She lay motionless on her iron bed. Any movement would trigger a series of metallic creaks and scrapes, and she needed to listen. It was never quiet in prison, not even at 3:00 a.m., but she filtered out the usual sounds of crying and snoring. She was listening for footsteps. Her eyes were open, but her head was turned to the wall, in case one of the others noticed she was awake. There were nine of them in the cell, but she was the one they would be watching.

She had earned the right to the bottom bed. She’d broken a few noses to get there and no one questioned her position as wing “president” now. Most of the other prisoners did as she said, and if they resisted, her friends would quietly explain the rules. Remind them she could get angry very quickly.

So she stared unseeing at the damp and peeling wall and cursed the occupants of the bed above her. They had started to stir and the old springs were creaking loudly. The beds were stacked on top of each other and there were no mattresses to muffle the sound. The whole cell seemed to fill with noise, and she kicked the metalwork above her, hard. The restless movement stopped.

“Sorry, Shivvi,” said a tiny voice no more than three feet overhead, quickly followed by another.

“Yeah, sorry, Shivvi.”

“Get to sleep, Johanna, you’re driving me crazy. You too, Olufemi. Last warning.”

From the slight, moving indentations, Shivvi Tan Fook determined that the two twelve-year-olds lying above her had just curled into a ball and probably wouldn’t move again until sunrise. She was annoyed with herself for letting the whole cell know that she was awake; how long before they were all asleep again? Thirty minutes, she guessed, maybe more. The heat was unbearable again that night. Even after three years inside, the combination of 95° heat, the stench from their toilet (a hole in the ground), and the constant whine of mosquitoes meant that sleep was always a difficult task. Her long, dirty nails picked at the wall as she ran through her plan again. She was ready, she knew she was ready; she just needed to hear those footsteps.

She sat up after five minutes, her usual patience deserting her. The two bunks above her were silent and the stack of three opposite were still too, except for an occasional grunt and mutter from deep in someone’s dream. The three new arrivals slept on tattered mats on the floor, their arms and legs tangled with a number of plastic bowls. The moldy remains of beans and cassava were scattered everywhere.

She was about to make for the door when she heard a key in the lock. She held her breath as it turned slowly and the ancient pin-tumbler mechanism strained and then clicked. It seemed deafening to Shivvi and she tensed, glancing around the cell, but no one stirred. She counted to twenty, then moved to the door, pushing against its steel panels. It opened slowly, and light from the prison landing fell on one of the floor sleepers. A squinting face looked up at Shivvi who, turning around, drew her finger sharply across her neck. The girl understood the threat well enough and lowered her head to the mat. Shivvi slipped out of the cell.

She had memorized her route to the outside world so many times. She knew the corridors she had to slip down, the rooms she could hide in, and the doors and gates that would be open. She had paid enough. The bribes were at last coming in handy and soon she would be free. Crouching low to avoid being seen from any of the cells, she ran toward the two metal doors at the end of the corridor; she could already see that they were slightly ajar. Her bare feet were noiseless as she sprinted and then slowed down, slipping through them both in a second.

Her wing was on the fourth floor of a block that ran parallel with the front gates of the prison. But as she flew down the flights of stairs—the steel doors stood open at each floor—she knew she was heading in the other direction. There were three staff entrances: one for the caterers and cleaners at the side of the prison and two for the wardens and guards. She had paid for the nearest one to be unwatched and unlocked. She would be there in one minute; the deal was that it would be locked again in three.

The stairs came out at a courtyard at the center of the prison. The air was warm and humid, but in comparison with the fetid stench of the prison, Shivvi thought it was the freshest thing she had ever smelled. She inhaled deeply. She had exercised here many times, but as she looked across to the far side where her open door would be found, she realized she had never seen it empty before. As she checked her route around the cobbled periphery, she briefly caught a familiar stale perfume and whirled around. The vast bulk of Zuma, one of the senior guards, was hurtling toward her. Shivvi jumped sideways—but not quickly enough to escape Zuma’s grabbing hands, which closed around her ponytail. Attempting to throw Shivvi to the ground, the guard pulled down sharply, but Shivvi had been here before. In countless street fights and prison battles she had found herself attacked by bullies and thugs who assumed that because of her five-foot-two, ninety-nine-pound frame, she would be a pushover. They were wrong. As Zuma tugged her down, Shivvi smashed her palm into the guard’s face, splintering her nose instantly. It was her specialty. Zuma let go and put her hands in front of her face, gasping as blood poured between her fingers. Shivvi ran behind her and kicked at her knees. Zuma’s legs buckled and she fell to the ground, groaning.

“Lie down. Lie down, Zuma, or I’ll smash your nose again,” she half whispered, half shouted in the guard’s ear. Zuma did what she was told. “You stay here for ten minutes. You don’t make a sound.” Shivvi bent down and looked her in the eye. “You made my life a misery for three years. I hope you go as crazy in here as I have.” And using Zuma’s head as a starting block, she sprinted for the gate.

The altercation in the courtyard had cost Shivvi some crucial minutes, and as she approached staff entrance A, skipping around open doors and ducking under lit windows, she recognized the silhouette of the guard who had been unlocking the doors for her. With keys in hand, she was about to close up.

“No!” called Shivvi, closing fast, and the guard, looking up, stood aside. They exchanged the briefest of glances, and the former Greencorps oil analyst, convicted polluter, and killer, squeezed her way out of the prison and onto the dark back streets of Lagos.

Hiding behind a garden wall, Shivvi Tan Fook retied the band in her black hair and produced a pair of sandals from under her shirt. She slipped them on and looked around, smiling. If anyone had been watching, they would have marveled at the effect that one smile could have on a face. Despite her twenty-five years—the last three spent in one of the most notorious prisons in Africa—she could still look like a teenager.

“Now,” she said out loud, “Dr. Nathaniel Flowerdew.” She spat the words. “I believe we have an appointment.” And she started to run through the still-dark streets, away from the prison and toward the harbor.