to kill you," Dapo said. "Not yet."
Bola's fingers tightened around the taser in her handbag. "Then why are you here?"
"To offer a deal. Tell us everything: names, accounts, and dates, and I'll make sure your grandson lives free."
She hesitated. Then her shoulders slumped. "They won't let me live after this."
Dapo's voice was flat. "No. But they won't find your family either."
At 3 AM, Ngozi and Obafemi reviewed the files Dapo brought back.
"There are links to the Senate," she whispered.
Obafemi frowned. "Which senators?"
"All of them. Or at least…enough to swing a vote."
"Then we can't go through Abuja."
Ngozi tapped the table. "Sir, if we don't expose this soon, the syndicates will position their candidate as the next civilian governor. We have six months to the elections."
Obafemi closed the folder and sighed. "Then we give Lagos a new weapon. And a new face."
The next morning, in Surulere, an explosion rocked a public transport hub. Twenty-four dead. Eighty-six were injured.
The media called it "an accident." Dapo knew it was a message.
The note left behind at the blast site was signed with the insignia of The Cabal, a splinter group within the syndicate now taking more aggressive measures.
They were no longer bribing. They were declaring war.
At the intelligence bunker beneath Ikoyi, Dapo convened a meeting with his most trusted allies, Tunji, the former army man; Efe, the cyber sleuth; and Aisha, the insider from the Federal Records Bureau.
He placed a blueprint on the table.
"This is not about silencing traitors anymore. We're going after the source."
Aisha nodded. "The offshore vaults?"
"Exactly. They're laundering millions through front companies. If we freeze their assets and leak their communications…"
"…They'll turn on each other," Tunji finished.
Efe frowned. "That will take weeks."
Dapo looked up. "Then we work without sleep."
Meanwhile, far from the chaos, Senator Ibrahim Bakari watched the news from his Abuja mansion, sipping black tea.
A young aide entered. "Sir, Lagos is spiraling."
Ibrahim smiled thinly. "Exactly as we need it to. When they beg for order, we give them a king."
The aide hesitated. "And if they resist?"
"Then Lagos will burn until they remember what obedience costs."
Four days later, the first leak dropped.
A whistleblower video of Commissioner Bola Atunbi confessing her role in the syndicate aired on independent networks. The footage was shaky but real. Her words were chilling.
"They said if we didn't help them, they'd crash the city's grid. We all agreed. Every single one of us."
The government denied it. But the people believed it.
Protests began in Alimosho. Then Ikeja. Then everywhere.
#EchoesOfJustice trended on NaijaNet and Twitter X.
Youths carried signs saying "No More Kings in Crowns of Dust."
That evening, Dapo sat with Obafemi on the roof of the safe house.
"It's started," Dapo said.
Obafemi lit a cigarette. "And now?"
"We follow through. Or die trying."
Obafemi exhaled smoke into the twilight. "Then let Lagos hear us roar."
But in a hidden control room somewhere in Ajah, a figure watched everything through hacked traffic cameras.
He leaned forward, his face obscured, but his voice was clear.
"Activate Phase Two. Let's see how loud they can scream when the silence bites back."
The screen blinked once. Then the city plunged into a partial blackout.
In the dark, Lagos trembled.