Chapter 10

It was the same emptiness that had followed her since she was eight years old, the same void that she had tried to fill with violence and revenge.

She took a syringe from her pocket—not the one from her standard kit, but a different one, filled with a clear liquid that caught the light. She had prepared it earlier, before the mission, knowing that this kill required something extra.

A message. A signature for the only person who would understand it.

She injected it into a vial of blood she'd drawn from Fashari during the struggle—a final humiliation, a final reminder that even in death, he belonged to her. It was a message to the syndicate, a signal that she had done her job and done it well.

Then, she turned to the desk.

A framed photograph sat among the papers and pens—Fashari with his wife and children, all of them smiling, all of them frozen in a moment of happiness that no longer existed. The wife was beautiful, the children were young, and they had no idea that their world was about to shatter.

She picked it up, her gloved fingers leaving no prints, and looked at it for a long moment. She studied their faces, memorized their features, cataloged their joy.

The children were innocent. The wife was blameless.

They were victims too, in their own way, collateral damage in a war they didn't even know existed.

She placed the photograph carefully on Fashari's chest, covering his heart.

Look at what you lost.

A thought for a dead man. A sentiment she herself could not afford.

She exited the way she came, disappearing back into the shadows of the iroko tree just as the next guard patrol rounded the corner, whistling tunelessly. He was oblivious to the carnage that lay just beyond his reach, unaware that the man he was paid to protect was already dead.

The night swallowed her whole, and she was gone.

The call came into the MCU at 23:28.

Benson was still at his desk, poring over traffic camera footage from the hijacking. The image of the mysterious woman from the restaurant—Ava—was still nagging at the edge of his consciousness, a splinter he couldn't remove, a question he couldn't answer.

He had been staring at the same frame for twenty minutes, hoping that something would jump out at him, that he would see what he had missed.

His phone screamed to life, shattering the late-night quiet of the office.

"Benjamin," he barked into the receiver.

It was Oyisi, his voice tight with panic, the words tumbling out in a rush. "BB, you need to get to Coral Isle.

Now. It's Minister Fashari."

Benson's blood ran cold. He was already on his feet, reaching for his jacket, his heart pounding in his chest.

"What about him?"

"He's dead, sir." Oyisi's voice dropped, as if the walls themselves might be listening. "And it's… it's a mess.

It's her. The Reaper.

She left a calling card."

Benson dropped the call and rushed out immediately, his mind racing, his heart pounding. A minister.

A sitting minister. This wasn't a hijacking anymore.

This was an assassination, and the entire country would feel the shockwaves. He had been chasing a ghost, and the ghost had just proven how deadly it could be.

Twenty minutes later, Benson stood in the opulent study, the coppery smell of blood thick in the air. Crime scene techs moved in a hushed, grim dance around him, their cameras flashing, their voices barely above whispers.

The body was still there—they hadn't moved it yet, hadn't finished documenting the scene.

He stared at what was left of Minister Fashari, and his stomach churned.

This wasn't a professional hit anymore. The hijacking had been clean, precise, almost surgical.

This was slaughter. This was personal.

The killer hadn't just wanted Fashari dead—she had wanted him destroyed, reduced to something less than human. It was the work of someone who hated, who had been consumed by hatred, who had let it define her.

"The family?" Benson asked, his voice hoarse.

"In Port Halcyon, thank God." Nneka said, her face pale beneath the fluorescent lights. "Security found him during their rounds.

The panic button was untouched. No alarms were triggered." She paused, swallowing hard.

"She just… appeared."

Benson's eyes fell on the photograph placed on the minister's chest—the family portrait, now stained with blood. He pointed to it, a silent question.

Nneka followed his gaze and nodded. "She left it there.

Along with this." She held up an evidence bag containing an empty syringe, its needle still glistening. "Forensics says it's clean.

No prints. But it's a brand used almost exclusively by…"

"By who?" Benson pressed, his voice sharper than he intended.

"Foreign intelligence. Or high-end mercenaries." Nneka met his eyes.

"This isn't local talent, BB. This is something else entirely."

Benson turned away from the body, his mind racing. The hijacking had been clean, precise, almost invisible.

This was a rageful, violent spectacle, designed to be seen, to be remembered, to terrify. The change in methodology was jarring, almost schizophrenic.

Was it the same person? Or were there two killers?

Two players in a game he didn't yet understand?

His phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.

Frowning, he opened it.

A single, grainy photograph filled the screen—taken from a distance with a long lens, the kind used by surveillance professionals and paparazzi alike. It was him.

Standing in the restaurant. Talking to the woman—Ava—at her table.

The timestamp was from last night.

A cold dread seized him, wrapping around his chest like a vise. Someone had been watching him.

Someone had been watching her. And now they were connecting them, building a bridge between the lead investigator and the prime suspect.

Below the photo was a line of text, stark and damning:

Ask her why she's really here, Officer Benjamin.

Benson stared at the message, his mind blank with shock. The woman at the restaurant—the beautiful, aloof stranger with the piercing eyes and the calculated stillness—was connected to this.

Somehow, impossibly, she was connected to the hijacking and the murder and the chaos that was spreading through his city like wildfire.

Ava.

The name echoed in his head, no longer a puzzle but a warning.

He looked up at the body on the floor, at the photograph on the chest, at the empty syringe in the evidence bag.

And he knew, with a certainty that sickened him, that his world was about to shatter.

The Silent Reaper wasn't just a ghost.

She was someone he had met. Someone he had been drawn to.

Someone who had looked him in the eye and dismissed him without a second thought.

And now, someone had the proof.