All Chapters of THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM : Chapter 61 - Chapter 65

The estancia had become a fortress of quiet by the time the last thread pulled taut.Three months of Patagonia winter had hardened us both. Damian’s shoulder was fully healed, scar tissue pale and flat now, no longer pulling when he reached for an axe or for me. I’d grown leaner, stronger, from riding fence lines and splitting wood. The collar never came off; the platinum chain never unlocked. We fucked in every room of the house, on every patch of grass within sight of the lake, under every sky from storm-black to star-drenched. We spoke less. We touched more. We lived like men who had finally outrun their own shadows.Until the satellite phone rang again.It was 04:22 a.m. local time, deep winter dark outside, wind howling around the eaves. The ring cut through sleep like a blade. Damian answered on the first tone, already sitting up, already reaching for the pistol on the nightstand.“Talk.”The voice on the other end belonged to the same former security chief who’d warned us about

The Citation leveled at 41,000 feet somewhere over the Bight of Benin, engines a low, steady hum that vibrated through the cabin like a second heartbeat. We were twenty minutes out of Abuja, climbing toward cruise, when the first warning light flashed on the cockpit panel. The pilot, same man who’d flown us out of Lagos months earlier, swore under his breath and tapped the comms.“Unidentified aircraft, six o’clock high, closing fast. No transponder. Military profile.”Damian was already moving, out of his seat, pistol drawn, eyes on the windows. I followed, heart slamming against my ribs. The collar felt tighter suddenly, the chain cold against my skin.“Horizon remnants?” I asked.“Or worse,” he said. “Eze’s people had deep pockets. Someone bought air support.”The pilot banked hard left, sharp enough to throw us against the bulkhead. Alarms blared. Oxygen masks dropped. Damian grabbed mine, pressed it over my face, then his own.“Hold on.”Through the starboard window I saw it: a d

The island was smaller from the water, barely two kilometers end to end, a single volcanic hump draped in green so dense it looked black against the dawn sky. No beaches. Just jagged black rock dropping straight into deep water, waves slapping against it with patient violence. The speedboat idled a quarter-mile offshore while Damian scanned the shoreline through binoculars, engine low enough to hear the surf but not enough to carry inland.“No dock,” he said. “No path visible from here. We go in over the rocks.”I nodded, already checking the dry-bag strapped to my chest, pistol, extra mags, knife, the small encrypted drive the security chief had couriered to Calabar before we left. Damian killed the engines. The boat drifted closer on residual momentum. He dropped the anchor in fifteen meters of water, deep enough to hide the hull from casual eyes, shallow enough we could swim back if we had to.We slipped over the side.Water cold enough to steal breath. Salt stung the half-healed g