The cigarette burned slowly, the ember flaring red in the night air like a dying signal flare. The man behind the wheel didn't smoke often — only when waiting to watch someone die.
Inside the hostel, second window from the left, David Osei moved like a man walking over landmines. He paced. Sat. Paced again. His hands were shaking as he reheated banku and soup, barely touching the bowl after. Outside, the engine idled in a low hum, just enough to blend with the crickets and distant trucks.
The man in the car took a photo with his phone. David's silhouette. The burner phone on the table. The envelope he had dropped near his duffel bag.
Then, he spoke into his earpiece.
"Target confirmed. Still alone. Still breathing."
The reply was brief.
"Good. Make sure it stays that way… until we say otherwise."
Then silence.
Across the city, Akosua and Adjeley sat in a rented Suzuki parked near a seafood joint in Labadi, engines off, eyes sharp.
"He's late," Adjeley said, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel.
Akosua checked her phone. "Kofi Amartey always shows. He probably took a different route."
They were tailing him tonight. Not too close. Not enough to spook a man trained in counter-surveillance. Just enough to keep tabs. At 9:18 p.m., his tinted Prado pulled into the gravel lot of a run-down apartment block two streets down.
There was no security.
Just shadows, quiet voices, and grilled fish smoke curling from nearby alleys.
Akosua reached for the mic. "We've got him. Labadi apartment confirmed. One driver, no backup."
Brian's voice came through low and firm. "Maintain distance. Don't let him feel your eyes."
From their angle, they watched him step out — same sleek composure, no sign of nerves. A girl in a red tank top opened the door. Kofi kissed her cheek and went inside.
Adjeley exhaled. "So even the monsters have someone to come home to."
Akosua shook her head. "That's not home. That's cover. That's how he launders his normal."
Back at HQ, Kojo sat hunched over multiple screens, sweat beading along his temple. He was scrubbing video frames from David's flash drive and cross-checking cargo logs from Sahara Maritime.
"Bingo," he whispered to himself.
He enlarged a timestamped manifest:
Container ID: YJ-557
Cleared by: Boadu, Kofi Amartey (Override Key #291A)
Destination: "Confidential - Inland Route, Northern Logistics Division"
He leaned back. "That's not Tema. That's Tamale."
He picked up his phone and called Selorm.
"You're gonna want to see this."
Meanwhile, Brian sat at a dim café in East Legon, sipping tea and pretending to scroll his phone.
He wasn't here for caffeine.
He was here for a whisper.
The informant's name was Ataa Mensah — a junior clerk from the Ministry of Roads and Highways. Ataa had reached out once before about falsified contracts connected to shady warehouse rentals.
Now, he wanted to talk face to face.
Brian spotted him near the bus stop. Thin, nervous. Holding a green file like it was an explosive.
"Talk fast," Brian said as Ataa slid into the seat opposite him.
"They're moving product using the Ministry's inland depot project."
Brian tensed. "What kind of product?"
"I don't know exactly. But over ten depots in the north are marked for 'rest stops and warehouse usage.' Only five are actually under construction."
"And the other five?"
"Storage. Overnight. Private deliveries. No records."
"Who signed the funding?"
Ataa swallowed. "It came through special allocation. A signature from a deputy minister. I can't say his name here."
Brian leaned closer. "You just did."
Ataa dropped the file under the table. "It's all there. I can't help more. If they see me with you again…"
Brian nodded. "Stay invisible."
Ataa vanished into the crowd before the waiter could even reach their table.
Back in Tema, David was startled awake by a sharp knock on his door.
Two knocks.
Then silence.
He grabbed his phone. Burner first. Checked for messages. None.
He edged toward the door, heart hammering.
Another knock.
"David?" a voice whispered. "It's Mary from Room 5."
He cracked the door slightly. Mary stood there, barefoot, her eyes darting up and down the hallway.
"There's a man in a car outside. Been there since morning. He's watching this floor."
David's throat dried instantly.
"I thought maybe it was a landlord thing. But then I saw him take photos."
He swallowed. "You told anyone else?"
"No. I—" she paused. "I thought you might want to know."
David closed the door gently. His pulse pounded. He knew this was it. They'd found him.
At HQ, Brian slammed the green file onto the table.
"Four deputy ministers are directly linked to warehouse contracts."
Kojo whistled. "So this isn't just about drugs. It's infrastructure."
"Exactly," Brian muttered. "They've built a trafficking pipeline masked as development."
Selorm entered holding a fresh laptop. "David just texted from the burner. He's being watched. Hostile surveillance."
Brian stood instantly. "Mobilize."
They reached the hostel at 1:44 a.m.
The surveillance car was gone.
David was gone too.
His room was clean.
No clothes. No files. No food.
No sign of struggle.
Just a piece of paper taped to the inside of the wardrobe.
Brian tore it down and read aloud:
> "They knocked once for warning.
Twice for death.
I left before the third."
— D.O.
Akosua blinked. "He ran."
Kojo stared around. "And he's smart."
Brian nodded. "Let's hope it was fast enough."
Elsewhere, in a quiet compound in Cantonments, Pius Amartey leaned back in his leather chair, eyes fixed on a laptop screen.
A photo of David.
Then Akosua.
Then Brian.
The man in the car earlier now stood in front of him, hat in hand.
"Should I send someone for him?"
P shook his head.
"No. Not yet. Sometimes fear plants deeper seeds than blood."
He flipped the screen.
Another folder opened — labeled "Project Ember."
Inside were names. Locations. Political party logos. And a list of potential leaks.
At the very bottom:
"Alicia"
P's face changed briefly.
But only for a second.
Then he closed the folder and stood.
"Tonight," he said, "we send them a proper message."
Two hours later, a fire tore through a printing press in Abossey Okai.
A message was painted in red across the front gate, smeared like blood:
> "YOU'RE BURNING TIME."
Inside, the B-Team found a charred ledger, half-burnt.
But one line survived:
"Club Palms – Thursday – Midnight Load – Coded ID: P5."
Brian stared at the paper.
"They're daring us."
Akosua clenched her fists.
"Then we answer."