Wednesday morning broke hard and ugly.
Brian stood at the boardroom window, watching a stubborn sun claw its way through the Accra haze. The city was awake and moving — but under its skin, something was rotting fast.
He turned back toward the whiteboard behind him, the phrase "CLUB PALMS – THURSDAY MIDNIGHT LOAD – P5" underlined in red. The air in the room was thick. No jokes. No small talk.
Just urgency.
"We have 48 hours," he said. "Less, if they change plans."
Kojo spoke first. "We can't just storm in. The club's too public. Cameras, guards, and too many civilians. We need an inside op."
Akosua nodded. "We've built some trust. Enough to get closer. We just need to push it further."
Selorm dropped a small envelope on the table. "New IDs. Fake roles for Adjeley and Akosua as club logistics assistants. You'll be working 'off-hours' with the bar's new supplier."
Adjeley raised a brow. "There's a new supplier?"
"Yeah," Selorm replied grimly. "The old one — Kwesi Yankson — went missing Monday. His van was found burnt in Amasaman. No body."
Brian ran a hand over his head. "That's P's way of clearing the board. Anyone who talks disappears."
Akosua checked the club's security blueprint Kojo had printed.
"Midnight shift is thin," she said. "Two guards up front, one watching the back alley. But we still don't know where the cargo comes in."
Brian pointed to a narrow hallway marked "Staff Entry – Restricted."
"Here. That door leads to the underground storage. That's where they'll move it."
Adjeley leaned back in her chair. "So what's the plan?"
Brian looked around. "We don't stop the shipment Thursday night. We follow it. We let it come out of the shadows… and see where it runs."
At 11:47 a.m., Alicia placed a warm plate of fried yam and palava sauce in front of Brian.
He hadn't noticed her walk in.
"You didn't eat the rice I packed," she said softly.
Brian blinked, trying to push the intel wall out of his mind. "I've been swamped."
Alicia smiled, gently wiping a bit of dust off his shoulder. "Your job's going to kill you one day."
"Not if I kill it first," he muttered, half-smiling.
She touched his face. "You've been tired lately. These dark circles… you're not sleeping."
"I'm fine."
She leaned against the edge of the table, her beauty radiant and soft.
"Well," she said, "I was thinking — what if we took a weekend? Just you and me. Kwahu maybe. No work. No stress. Just… peace."
Brian paused. His eyes flicked to the evidence board, then back to her.
"Soon," he said. "Just let me finish this case."
Alicia kissed his forehead.
"I'll hold you to that, Detective."
As she walked out, her heels clicking softly down the hallway, Brian stared at the plate.
It was still hot.
But he'd never felt colder.
That afternoon, Pius Amartey stepped out of an unmarked SUV onto a red-earth driveway in a private estate in Peduase.
The house was one of those colonial-styled mansions built with silence and secrets — gated, walled, and overlooked by no one.
A tall man in a grey kaftan opened the door before P even knocked.
"General Mensah will see you."
Inside, the air smelled of gun oil and aging leather. Military plaques and faded black-and-white photos lined the walls. The man sitting in the armchair wasn't what most would call old — just… used. Used by war, politics, and the ghosts that came with both.
General Mensah had led counter-insurgency units during the Northern Conflict. Rumor was, he had buried more truths than files.
P shook his hand.
"Always a pleasure, General."
"You don't show up unless there's fire, Pius."
P sat, uninvited.
"I want to expand the corridor. We're ready for bulk."
Mensah raised an eyebrow. "You're already using Takoradi, Tema, Aflao, and Volta. That's the whole damn spine of the country. What more do you want?"
"I want Tamale Airstrip."
The general chuckled darkly. "You want an active military outpost. Jesus."
P's eyes were calm.
"You control three of the base commanders. You fund their children's schools. Their wives drive Prado."
Mensah didn't blink.
"And if I say no?"
P reached into his coat and pulled out a red folder.
He placed it gently on the coffee table.
Inside were documents — photos, call logs, signed contracts.
And one video clip: General Mensah in 2007, coordinating an "off-the-books" operation that resulted in civilian casualties.
The general didn't open the file.
He didn't need to.
"You really are your father's son," he said finally.
P just smiled.
That night, Akosua and Adjeley returned to Club Palms, dressed in their new undercover roles — black shirts with the club's golden lion logo stitched at the breast, and lanyards that read "VIP Logistics – Night Ops."
Inside, the music throbbed like a pulse. The floor shimmered with sweat and perfume. But in the back rooms, things were quieter.
They clocked the back entry staff — mostly male, young, Ghanaian and Nigerian, heads down, no chit-chat.
"New girls?" one asked.
"Yeah," Akosua replied in practiced Ga, "We dey follow Jerry come. Manager say make we check stock."
The man nodded and moved on.
Step by step, they edged closer to the storage area. It smelled like bleach and wood polish. Cameras blinked red in corners.
They passed crates marked "Spirits – Not for resale."
Adjeley whispered, "That's our shipment code. P5."
Akosua's heart kicked.
A woman in her 50s — tall, with dyed-blonde hair and a harsh voice — waved them over.
"You two. You're the ones replacing Dora, right?"
They froze.
Akosua smiled. "Yeah. Dora said she wasn't feeling well."
The woman grunted. "She always talked too much. People like that disappear."
She walked off.
The words stuck like a blade.
Later, while wiping glasses behind the bar, one of the younger girls leaned over to Akosua.
Her voice was low.
"You didn't hear this from me. But whatever comes in tomorrow? Don't ask. Don't look. Don't be here if you don't want to vanish."
Akosua nodded slowly, her voice soft.
"Why are you telling me?"
The girl hesitated.
"Because you move like us. But you talk like them."
Then she slipped away.
Back at HQ, the team gathered around the table.
"We follow the truck," Brian said. "Adjeley and Akosua mark the goods. Selorm tracks the van. Kojo rigs the alley cam for external angle. We hit them once the handoff is made."
Akosua nodded. "But we'll need decoys. That place is crawling with side-eyes."
"I'll handle it," Kojo said.
Brian exhaled.
"Midnight tomorrow. We either rise or burn."
Far away, in a darkened warehouse near the airfield, P stood with two men in military fatigues.
Crates marked P5 were being wrapped in thick plastic, their contents unseen.
One of the soldiers asked, "You're sure the intel leak is gone?"
P nodded.
"I have men watching every phone tower within a kilometer of the club."
Then he turned and stared into the distance.
"Tomorrow," he said, "they find out what war tastes like."