The safehouse in Abokobi was quiet — the kind of quiet that made your thoughts louder.
Brian sat at the head of the narrow table, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on nothing. A weak fan spun in slow, squeaky circles above. The lights flickered, like the nerves in his chest.
Akosua and Kojo flanked him on either side. Adjeley leaned against the far wall with a cup of cold Lipton, her eyes red from lack of sleep. Selorm rested, stitched and drugged, in the small bedroom.
No one said a word.
Finally, Kojo broke the silence. "We were exposed. We walked into that church like amateurs."
Brian didn't blink. "We couldn't have known."
"But they did," Adjeley said, jaw clenched. "They knew we were coming. They knew about Dora. They know our faces."
Akosua leaned forward. "Which means there's still a leak."
Brian spoke, voice gravelled. "It's not internal. Not anymore. Our names were on that board. Faces. Tags. Timelines. This isn't someone feeding them tips. We've been under active surveillance for months."
Kojo looked down at his laptop, the screen filled with archived footage from the drone's last sweep. "They've had eyes on us."
Akosua rubbed her temples. "And now Dora's gone again."
"She didn't just vanish," Brian said. "I called the taxi company. She never reached the safe address we gave her."
Adjeley narrowed her eyes. "Think she flipped?"
Brian paused.
"No. She was scared, but loyal. Someone took her. Or intercepted her on the way."
Kojo's laptop beeped suddenly.
Brian stood.
"What is it?"
Kojo pulled up a feed. "Ping from her burner. Just now. Three seconds. Enough for a location before it vanished again."
He zoomed in.
"East Legon. Uncompleted building near a printing press. Near an abandoned club."
Brian pulled his vest over his shirt. "We go in now. Quiet. Just us three."
Meanwhile…
A man knelt inside a shipping container. Plastic sheets lined the walls. Bright floodlight overhead. His hands were zip-tied behind his back.
He wasn't gagged. They didn't need to.
Pius Amartey stood in front of him — dapper, calm, gloves on, a white handkerchief folded neatly in his pocket.
The man on the floor was shaking. He tried to speak, but P cut him off with a single raised finger.
"You were warned. We said: no names. No chatter. And yet, you gave up a location."
P knelt beside him.
"You didn't know you were being watched, did you? The burner you thought was clean… it wasn't. Your girlfriend's number led them to the church. And that led to the board."
The man began to weep. "Please… I didn't—"
P smiled, almost kindly.
"I don't enjoy this."
He pulled a small pistol from his jacket and placed it gently on the floor.
"But I believe in clean systems."
The shot echoed within the container.
P stood, wiped the handle of the gun, placed it beside the body.
He stepped out into the moonlight. His driver, a silent figure in all black, held the door open.
"Burn the container. Dump the remains in Ashaiman. Make it look like a ritual."
The driver nodded.
As they drove off, P adjusted his collar and checked his phone.
No calls.
No names.
Just numbers.
Back at the safehouse
The drive to East Legon was brief but tense. Brian, Akosua, and Kojo sat in silence. None of them asked what they'd do if Dora was found dead.
The uncompleted building stood like a skeleton of a promise — hollow floors, exposed rods, and broken dreams.
Kojo pointed. "Her signal came from the third floor."
They climbed carefully, torches off, guns drawn.
On the third floor, Kojo stopped suddenly.
"There," he whispered.
In the far corner, beneath a slab of old concrete — a phone.
Burner. Screen cracked. The battery flickering.
Akosua picked it up. "It's hers."
Kojo opened the call log. "One outgoing call. Two minutes. To…"
He trailed off.
Brian snatched the phone.
The number was familiar.
It was his own.
Akosua turned slowly. "She called you?"
Brian nodded. "She was trying to tell me something."
"But then she vanished?" Kojo said. "This was a plant. A message."
Brian looked around. "There's more."
They fanned out.
Near a broken cinder block, Kojo found a folded wrapper — the kind that came around grilled kelewele from street vendors.
Inside was another piece of paper.
Brian opened it.
> "Stop chasing smoke. Or the fire takes your breath."
Akosua cursed under her breath. "They're playing games now."
Kojo looked around, then whispered, "What if we're being watched now?"
Brian nodded. "We leave. Now."
Back at the safehouse, the team reassembled.
Selorm, groggy, leaned against the doorframe. "What happened?"
Brian tossed the burner onto the table. "Dora's gone. Again."
Adjeley's voice broke slightly. "They've got her."
Akosua stared at the floor. "And they're mocking us."
Brian clenched his fist. "Then we stop reacting. We build a new strategy."
Kojo opened his laptop. "We still have one link we didn't explore fully. The retired general."
Brian turned. "You tracked the man who supplied the logistics contact?"
Kojo nodded. "Name's General Danso. Former NIB. He's been off the radar for a year — retired with a quiet package and zero interviews. But guess where he pops up?"
He pulled up an image.
A still frame from security footage.
The general shaking hands with a man at Club Palms.
Brian squinted.
"That's P."
Kojo nodded. "Pius Amartey. Security consultant. Untouchable so far. But this—this is the first visual confirmation that he's real."
Brian exhaled slowly.
"Then we stop playing safe."
That night, while the city slept restlessly under the smog of its own secrets, P stood in his home office, staring at a board not unlike the one beneath the church.
But his board was digital.
Names. Numbers. Timelines.
At the bottom corner: Alicia.
He paused for a long time.
Then tapped her name and whispered:
"Not yet."