The signal beeped faintly on Kojo's monitor, each pulse a heartbeat guiding them through the sprawl of Accra's sleeping neighborhoods.
"Still moving," he said, tapping the screen. "Northwest… past Achimota, entering Dome area."
Brian leaned over his shoulder. "That's too far from their usual routes."
Akosua, bandaged and stiff, joined them, clutching a cold sachet of water to her face. "Why go inland? The ports are south."
"Diversion," Brian said. "The club shipment was never the drop. They're baiting us into chasing."
Selorm winced as he eased into a chair. "Well, we're already bleeding. Let's see where the road ends."
Kojo traced the route with his fingers. "They're slowing… almost stopping… I think—yeah. They've pulled into a private compound."
He zoomed in on satellite overlay.
It wasn't a warehouse. It wasn't a dock.
It was a church.
By the time they reached the location — a compound deep behind Dome Pillar 2 — the sun was crawling over the city. The place looked like any roadside charismatic church: a single-storey block with a rusted sign that read:
"MERCY HAVEN CHAPEL – HEALING THROUGH FIRE."
Brian stared at it.
"Fire indeed."
The building was closed. Curtains drawn. No guards. No sign of anyone inside. But the tracker's signal was still active — stationary, inside.
"We don't go in loud," he said. "We knock. Friendly."
Akosua stepped up and rapped on the wooden door.
Nothing.
Then: a shuffle behind the curtain.
It opened slowly. A short, balding man in a wine-colored clerical shirt peered out.
"Yes?"
"Morning, Pastor," Akosua said sweetly. "We're looking for a vehicle. Black SUV. Drove in here last night."
The man blinked. "You are?"
Brian stepped forward. "Police. Special Investigation Unit. Mind if we come in?"
The pastor hesitated, then unlatched the door.
Inside, the chapel was dusty and quiet. Dozens of plastic chairs, a wooden pulpit, faded posters promising healing and deliverance.
And in the far corner — under a brown tarpaulin — sat the black SUV.
Same plate.
Same bumper.
The tracker blinking softly beneath.
Kojo pulled it out, wiped it clean. "Still hot."
Brian turned to the pastor. "Where is the driver?"
"I… I don't know. He just parked here around midnight. Said it was emergency repairs. Gave me GHC 2,000 and said someone would collect it this morning."
"Did you get a name?"
"No."
"Did he have cargo in the vehicle?"
The pastor's lip trembled. "He said there were… bibles."
Akosua opened the trunk.
No crates.
Just empty space and some ropes.
Kojo scanned the walls. "There's a hidden passage here. Look — fake paneling."
They pried it open. Behind it: a stairwell.
Leading underground.
The stairs were narrow and musky, winding downward into a chamber no one expected beneath a church.
At the bottom: a single room lit by two naked bulbs, flickering.
One table. Four chairs. A corkboard covered in photographs, maps, and schedules.
The room smelled of bleach and printer ink.
Brian stared at the photos — shipping routes, port schematics, street mugshots.
Then he froze.
His own face was pinned to the center.
Right beside it: Akosua. Selorm. Kojo. Adjeley. Even David.
Kojo stepped back, heart pounding. "They're tracking us."
Adjeley whispered, "They knew we were coming."
Brian picked up a red marker from the table. Scribbled across the top of the board were the words:
> "THE B-TEAM — ACTIVE SURVEILLANCE — STRATEGY: SHADOWS FIRST, FIRE SECOND"
And beneath it:
> "DORA — SUSPECTED. UNDER REVIEW."
Akosua's breath caught.
"They suspect her."
Brian pulled out his phone. "We need to get her out. Now."
Back at Club Palms, Dora had returned — quietly and cautiously, two days after she'd disappeared.
She had spent those days holed up in a run-down hostel near Tema Station, eating from sachets and watching her phone battery drain in silence. She hadn't told anyone where she was — not even her cousin.
But hiding didn't last. A message came through at midnight:
> "If you're not at work tomorrow, your cousin disappears."
Dora had stared at the text for a long time.
By morning, she was back at the club.
No one greeted her.
She simply went back to folding napkins and scrubbing the storage room — pretending the shadows hadn't grown thicker.
The blonde woman from before passed by and said nothing.
Dora tried to leave twice that day, but each time someone seemed to be waiting near the exit.
So she stayed.
Watching. Listening.
Praying.
That evening, while wiping shelves in the side lounge, Dora noticed the same man who had threatened her weeks ago — tall, with heavy rings and ice in his eyes.
He hadn't said anything yet, but his presence said enough.
She moved toward the restroom.
There, with shaking hands, she pulled out her phone and called Brian.
He answered on the second ring. "Dora?"
"They know," she whispered. "I don't know how, but they know. And I think they know I tried to leave."
"We're sending a car. Get to the front. Now."
"But they're watching—"
The line cut.
Thirty minutes later, the club's front camera captured Dora walking out slowly, hands in her hoodie.
As she stepped off the curb, a delivery tricycle rolled past.
Someone brushed against her shoulder.
She turned to say something—
And froze.
In her hand was a folded piece of paper she hadn't felt seconds before.
She opened it.
> "You were warned.
Now run.
If they find you, you're ash."
Dora's pulse skyrocketed.
She slipped into the waiting taxi and disappeared into the traffic.
Later that evening, Brian sat at his kitchen table, deep in thought. The faces on the corkboard in that church basement haunted him. Someone was watching the watchers.
Alicia appeared with a bowl of soup and bread.
"You didn't eat again," she said gently.
Brian looked up, weary. "It's been a long day."
She sat across from him. "You look like you're losing sleep."
"Maybe I am."
She reached out and touched his hand.
"Just promise me, whatever happens out there… come back to me. Whole."
He smiled faintly.
"I always come back."
But deep down, he knew — this time, not everyone would.