Several hundred kilometers away, across the border from Zarakhanda, a gray C-130 military transport aircraft touched down on a dimly lit runway.
The engines roared as the aircraft slowed across the tarmac. The rear ramp lowered slowly. A black SUV waited near the landing zone.
Agent Daniel Merced stepped down from the aircraft carrying a small tactical bag. He wore civilian clothes, but the posture of a trained operative was impossible to hide. Two local intelligence officers approached him.
"No customs inspection," one of them said quietly.
Merced nodded. Within minutes, he was inside the SUV, heading toward the border crossing.
The night was quiet. Too quiet.
After clearing inspection with special authorization from the host country's intelligence service, the vehicle continued toward Zarakhanda's northern frontier.
Several hours later, they crossed into territory controlled by Moto wa Mapinduzi.
A convoy was already waiting. One of Sefu's officers stepped forward and opened the SUV door.
Merced climbed out and studied the armed men surrounding the checkpoint.
"So," Merced said calmly. "Did the guy talk?"
The officer shook his head.
"Not yet," the man answered while looking at the front mirror. "But eventually… he's starting to think about it now."
-PSYCHOLOGICAL PRESSURE-
The metal door slammed shut behind Emmanuel.
The room was brighter than his cell, but the light felt harsh, almost painful to the eyes. At the center of the room stood a metal table.
And on it—his phone.
A militia officer sat calmly across from him. Two armed guards stood against the wall, silent and unmoving.
Beside them, a younger man sat behind a laptop. He wasn't wearing militia gear. Just a plain shirt and tired eyes.
The IT specialist.
Emmanuel was forced into the chair.
The militia officer picked up the phone and turned it slowly in his hand.
"You know," he said casually, "modern phones are very difficult to unlock."
He placed the device on the table.
"But not impossible."
The IT specialist connected a cable from the laptop to the phone and began typing.
Lines of technical data appeared across the screen.
Encryption prompts. Security locks. Failed access attempts.
The officer slid the phone slightly toward Emmanuel.
"So we gave you a choice."
He leaned back in his chair.
"You tell us the password… and we save ourselves a lot of time."
Emmanuel said nothing.
The officer nodded slowly, as if expecting that answer.
"Fine."
He gestured toward the man with the laptop.
"He'll keep trying."
The IT specialist continued working quietly, eyes fixed on the screen.
Minutes passed. The only sound in the room was the tapping of the keyboard.
Then the militia officer spoke again.
"You know what interests me most, Mr. President?"
He tapped the phone lightly.
"Not the password."
Emmanuel raised his eyes slightly.
The officer glanced at the IT specialist.
"What did you find?"
The young man hesitated for a moment, then turned the laptop slightly so the officer could see.
"Some files were already cached before the phone locked completely," he explained quietly.
Weapons procurement documents appeared on the screen.
Fighter aircraft. Missile systems. Battle tanks and submarine.
The militia officer let out a low whistle.
"Very ambitious."
He looked back at Emmanuel.
"You were building quite a military."
Emmanuel remained silent.
The officer nodded toward the IT specialist again.
"What else?"
The IT specialist opened another file.
"Financial records," he said.
A blockchain transaction log appeared on the screen.
Large transfers moved through multiple anonymous wallets.
The IT specialist spoke carefully.
"Cryptocurrency transactions. Several million dollars routed through external wallets."
The officer chuckled softly.
"Sanctions are difficult when money travels outside the banking system."
Another document appeared.
Economic reports. Mining investments. Energy sector development.
The IT specialist summarized quietly.
"Foreign investment projections. Billions expected over the next decade."
The militia officer leaned back slowly.
"A rising regional power."
He looked directly at Emmanuel.
"That was the plan, wasn't it?"
Silence.
The officer shrugged slightly.
"The world already suspected it."
"Satellite images."
"Shipping manifests."
"Investment reports."
He gestured toward the laptop.
"But your phone confirms everything."
He pushed the device slightly closer to Emmanuel.
"So we wait."
He nodded toward the IT specialist.
"Maybe he cracks it tonight."
"Maybe tomorrow."
Then he leaned forward slightly.
"But every hour you sit here…"
His voice dropped lower.
"You will wonder if speaking earlier would have made things easier."
From somewhere down the hallway came the distant echo of a scream.
Emmanuel's hands trembled slightly.
The officer noticed.
And smiled.
