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 a chair, wrists bound, shoulders tense despite the exhaustion in his eyes.
Across from him stood a militia officer and an IT specialist.
A laptop sat open on the table, its glow cutting through the dim room—documents, numbers, transactions flickering across the screen.
Merced stepped in.
Slow.
Controlled.
His gaze swept the room once—
the prisoner.
the laptop.
the guards.
Then he moved.
Without a word, he set a small camera on the table.
A tripod followed.
Click.
Click.
He adjusted the angle—directly facing Emmanuel.
Perfect.
Centered.
The red light blinked on.
Live.
Miles away—
someone was watching.
Only then did Merced speak.
"What have we got here?"
The militia fighter slapped the IT specialist's shoulder—hard.
The man flinched.
Didn't look up.
Not immediately.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly, before he turned the laptop toward Merced.
"Quite a lot…" he muttered.
Too careful.
He pressed a key.
Files opened.
Military procurement contracts.
Rows of classified acquisitions.
"These were extracted from the president's device," he said.
Another file.
Weapons systems filled the screen.
Twenty-four Su-35 fighter aircraft.
Two S-400 missile defense systems.
Thirty-two main battle tanks.
Then—
another line.
Two diesel-electric attack submarines.
Merced leaned closer.
"And the price?"
The IT scrolled.
Stopped.
"Total acquisition value…"
A beat.
"…eight hundred and seventy million dollars."
Silence settled in the room.
The screen changed again.
Blockchain records.
Wallet addresses.
Large transfers moving through invisible channels.
Merced nodded slightly.
"Cryptocurrency."
"Multiple payments routed through anonymous wallets," the IT confirmed.
Another chart appeared.
Money flowing into Zarakhanda's reserve.
Mining investments.
Energy deals.
Foreign capital betting on a future that no longer existed.
Merced crossed his arms.
"And because the blockchain is public…"
"…anyone can see the size of the reserve," the IT finished.
He zoomed in.
One wallet.
Estimated balance:
$480,000,000
Sefu turned slowly toward Emmanuel.
"Half a billion dollars."
A faint gesture toward the screen.
"Your war chest."
Emmanuel said nothing.
Merced studied him.
Longer this time.
"So money isn't the problem."
A tap on the laptop.
"The problem is access."
"The wallet requires a recovery phrase," the IT said.
"Twenty-four words."
Sefu stepped closer.
"And unfortunately…"
A faint smile.
"Our president cannot remember them."
Merced tilted his head.
"You forgot?"
Emmanuel met his gaze.
Cold.
"I remember enough."
The air shifted.
Sefu's expression hardened.
"Then tell us where it is written."
Silence.
Heavy.
"I will not help you steal my country."
No hesitation.
Sefu nodded once.
"Very well."
The guards moved.
Forcing Emmanuel back into the chair.
Straps tightened.
A metal frame dragged into position.
A cloth covered his face.
Merced didn't move.
Didn't react.
He just watched.
A container of water appeared.
The IT specialist stepped back.
Even he couldn't hide it now—
uneasy.
Sefu crouched beside Emmanuel.
"Waterboarding is… interesting."
Calm.
Almost conversational.
"It doesn't break bones."
"It doesn't leave marks."
He leaned closer.
"But the body believes it is drowning."
Water poured.
Emmanuel's body snapped against the restraints.
Violent.
Desperate.
His lungs fought for air that wasn't there.
Panic hit instantly.
Raw.
Animal.
Seconds stretched—
too long.
The water stopped.
Emmanuel gasped—choking, pulling in air like it might disappear again.
Sefu leaned in.
"Where is the seed phrase?"
No answer.
Just coughing.
Shaking.
Breathing that wouldn't steady.
Merced watched quietly.
Because he understood something the others didn't.
The man in that chair still believed—
someone would come.
Russia.
Diplomacy.
A deal.
An extraction.
Hope.
And as long as that hope existed—
He wouldn't break.
Sefu gave a small nod.
The cloth went back over Emmanuel's face.
Water poured again.
And somewhere inside Emmanuel's mind—
only one question remained—
Will anyone come for me…
before I break?