The coast disappeared behind them like a memory drowned by distance.
Elijah drove in silence, his eyes fixed on the highway that stretched between Mombasa and Nairobi. The air was heavy with heat and something else—tension. The kind that coils in your gut and doesn't let go.
Amina sat in the passenger seat, the flash drive secure inside a hidden pocket stitched into her jacket. She hadn't spoken much since they left. Her fingers kept brushing against the drive, as if assuring herself it was still there.
"Elijah," she finally said, "you're gripping the wheel too tight."
"I know," he replied without loosening it.
She looked at him. "Do you think Grace knows we found the vault?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I think she knew the moment I opened the door."
---
Halfway into the journey, they stopped at a small petrol station in Voi. It was quiet, the sky heavy with thick clouds.
While Elijah fueled the car, Amina walked toward the convenience store. A man inside the shop was pretending to browse gum, but she noticed how he flinched when she glanced his way. She saw the bulge under his coat.
A gun.
She turned calmly and exited, finding Elijah already back at the wheel.
"We're being followed," she whispered.
He didn't react. "How many?"
"One for sure. Maybe more."
"Get in."
As soon as her door clicked shut, Elijah hit the gas.
The tires screeched, and the car shot forward, leaving behind a trail of dust—and the man scrambling to follow.
---
Fifteen minutes later, the black SUV appeared in their rearview mirror.
Elijah pressed harder on the accelerator, weaving through slower vehicles, his jaw clenched. The SUV matched their speed.
"They're not trying to stop us yet," Amina said. "They're waiting for the right stretch."
"Open highway," Elijah guessed. "No traffic. No witnesses."
Sure enough, the next twenty kilometers were flat and empty.
That's when the SUV pulled into the oncoming lane and surged forward, trying to overtake.
Elijah swerved, blocking them.
"They want the flash drive," Amina said.
"They're not getting it."
The SUV rammed their back bumper.
"Hold on!"
Elijah twisted the steering wheel sharply. They careened onto a dirt side road that curved behind a sugarcane plantation.
The SUV followed.
The chase was brutal—clouds of dust blinding them, tires spinning over loose gravel.
Another hit.
The car jolted sideways. Amina screamed. Elijah wrestled control, barely managing to stay on the road.
"I'm taking us into the cane," he growled.
He jerked the wheel left and plunged the car between rows of tall stalks. The vehicle tore through green, the SUV right behind.
Bullets cracked the air.
"They're shooting!"
"Glove compartment!" Elijah yelled.
Amina fumbled it open and pulled out a small pistol—registered to Elijah's late mother.
He swerved again. "Shoot at the tires!"
Amina didn't hesitate. She leaned out, aimed, and fired.
The first shot missed.
The second hit.
The SUV swerved hard.
The third—
Direct hit.
The SUV spun out, crashed into a tree, and exploded into smoke.
Silence.
Elijah didn't stop. He kept driving until they were out of the fields and back on the main highway, ten kilometers further.
Only then did he stop, his hands shaking.
Amina reached across, touching his shoulder.
"You did it."
He looked at her, sweat running down his face.
"I think we just declared war."
---
That night, they checked into a hidden safehouse—this one arranged by Elias Kibet.
An abandoned holiday cottage near Athi River. Remote. Quiet. No neighbors.
Elijah locked every door. He didn't speak for a while.
Amina watched him from across the room, her arms folded.
"You don't have to carry it alone."
He turned to her. "That man today… he was ready to kill us. That wasn't corporate warfare. That was something else."
She nodded. "Grace doesn't play fair. She never did."
He dropped onto the couch, burying his face in his hands.
"She's still winning."
"No," Amina said. "Not this time."
She pulled the flash drive from her jacket.
"We go public."
Elijah looked up. "Grace will bury it."
"Not if we go live. Not a leak. A stream. You. Your voice. Your face."
His heart pounded.
She was right.
They had evidence. His father's confession. The files. The stolen funds. The lies.
If they waited, it could all vanish.
But if they went public—really public—there'd be no turning back.
He nodded slowly.
"Set it up."
---
At exactly 8:00 PM the next evening, a link went live on every major social media platform under a verified name:
Elijah Mwangi – The Truth
Inside the safehouse, a single laptop was set up with a direct camera feed. Amina stood beside him, checking audio, video, and security.
"You ready?" she whispered.
He didn't answer.
He just stared into the lens.
Then hit stream.
---
"Good evening," Elijah began, his voice calm but firm.
"My name is Elijah Mwangi. You may know me as the son of the late Daniel Mwangi. Or perhaps, as the janitor your company hired, your classmate, the name in a few recent headlines."
He paused.
"I'm none of those things anymore."
A beat.
"I am the truth you've been denied."
Over the next twenty minutes, he explained everything—his exile, his mother's death, Grace's betrayal, the forged death of his father, the secret vault in Mombasa, and the confessions they found.
He didn't hold back.
The screen flashed with images—documents, names, faces, video clips.
He ended with one statement:
"Project Empress is real. And Grace Mwangi is not the victim. She is the architect."
He closed his laptop.
Amina stopped the feed.
The screen went black.
Then the internet exploded.