"Psychology is a powerful weapon, Mr. President."
He stood up slowly.
"Take him back to his cell."
As the guards dragged Emmanuel toward the door, the officer added calmly,
"And leave the phone on the table."
Emmanuel glanced back one last time.
The screen was dark.
But inside his mind, the six-digit password burned like a secret he could not escape.
Back inside the cell, another thought began circling in Emmanuel's mind.
If the militia was no longer focused on the phone's password, the next thing they would demand would be the seed phrase.
He knew exactly where it was.
And now he faced a choice.
Stay silent and maybe live a little longer.
Or reveal it…
And accept the end that was coming anyway.
-Arrival at the Militia -
The door opened.
Inside, Emmanuel sat restrained in the chair.
Across from him stood the militia officer and the IT specialist.
A laptop sat open on the table.
The screen glowed with documents and blockchain records.
Merced stepped into the room slowly.
His eyes moved across everything.
The prisoner.
The laptop.
The guards.
Then he spoke.
"What do we got here?"
The IT specialist turned the laptop toward him.
"Quite a lot."
He pressed a key.
Several documents appeared.
Military procurement contracts.
The IT pointed at the screen.
"These were extracted from the president's device."
He opened another file.
A list of weapons systems appeared.
Twenty-four Su-35 fighter aircraft.
Two S-400 missile defense systems.
Thirty-two main battle tanks.
Then another line appeared.
Two diesel-electric attack submarines.
Merced leaned slightly closer.
"And the price?"
The IT specialist scrolled down.
A contract summary appeared.
"Total acquisition value…"
He paused.
"Eight hundred and seventy million dollars."
The room went quiet.
The IT switched screens again.
Blockchain transaction records appeared.
Wallet addresses.
Large transfers.
Merced nodded slowly.
"Cryptocurrency."
The IT confirmed.
"Yes."
"Multiple payments routed through anonymous wallets."
Another chart appeared on the screen.
Large deposits flowing into Zarakhanda's national crypto reserve.
Mining investments.
Energy contracts.
Foreign investors betting on Emmanuel's vision for a rising African power.
Merced crossed his arms.
"And because the blockchain is public…"
The IT finished the sentence.
"Anyone can see the size of the reserve."
He zoomed into one wallet address.
Estimated balance.
$480,000,000
Sefu looked at Emmanuel.
"Half a billion dollars."
He gestured toward the screen.
"Your war chest."
Emmanuel said nothing.
Merced studied him carefully.
"So money isn't the problem."
He tapped the laptop.
"The problem is access."
The IT specialist nodded.
"The wallet requires a recovery phrase."
"Twenty-four words."
Sefu stepped closer to Emmanuel.
"And unfortunately…"
He smiled faintly.
"Our president cannot remember them."
Merced tilted his head slightly.
"You forgot?"
Emmanuel looked back at him coldly.
"I remember enough."
The room grew still.
Sefu's expression hardened.
"Then tell us where it is written."
Emmanuel remained silent.
Seconds passed.
Finally he spoke quietly.
"I will not help you steal my country."
Sefu watched him for a moment.
Then he nodded to the guards.
"Very well."
The guards forced Emmanuel backward in the chair.
One of them brought a metal frame forward.
A cloth was placed over Emmanuel's face.
Merced remained still.
Observing.
Calculating.
A container of water appeared.
The IT specialist stepped back from the table.
Even he looked uneasy.
Sefu spoke calmly.
"Waterboarding is very interesting."
He crouched beside Emmanuel.
"It does not break bones."
"It does not leave marks."
He looked into Emmanuel's eyes.
"But the body believes it is drowning."
The first stream of water poured over the cloth.
Emmanuel's body jerked violently against the restraints.
His lungs struggled for air.
Panic exploded through his mind.
Seconds felt like eternity.
The water stopped.
Emmanuel gasped violently.
Sefu leaned closer again.
"Where is the seed phrase?"
Emmanuel coughed, struggling to breathe.
But he said nothing.
Merced watched the scene quietly.
Because he understood something the militia did not.
The man in that chair still believed someone might save him.
Russia.
Diplomacy.
A prisoner exchange.
Hope.
And as long as Emmanuel believed that—
He would keep fighting.
Sefu nodded again.
The cloth returned to Emmanuel's face.
The water poured once more.
And somewhere inside Emmanuel's mind, one terrifying question repeated over and over:
Will anyone come for me…
before I break?