The air smelled of jet fuel and slow decay. A cool breeze slipped through the terminal as a tall, lean figure stepped off the flight from Berlin. No entourage. No announcement. Just a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder and sharp eyes that saw everything.
Micah.
Detective. Federal investigator. Special assignment.
But among whispers in foreign agencies and elite law circles, they called him The Magic Bullet. The one you sent when the rot ran too deep—when the truth needed resurrection, no matter the cost.
"Justice doesn't just need eyes," his old mentor once said, "It needs a loaded gun with a conscience."* That was Micah.
He had no parents on record. Raised in orphanages. Sharpened by the military. Refined by law. Great Britain's knight for hire and now Zim had called for him. And now, embedded quietly into The Task Force. Mission, to dismantle Bruce Turner—the man called The Criminal Lawyer.
As he exited the airport, a government SUV pulled up. Inside, Assistant Commissioner Tavengwa. He looked Micah up and down.
"You're late."
Micah smirked. "I'm right on time. Let's get to work."
He got in. Behind him, the city stirred.
Harare wouldn't sleep for long.
Justice had just landed.
Micah had seen his fair share of complex operations—webs of corruption, silent syndicates, faceless power—but never had a file been this thin, this sterile. It was almost insulting, how little there was.
The name at the top was "Bruce Turner" Renowned criminal defense lawyer. Celebrated for his courtroom flair, feared for his win record. But beneath the awards and press, there were whispers. Too many. Too consistent. Not a single trace of evidence, not one former associate willing to talk, no digital fingerprints out of place. It was like chasing smoke.
The briefing had been quiet, private. No conference room, no recorded transcript. Just a sealed folder passed to Micah in the back of a government SUV. The instructions were blunt: "If we ever want to dismantle Zimbabwe's underworld, we need to get Bruce. He's the center of it all. We just can't prove it."
Officially, Bruce was nothing but a lawyer. No criminal history, no suspicious finances, no travel anomalies. Yet, every major drug bust, arms raid, political scandal—his name echoed in the background. Sometimes as legal counsel. Other times, just someone who'd happened to walk by moments before it all unraveled.
He wasn't the kingpin. He was the pillar. The mind. The legal genius whose mere presence kept the syndicates insulated, guarded by legal iron walls no one had yet cracked. If Bruce was ever removed, the entire structure would collapse under its own weight.
Micah, they said, was the "magic bullet." A special assignment, flown in because he wasn't part of the corrupted system. Because he didn't play by the same rules. Because, unlike everyone else, he didn't fear Bruce—mainly because he didn't yet understand him.
The mission wasn't to arrest Bruce. That would be foolish. There was no arrest to make. The mission was to unravel him. Slowly. Intelligently. To infiltrate the cracks in his world, and expose the man who'd ruled Harare's darkness from behind a legal curtain.