The B-Team had less than seventy-two hours.
In the operations room, Brian stood before a citywide map plastered with marked routes, suspected safehouses, and intel pins. The red circle around Kumasi glared like a warning light.
"If P is really going to show up at that checkpoint," Brian said, tapping the board, "we're not just observers anymore. We're players in the final act."
Adjeley crossed her arms, eyes scanning the board. "You're assuming this isn't a setup."
"It is," Brian replied calmly. "But it might also be our only shot."
They had split the team. Kojo and Akosua were en route to Kumasi under civilian cover, posing as cargo regulators. Selorm was staying in Volta to monitor movements through the Agbozume swamps. Brian and Adjeley were to coordinate remotely from Accra, ensuring all angles were covered — and all exits sealed.
Meanwhile, in a dark alley behind a defunct church in Lapaz, a meeting took place.
Dora sat on a broken stool, a scarf tied tightly around her face. She spoke to a courier with a shaky hand and terrified eyes.
"You tell him what I said. No mistakes. If P wants to burn bridges, tell him this time he'll burn alone."
The courier nodded quickly, clutching a package that reeked of gasoline and anger. He disappeared into the night.
Dora wiped her face and looked to the heavens.
"Your secrets are catching up with you, P."
Back in Kumasi, Kojo and Akosua made their way through the checkpoint infrastructure under the guise of federal logistics officials. The real officers at the post had been tipped off and paid to cooperate — though none of them knew the true scale of what was unfolding.
Inside the control van, Kojo ran the recon equipment: facial recognition, traffic pattern analyzers, and license plate identifiers. Akosua, in the passenger seat, monitored crowd movement and random pedestrian walk-ins.
A small, dusty Toyota Corolla pulled up.
Kojo blinked. "That's a decoy. Look at the tires — too clean for that road."
The Corolla parked for inspection. Two men inside. Nervous. Not cartel. Possibly carriers.
Kojo stepped out, approached calmly, asked for ID. As they reached into the glove compartment, a slight flash of silver caught his eye.
Gun.
Kojo leaned back. "Out. Hands where I can see them."
The men hesitated. Akosua stepped up from behind with her sidearm drawn. "Don't do anything stupid."
The taller man swallowed, nodded, and stepped out.
The glove compartment revealed three burner phones, stacks of new SIM cards, and a ledger with coded names and numbers.
Akosua opened one of the phones and checked the recent texts. A message blinked on-screen:
"Package ETA: 14:30. P rides silent."
Kojo looked at the clock. 13:45.
He turned to Akosua. "He's coming. And we're still blind."
Back in Accra, Brian and Adjeley were going through the contents of the sealed envelope Alicia had received. Brian had convinced her to hand it over under the pretense of "ministry protocol," and now he was combing through the grainy photo and hidden microchip embedded in the cardboard lining.
Adjeley ran the chip through the secure terminal. "Encrypted. Military-grade. This isn't street cartel data."
Brian leaned closer. "Can we break it?"
"I can try."
Ten minutes later, the screen flickered, then displayed a set of GPS coordinates and one line of text:
"SWITCHBACK ZONE ACTIVE – No returns."
Brian typed the coordinates into the map. "It's a bypass route through Ejisu. An illegal switchback route for shipments that want to avoid customs."
Adjeley narrowed her eyes. "If he's not going through the checkpoint, we're about to miss him."
Brian's fingers danced over the comm system. "Kojo. P might take the Ejisu bypass. Pull back and head east immediately."
Kojo answered, "Copy. We're moving."
Inside their van, Kojo made a hard turn off the main road, dust spraying into the air. Akosua held on tight as they barreled down a rugged path lined with palm trees and makeshift farms.
Fifteen minutes later, they spotted it.
A black Prado. Tinted windows. No plates.
Akosua's voice dropped. "That's him."
Kojo nodded. "We follow. From a distance."
The Prado moved slowly, weaving through the switchback route with familiarity. Whoever was inside knew the terrain — and the shadows.
Brian's voice came through the radio again. "Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage."
But just as Kojo slowed, a motorbike zipped past their van at full speed.
A sniper.
The bike pulled up ahead of the Prado, the rider raising a long rifle toward the SUV.
"No!" Akosua screamed.
A shot rang out. Glass shattered.
The Prado veered left and crashed into a ditch.
Kojo and Akosua jumped out, guns drawn, rushing forward.
But the bike rider was already gone — vanished into the bush.
Inside the crashed Prado, the driver was bleeding from the temple. Alive. Masked.
Akosua yanked the mask off.
It wasn't P.
Kojo cursed under his breath. "Another decoy."
In the pocket of the driver's jacket, they found a flash drive and a note:
"Wrong route. Try again."
Back at the safehouse, Brian stared at the flash drive data that Kojo sent over remotely.
The only file on it was a looping video.
P's voice distorted through digital layers:
> "You think this is your city. But it never was. You follow ghosts. I build them."
Brian stared at the screen, jaw tight.
Adjeley muttered, "He's playing us. Like a conductor with a symphony of misdirection."
Brian turned to her. "Then we stop listening to the music. And we start breaking the instruments."