The rain came without warning.
At 3:02 a.m., the safehouse in Accra was battered by a sudden downpour, thunder growling over the city like a warning from the gods. Brian stood in the surveillance room, crouched beside the console, his face illuminated by the flickering monitor. It looped the same video, distorted and chilling: P's voice, masked in digital layers.
"You follow ghosts. I build them."
Twelve times he'd watched it. Each loop dug deeper into his gut. There were no clear geotags, no voiceprint match, no timestamp. But Brian wasn't watching for clues this time. He was watching for rhythm. For timing.
Kojo had barely made it back to Accra when the message appeared. The ambush had been a decoy — and someone inside the operation had tipped them off.
There was a leak.
He didn't need names yet. He needed movement.
Adjeley walked in, soaked to the bone. She tossed her coat onto the chair and handed Brian a flash drive.
"I pulled this from the backup tower in Anloga. Surveillance footage the cartel tried to jam during the Agbozume ambush."
Brian inserted the drive. The screen buzzed, then played: night-vision grain, a handheld camera feed. Bodies moved in and out of frame — men loading crates, and then, in the corner, a woman holding a phone to her ear. Dora.
Brian leaned forward.
"Freeze that. Zoom in on the glass panel."
Adjeley frowned. "That's just a reflection."
"Exactly."
She enhanced the still. In the curved reflection of the phone, the faint outline of a man behind Dora appeared — a clean-shaven figure in a tailored suit. And a glint. A wristwatch. Familiar.
Brian whispered, "That's Minister Owusu's prototype."
Adjeley turned slowly. "You think Alicia's boss is working with them?"
"I don't think," Brian said, voice like ice. "I know. That watch was custom-made. Only three exist. He flaunts it like a trophy."
Adjeley stepped back. "That puts the Ministry directly in the heart of the trafficking ring."
Brian nodded. "And it means Alicia may be more entangled than she realizes."
Meanwhile, in the Volta Region, Selorm crouched in the surveillance van parked a hundred meters from an abandoned cocoa warehouse. His thermal scanner showed two human signatures inside — small, slow-moving.
Children.
He radioed Brian. "Thermal confirms two hostages. No guards in sight, but the place is sealed tight. Orders?"
Brian's voice came through: "Hold position. We'll dispatch Kojo with backup."
But Selorm hesitated. Every second mattered.
"I'm going in."
He tucked a dart gun into his jacket, secured his silenced pistol, and slipped into the night. Rain dripped off rusted gutters as he crept toward the warehouse. The lock on the side door was old. A gentle twist with a crowbar, and it gave.
Inside, the musty air reeked of mold and dried blood. Wooden crates were stacked floor to ceiling. Somewhere within, a faint cough echoed.
He followed the sound.
In the corner, he found them — a boy and a girl, tied back to back, gagged. The girl was barely eight. The boy's eyes were wide with fear.
Selorm knelt. "It's okay. I'm here to help."
He began cutting the rope when a door slammed behind him.
"Drop the knife."
A flashlight beam blinded him. The voice was female. Cold.
Dora.
Selorm stood slowly, hands raised. "I'm just here for the children."
"You always think you're saving someone," Dora said, stepping forward with her pistol drawn. "But in this story, you're a footnote."
He held her gaze. "You don't have to do this."
"Oh, but I do," she whispered.
Her phone buzzed.
She checked the screen, and for a second — just a second — her grip faltered. Her face hardened. She tossed the phone to Selorm.
"Read it."
The message was simple:
"Dora. You've been made. Burn the site. Leave no trace."
Before he could speak, she shot out the lantern.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Gunfire erupted — loud, close, and vicious. Selorm rolled behind a crate, shielding the children. A bullet punched into the wood inches from his face.
He aimed his dart gun and fired toward the sound.
A thud.
Silence.
He crawled forward and found Dora unconscious. Hit square in the shoulder. Breathing, but down.
He quickly lifted the children and dragged them out into the rain.
He called Brian. "I've got Dora. Alive. And two kids. Sending coordinates now."
Back in Accra, Alicia stood in the Ministry boardroom, facing Minister Owusu. Rain streaked down the glass walls behind him.
"You approved every one of those child extractions," he said. "With your signature. You're not just complicit, Alicia. You're embedded."
"I was following protocol—"
"No," he interrupted. "You didn't ask questions. And now you're angry because the veil's lifting."
"I want out," she whispered.
Owusu leaned back, steepling his fingers. "You were never in. You were a pawn. Pretty. Smart. Replaceable."
Alicia stared at him.
"Why the children?" she asked.
He smirked. "Because they're currency. And no one asks about the poor ones."
She turned to leave.
"You report me, and you burn too," he added.
She walked out silently, her hand trembling inside her bag — gripping the recorder she had switched on at the beginning of the meeting.
At the black site outside Tema, Dora was sedated, cuffed to a chair. Brian and Adjeley watched her through a one-way mirror.
"She's more valuable alive," Adjeley said.
Brian nodded. "But she's also a liability. She'll lie. Stall."
"Or bait us."
Brian turned to the wall, where he had added a new photo — Minister Owusu.
"Forget baiting," he said. "We flip the Minister. He's the rot at the center."
Back in the surveillance room, Selorm replayed a second audio clip found on Dora's phone. It was a call between Owusu and an unknown male voice.
Voice 1: "Move the next set by Tuesday. You'll get your shipment in Tema."
Voice 2 (Owusu): "Good. And the customs check?"
Voice 1: "Already paid off."
Brian leaned over. "That voice. The first one. It's P."
Adjeley's eyes narrowed. "You're sure?"
"I've heard him speak twice now. Distorted or not — it's him."
Kojo entered the room. "News from Kumasi. The checkpoint footage shows a black BMW following the decoy SUV. It peeled off moments before the sniper struck."
Brian turned. "Plates?"
"Stolen. But the driver? Tall, heavyset. Moved like security."
"Any link to Owusu?"
"Maybe. We're checking facial matches now."
Brian faced the board. So many strings. But all leading back to one place: the Ministry. And possibly — to Alicia.
He picked up his phone and called her.
She answered on the second ring. "Yes?"
"You're not safe. Get out of the Ministry. Now."
"I have something you need," she whispered. "Meet me in one hour."
He frowned. "Where?"
"Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum. East gate."
Brian grabbed his coat and gun. "We move in silence. Tonight we burn the veil."