The flight to Accra was quiet.

No press. No crowds. No carefully orchestrated arrival for public consumption. Just me in a disguise, Anthony, and a handful of other passengers on a commercial flight that departed in the early morning when most people were still asleep.

I'd chosen it specifically for that reason. Anonymity. The ability to think without cameras or questions or the weight of public expectation.

Anthony sat two rows behind me—close enough to intervene if necessary, far enough to maintain the illusion that we weren't traveling together. Professional paranoia that had kept him alive more than once.

I stared out the window as we climbed through cloud cover, the city below disappearing into white mist. Somewhere down there, four people were worried about me. Probably arguing about whether they should have fought harder to come along. Definitely not sleeping well.

I pulled out my phone and typed a quick message: On the plane. Everything fine. Will check in when I land.

Sent it to the group chat and watched as read receipts appeared almost immediately. Even though it was barely dawn, they were all awake. Waiting.

Sienna's response came first: Stay safe. We love you.

Then Camille: Don't do anything stupid. Or if you do, make sure it's at least impressive.

Alexis: Remember to play it safe. Don't deviate from whatever plan you guys have.

And finally Evelyn: Come back to us.

Simple. Direct. Weighted with everything she couldn't say.

I pocketed the phone and closed my eyes, letting Superior Endurance manage the fatigue from too many late nights planning this trip. My body relaxed, but my mind kept working.

The World President.

After three years of fighting shadows and proxies, I was finally going to meet them face to face. See who had orchestrated the Cain Protocol, the NovaCore experiments, the systematic manipulation of governments and populations.

See the person who let 3840 people suffer under cruel experimentations.

My father's voice echoed in my memory—Hugo Vale standing in that sterile white room, telling his test subject that everything was for the benefit of humanity. I wondered if the World President used the same justification. If they truly believed their actions were necessary, or if they simply didn't care about the cost.

Either way, I was about to find out.

The flight attendant's voice came over the intercom, announcing our descent into Accra. I opened my eyes and looked out the window again.

Ghana spread out below us—a mix of modern cityscape and traditional architecture, green spaces and dense urban development. Somewhere down there, in one of those buildings, the World President was waiting.

Whether they knew I was coming or not remained to be seen.

Kotoka International Airport was busy despite the early hour. Business travelers, families, tourists all moving through the terminal with that universal airport energy—tired, purposeful, slightly annoyed.

Anthony and I collected our bags without incident and made our way through customs. The official barely glanced at my passport before waving me through. Either Samuel had smoothed the way, or I was genuinely flying under the radar.

Outside, the Ghanaian heat hit like a physical wall. Different from Canadian weather in every way—humid, heavy, immediate.

A black SUV waited at the curb, and standing beside it, wearing an immaculately tailored suit and that familiar broad smile, was Samuel Osei.

"Reynard Vale!" he called out as we approached, his arms spreading wide in welcome. "My friend! You made it!"

"Samuel," I said, returning his smile and accepting the handshake that turned into a brief hug. "Thank you for meeting us personally."

"Of course, of course! You are an important guest. And this must be the famous Anthony?" He turned his attention to my bodyguard, who had materialized at my side.

"That's me," Anthony said, shaking Samuel's hand with a professional smile. "Thanks for the hospitality, sir."

"No 'sir' necessary! Any friend of Reynard's is a friend of mine." Samuel gestured to the SUV. "Come, come. We have much to discuss, and I suspect you're eager to get to business."

We climbed into the vehicle—Samuel in the front passenger seat, Anthony and I in the back. The driver pulled away from the curb smoothly, merging into traffic with practiced ease.

"The laboratory is about forty minutes from here," Samuel said, turning in his seat to look at us. "On the outskirts of the city. Very secure. Very private. Perfect for the kind of research the World President was overseeing."

"Was?" I caught the past tense.

"Is," Samuel corrected with a slight smile. "Though after today, who knows? But we'll get to that. First—" He looked at me expectantly. "Did you bring what I requested?"

I reached into my bag and pulled out a garment box, handing it forward. "Camille sends her regards. She said to tell you this is her finest work and if you don't wear it properly, she'll fly here personally to deal with you."

Samuel laughed, opening the box carefully. Inside was a suit—deep charcoal with subtle bronze threading that caught the light. The cut was perfect, designed specifically for Samuel's build based on measurements I'd provided. Classic but modern, powerful but not ostentatious.

"Magnificent," Samuel breathed, running his fingers over the fabric. "She truly is an artist. Please give her my thanks. And tell her I will wear this with pride and proper respect."

"I'll let her know," I said.

