The Situation Room was now a shadow of its earlier chaos. Deep into the afternoon, and the atmosphere was a grave one. The ministers sat in subdued silence, their expressions heavy with grief and defeat. Even the persistent hum of phones and whispers had fallen away, replaced by a somber stillness.

President Ansa-Obiaka continued to stare blankly at the scattered documents before him. As his fingers tapped the table, all that could reverberate around his brain were the unhappy phone calls he had received from other heads of state. The Prime Minister of Trinidad & Tobago had called him and given him quite an earful, as had the Prime Minister of Antigua & Barbuda. His assurances had not been received with much hope, with demands that their dignitaries be returned home safely.

Sitting there, he had a huge headache to deal with. Not only were lives at stake, but the country’s reputation.

Suddenly, Defense Minister Mark Adu-Boamah’s phone buzzed loudly, breaking the silence. He glanced at the screen. “Excuse me,” he muttered, stepping aside to take the call.

The room remained quiet for a few moments, with Adu-Boamah’s conversation barely audible. But then, his voice rose, sharp with shock.

“What did you just say? Are you absolutely certain?”

Heads around the table turned to him, curiosity and unease filling the room.

“Hold him there. And deal ruthlessly with him!”

Adu-Boamah ended the call abruptly, his hand trembling slightly as he gripped the phone.

“What is it, Adu?” the President asked, his voice tense.

Adu-Boamah’s face was a mix of fury and disbelief as he turned to face the room. “Mr. President, we’ve just apprehended a mole within our ranks.”

The words landed like a bombshell, jolting everyone upright in their seats.

“What?” Ansa-Obiaka whispered.

“A mole?” Naana Tachi asked, her eyes wide. “You mean someone on the inside?”

“Yes,” Adu-Boamah confirmed, his voice shaking with anger. “Initial investigations confirm he’s been in contact with the captors. He’s been feeding them information about our plans—our moves—everything.”

The President looked stunned for a moment. Then, in a rush of ire, his fists slammed onto the table with a force that rattled the glasses of water. “How dare he? A traitor among us, helping these monsters spill the blood of innocent visitors!”

“Mr. President, please,” Naana began cautiously, “let’s keep calm and—”

“Calm?” Ansa-Obiaka bellowed, cutting her off. “A mole has betrayed this government—betrayed this country—and you’re asking me to be calm? I want him arrested immediately. And I want him to face the most severe punishment possible!”

“Rest assured, Mr. President,” Adu-Boamah said grimly, “he’s already in custody. We’ll interrogate him further to extract every detail of his involvement. He won’t get away with this.”

“Not just interrogate,” Ansa-Obiaka hissed, his voice venomous. “Make an example of him! The entire nation must know what happens to traitors who sell their country for their own gain! Fool! Traitor!”

The ministers exchanged uneasy glances. The President’s fury was understandable, but the intensity of his anger left some of them uncomfortable.

He opened his mouth to spew more rage when Vincent hurried into the room, a phone clutched tightly in his hand.

“Mr. President,” he whispered urgently, “it’s the President of the United States.”

The room fell silent. A direct call from the ‘leader of the free world’. That did not sound good at all, considering one of his citizens was part of the hostages.

Ansa-Obiaka’s face immediately switched from fury to fear as he nodded and gestured for the phone. Putting it on speaker, he took a deep breath and answered.

“This is President Kodwo Ansa-Obiaka.”

The unmistakable voice of President Marcus Routledge of the United States filled the room, laced with barely concealed fury. “Mr. President, I’ve just been briefed on the latest updates of the deteriorating situation in Sekondi. Let me get straight to the point. One of the hostages is an American citizen, as you already know. And frankly, your handling of this crisis has been—to put it mildly—lackadaisical.”

The room fell into a stunned silence. President Routledge was not one to mince words, and he had gone straight for the jugular as always.

Ansa-Obiaka’s face paled. He swallowed hard. “President Routledge, please, I assure you that every resource at our disposal is being utilized to resolve this crisis swiftly and safely. We have a plan in place—”

Routledge cut him off. “A plan? A plan, you say? Your ‘plan’ has failed to inspire any confidence whatsoever. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to stand by while American lives are at stake because of your incompetence and inability to act decisively. I’m dispatching a special operations team to handle this; they’re already on their way to your country. Inform your military to step aside immediately.”

Ansa-Obiaka’s heart sank, as did every other person’s heart. They had expected some level of anger, but this? Such an action would serve as a major affront to the country’s sovereignty. That could not be allowed.

He fought to keep his voice steady. “Mr. President, with all due respect, Ghana is a sovereign nation. My team is close to resolving this situation without escalating any violence—”

“Close doesn’t cut it,” Routledge snapped. “Your sovereignty doesn’t absolve you of my responsibility when American lives are on the line. My troops will be there within a few hours. Make the necessary arrangements. And be quick about it.”

The line went dead before Ansa-Obiaka could respond.

The silence in the room was deafening. All eyes were on him, but no one dared to speak.

The president leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the phone as he pondered over this new development.

Was he going to call President Routledge’s bluff? Or would he kowtow?

Finally, he drew a deep breath, straightened his tie, and looked around the table.

“You heard him,” Ansa-Obiaka spoke slowly, his voice low but steady. “Inform the military to stand down in the affected area. Ensure no interference with the U.S. operations.”

Adelaide Nketia’s eyes flared with indignation. “But, Mr. President, this is an affront to our sovereignty! We cannot simply allow—”

“Enough,” Ansa-Obiaka answered sharply. He paused, softening his tone. “This is no longer just about Ghana. It is about lives, about diplomacy, about avoiding a larger catastrophe.”

The room remained tense, his words doing little to ease the humiliation shared by all present. Ansa-Obiaka’s expression hardened as he rose from his seat.

“This is a bitter pill to swallow,” he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of resignation. “An extremely bitter pill to swallow. But we will swallow it, and we will live to fight another day. For now, I need everyone focused on ensuring this doesn’t spiral further out of control.”

He turned to a nearby National Security Advisor. “Hassan! Draft a statement reaffirming our commitment to resolving this crisis and collaborating with international partners. Frame it… diplomatically.”

The room came alive with subdued but determined activity as ministers and advisors scrambled to carry out the president’s orders. Hassan bent over his laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard, while Adelaide reluctantly leaned over his shoulder, offering pointed suggestions to soften the message without appearing submissive.

As Ansa-Obiaka stood apart from the commotion, his gaze fixed on a map of Ghana pinned to the wall, a gnawing unease gripped him. His thoughts circled one inescapable truth: displeasing the United States would unravel his fragile political alliances. This hostage situation was already doing his reputation enough damage; he couldn’t afford any more hits.

Staying in their good graces, however humiliating it felt at that moment, felt like the only way forward. For now, survival outweighed pride.

Well, on one hand, this might help them defeat the Dead Eyes, now that Mole’s been caught. But surrendering your country’s sovereignty? Not a good look…