Thursday night draped itself over Accra like a velvet shroud.
At 11:42 p.m., the B-Team was in place.
Kojo, parked three blocks away, monitored live feeds from the hacked alley camera. His eyes flicked between three monitors: street view, storage corridor, and thermal drone above the warehouse district.
Selorm sat in an unmarked Kia at the Tudu bypass, disguised as a sleeping trotro driver with a woven cap pulled low.
Akosua and Adjeley were already inside Club Palms, stationed behind the logistics bar, blending in among staff handling liquor crates and receipts.
And Brian — he stood on the rooftop of a nearby three-story apartment with binoculars, pulse steady. A sniper rifle in its case lay beside him, untouched. Tonight wasn't for shooting.
Tonight was for watching.
11:57 p.m.
Akosua's earpiece crackled.
"Movement," Kojo said. "Van pulling in. License plate mismatched. They switched tags."
Adjeley muttered, "Here we go."
Through the back entrance, two men rolled in a large steel crate marked "P5 – Spirits – Perishable."
The crate wasn't cold.
There was nothing perishable.
But the sweat on the men's brows said otherwise.
Akosua casually slipped past and scanned the QR code on the side with her hidden device.
"Confirmed," she whispered. "This is it."
Kojo nodded on comms. "Tracker planted. Wait for the van to exit. Tail from distance."
12:06 a.m.
The van pulled out the alley behind the club, casual, unhurried. No escort. No drama.
But Brian's instincts prickled.
"Something's off," he muttered into comms. "No scout vehicle. No bike escort. They're too calm."
Kojo added, "They've switched to Level 2 protocol. This is a false quiet."
Brian adjusted his mic. "All units follow protocol. Shadow the van, maintain one vehicle between. No contact unless green-lit."
12:19 a.m.
Selorm tailed two cars behind in the Kia, lights off. Kojo followed from above with the drone, maintaining line of sight.
The van moved past Nima, then Osu, and down toward a dirt side road near Kanda. There was no traffic at this hour — only fog, dust, and tension.
"They're turning," Kojo said. "Heading into an old government warehouse yard."
Brian's voice cut in. "Why would they stop here?"
"Wait—wait," Kojo said, squinting at thermal feed. "Something's wrong."
"What?"
"The van's empty."
12:24 a.m.
Selorm braked suddenly.
"The van's decoyed! They must've offloaded somewhere else."
He opened his door just as a shot shattered the Kia's windshield.
"Contact!" Selorm yelled.
"Get out!" Brian barked.
From behind the warehouse, two black SUVs emerged. Muzzle flashes erupted from both sides. Selorm dove for cover, rolling under the car. Glass rained down. Kojo shouted into the feed.
"I'm losing signal! We're being jammed!"
Akosua and Adjeley, still near Club Palms, picked up the panic in their earpieces.
"What's happening?" Adjeley demanded.
"No time," Brian said. "Fall back. This was a trap."
Brian leapt from the rooftop stairwell and into the alley, breaking into a sprint. His pistol drawn, he cut across an open lot toward the ambush site. Each footfall echoed like gunfire.
At the warehouse, Selorm was pinned behind a cement pillar, blood seeping down his arm.
"Still with me?" Brian called, crouching low.
Selorm nodded through gritted teeth. "Clipped. Not deep."
Brian peeked — counted four shooters. Military formation. Professional. No shouting. Just precision.
"They're not just thugs," Brian muttered. "They're trained."
Kojo's voice returned, distorted but clear. "One SUV just pulled out — heading north fast. That may be the real shipment."
Brian turned to Selorm. "Stay down. Kojo, tail that SUV with the drone. Akosua, Adjeley — meet at Junction 6, block them if you can."
12:38 a.m.
The chase was on.
Kojo's drone tracked the fleeing SUV, weaving through Madina's empty industrial lanes. He pinged the coordinates to Akosua and Adjeley.
They caught it just in time — speeding down the bypass.
"That's them," Adjeley said, gripping the wheel. "Brace."
She turned sharply, cutting across a drainage gap and sliding into the SUV's lane.
The SUV braked hard.
The back doors burst open—
But instead of crates…
Fire.
Molotovs.
The girls swerved as flames erupted across the hood of their car.
Adjeley screamed, "Out! OUT!"
Both tumbled from the vehicle, rolling into gravel as the windshield exploded in heat. The SUV sped off, a wall of fire behind it.
Kojo screamed in their ears. "Get out of there! Backup's two minutes away!"
Akosua reached into her bra, pulled out the spare tracker, and threw it — sticking to the rear bumper of the SUV.
The signal beeped.
They still had it.
Back at the warehouse, silence fell.
The shooters had vanished.
Selorm was being bandaged by Brian with a torn-up shirt.
Brian looked at the bullet hole in the wall behind him.
"Inches," he muttered.
Kojo patched through, breathless.
"Girls are safe. Car's gone. But we've got the tracker active."
Brian stood slowly.
"We're not chasing shadows anymore."
Back at Brian's apartment, the hallway light was dim. He unlocked the door quietly and stepped inside, shoes soaked in dust, shirt torn near the shoulder.
Alicia was on the couch, fast asleep with a book in her lap — one of those crime thrillers she liked to read and tease him about.
The TV flickered softly in the background. On the coffee table sat a full, untouched plate of jollof rice and grilled chicken, still warm under foil.
Brian paused, watching her chest rise and fall slowly. Her face looked peaceful — untouched by the chaos that gnawed at the city.
She stirred.
"Brian?" she said groggily. "What time is it?"
"Late. Go back to sleep."
"You're bleeding," she said, sitting up now. "What happened?"
"Got caught in the rain… and some broken glass."
She frowned, standing up to examine his arm. "Let me clean that."
He waved her off gently. "It's fine. I'll handle it."
Alicia hesitated, then pulled him into a hug.
"You scare me sometimes," she whispered.
Brian said nothing.
He just closed his eyes and let her hold him — wondering how much longer he could live two lives under the same roof.