He closed the box reverently and set it aside. "Now. To business. The World President has been in that laboratory for two weeks now. My people have been monitoring all activity—who comes, who goes, what equipment is being moved in and out."

"Have they tried to leave?" I asked.

"Twice," Samuel confirmed. "Both times we've delayed them with bureaucratic complications. Paperwork errors. Security concerns. Nothing that would raise immediate suspicion, but enough to keep them contained."

"And they haven't realized they're being watched?"

"If they have, they haven't shown it," Samuel said. "But I suspect they know something is wrong. The border closure was announced publicly. They're not stupid—they can read between the lines."

Anthony leaned forward slightly. "What kind of security does the lab have?"

"Significant," Samuel admitted. "Private security contractors. Top tier. The kind you hire when you want people protected or people dead, depending on the situation." He glanced at Anthony. "Your agents are in position?"

"All three teams," Anthony confirmed. "Positioned at key locations around the facility. If things go loud, they can be there in under ten minutes."

"Good, good." Samuel nodded approvingly. "I have my own people as well. Not military—too obvious—but capable. Very capable."

We drove through the city, the urban landscape gradually giving way to less dense development. Warehouses. Industrial parks. The kinds of areas where secretive research facilities could operate without too many questions.

"What exactly was the World President researching?" I asked.

Samuel's expression darkened slightly. "System manipulation. Neural pathway alterations. Building on the work from NovaCore and the Cain Protocol experiments. But more advanced. More… ambitious."

"Ambitious how?"

"They're trying to create a new protocol," Samuel said quietly. "One that doesn't just affect how people perceive you, Reynard. One that affects how people perceive reality itself. Imagine the Cain Protocol, but instead of targeting one person, it targets concepts. Ideas. Truth itself."

I felt my blood run cold. "That's—"

"Insane?" Samuel supplied. "Yes. Also brilliant in a horrifying way. If they succeed, they could rewrite how entire populations understand the world. Make them believe anything. Reject anything. Control not just behavior but thought itself."

"We can't let that happen," I said.

"No," Samuel agreed. "We cannot. Which is why today is so important. Why we need to—"

The driver's radio crackled to life, a rapid stream of words in a language I didn't recognize but the tone was unmistakable.

Urgent. Alarmed.

Samuel grabbed the radio, responding quickly. The exchange lasted maybe thirty seconds before he turned back to us, his jovial demeanor completely gone.

"What is it?" Anthony asked, already reaching for something under his jacket.

"The laboratory," Samuel said, his voice tight. "There's activity. Significant activity. They're mobilizing."

"Mobilizing for what?" I asked, though part of me already knew.

"Evacuation. Destruction. Both." Samuel was already pulling out his phone, making calls. "They know we're coming. They're going on the offensive."

The SUV accelerated, the driver pushing through traffic with sudden urgency. Horns blared around us, but we didn't slow down.

"How long until we get there?" I asked.

"Fifteen minutes at this speed," the driver said, his hands tight on the wheel.

Samuel barked orders into his phone—deployment commands, coordinates, tactical instructions. When he hung up, he looked at both of us with grim determination.

"Change of plans," he said. "We're not going in for a meeting. We're going in for a raid."

As if to punctuate his words, the sound of sirens began to build in the distance. Not police sirens. Something else. Something that sounded military.

Anthony pulled out his weapon, checking the magazine with practiced efficiency. "Boss, this just became significantly more dangerous."

"I know," I said, my own hand moving to confirm my weapon was secure. Strategist was already running scenarios, calculating approaches and contingencies.

The laboratory came into view in the distance—a sprawling complex of low buildings surrounded by high fences and guard towers. Even from here, I could see movement. Lots of movement.

And then the alarms went off.

Loud, piercing horns that cut through the air like knives. Warning sirens that meant lockdown. That meant threat detected.

Samuel's phone lit up with incoming calls and messages. He looked at the screen, then at me.

"They've activated their defenses," he said. "Full security protocol. They're preparing for a siege."

The SUV screeched to a halt at a checkpoint about half a mile from the facility. Ghanaian military vehicles were already assembling, soldiers moving with coordinated purpose.

Samuel opened his door and stepped out, his presence immediately commanding attention. Officers approached, saluting sharply.

"Status?" Samuel demanded.

"The facility has gone into full lockdown, sir," one officer reported. "All exits sealed. Internal defenses activated. They have hostages—research staff who were inside when the lockdown began."

Samuel's jaw tightened. He looked back at me, then at the laboratory complex in the distance.

Then he turned to the assembled forces, his voice carrying with absolute authority.

"The raid against the laboratory has begun."​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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