CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The sun had not fully risen, but its bruised amber hue was already spilling across the Volta River like blood diluted in water. Brian stood on the wooden pier, holding Dora's note in one hand, its cryptic lines repeating themselves in his head: "He's not the man you think he is. Stop him before she does."

The breeze from the water offered no comfort, and neither did the silence behind him. He could hear Akosua and Kumi in the SUV, arguing about what to report and what to omit. Mensah was on the radio with headquarters, his tone cold and flat, masking the nervous energy rattling the whole team since the ambush. Brian, however, remained outside, motionless, letting the weight of the note sink into the deeper waters of his mind.

"Boss," Akosua's voice pulled him out. "The station wants a status update."

Brian turned, his eyes scanning the horizon before folding the note into his coat pocket. "Tell them we lost the trucks and walked into a trap. Two injured. No fatalities. They'll want details, but don't say anything about Dora."

She blinked. "Why not?"

"Because until I know who exactly we're chasing, I don't know who I'm protecting."

Akosua looked like she wanted to press further, but stopped. She nodded and walked back to the car.

Brian exhaled, rubbed his face, and stepped into the vehicle.

Back at the Volta Task Post, the team regrouped. Brian had the note photographed and sent to their linguistics expert, even though it was in plain English. Sometimes, the wording held as much meaning as the text itself.

The ambush had left emotional bruises. Kumi and Mensah were shaken. They'd found a tracker underneath their vehicle—something recent, military-grade. Whoever led the trap knew they were coming.

This wasn't just a leak. It was an infestation.

"Someone's feeding them directly from inside our walls," Kumi muttered during the meeting. "This kind of setup requires intelligence. Someone's seeing our moves before we make them."

Brian stared at the tracker now resting in an evidence bag. It had no markings, just a flashing LED when activated. He clenched his fists.

"We're cleaning house," he said. "Starting now."

Akosua sat beside him, her eyes bouncing between the evidence board and her tablet. "I traced the license plate from one of the decoys at the ambush. It was reported stolen from Kumasi two weeks ago. Repainted. No fingerprints, no camera evidence."

Brian leaned forward. "What about the body?"

"The one we found twenty meters from the drop site? Male, mid-30s. Two bullets to the back of the head, hands broken. No ID, no prints in the system. But he had a distinctive tattoo on his neck."

She flipped the tablet toward him. The image was sharp—a crimson snake coiled around a dagger.

Brian recognized it instantly. "He was part of the Fang Syndicate. They supply muscle to major cartels but never directly involve themselves in transport. This is a signal. Someone wants us to know they're involved, or they want to blame them."

"Either way," Mensah said grimly, "it's bait."

Later that night, Brian retreated to his temporary quarters—a bare cement room in the station annex. He poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee and sat at the edge of the bed, thumbing through the pages of their collected intelligence.

But the note remained at the front of his mind.

He unfolded it again.

He's not the man you think he is. Stop him before she does.

A question burned hotter than ever now: Who is "he"? Who is "she"?

Dora's message, intentionally vague, almost seemed like a riddle. She must've known that Brian was too smart to react impulsively. Which meant the note was only the start. A breadcrumb.

He picked up his phone and called a secure contact in Accra—Inspector Lorde, one of his oldest friends and the only person outside the task force he still trusted completely.

"Lorde. I need you to look into someone for me. Discreetly."

"Name?"

"Pius Kwapong."

There was a pause.

"The logistics entrepreneur?"

"That's his public face. I think he's the phantom behind this cartel, known only as 'P.' But I need something I can use."

"I'll get back to you. You should be careful, Brian."

"I know."

The next day, Brian made a quiet request for his team to be split—Kumi and Mensah would remain at base to inspect tech vulnerabilities, while he and Akosua would return to Accra under the guise of giving a briefing to the CID Director.

It was a lie.

In truth, Brian had decided it was time to revisit the shadows of Pius Kwapong's empire—from the obscure shipping lines to his supposed charity organizations in Teshie and Tema.

But as they drove through the winding roads leading back into the capital, Akosua finally voiced the suspicion dancing at the edge of Brian's own thoughts.

"You think Alicia's husband is involved."

Brian didn't look at her. His eyes remained fixed on the road.

"I don't know what to think anymore."

"But you've considered it."

He nodded slightly.

"I've known Alicia for years. She's brilliant, calm under pressure, and methodical. But recently… something's off. It's in the way she avoids certain questions. How she's always first to arrive and last to leave. Even her voice has changed. Like she's always choosing her words."

Akosua looked concerned. "What if she knows about your investigation into her husband?"

"I haven't told anyone until now."

Akosua shook her head. "Then maybe that note from Dora… maybe the 'she' isn't Alicia."

Brian hesitated.

Then he said, "Or maybe it is—but not in the way we think."

That evening, Brian and Akosua slipped into Club Palms again—this time under new identities, backed by fresh intel from Inspector Lorde. Their objective was not just observation. It was infiltration.

The club, already buzzing with weekend energy, had changed. More guards. Tighter routines. Stricter VIP access. Something had shifted since their last visit.

They played it cool—mingled, danced, tipped well, and drew attention only as wealthy guests. Akosua sparked up conversations with a few regulars, while Brian observed the patterns: who entered, who exited, and who stayed in the shadows.

After two hours, a tall woman with fire-red braids and skin like molten bronze approached them.

"You two seem to like this place."

Brian offered a smile. "You could say that."

"I'm Kayla. I handle the private lounges."

"And what does that mean?"

She leaned closer. "It means I know who's in the business, and who's pretending."

Akosua didn't blink. "What if we are the business?"

Kayla studied them both carefully.

"Then maybe we should talk—somewhere quiet."

Brian's heart skipped. This was the break they needed. Not forced. Not threatened. They were being invited deeper into the belly of the beast.

Later, in the privacy of a candle-lit lounge room insulated from the main club music, Kayla poured them drinks and said, "We've been watching you. You're not cops. You don't move like them. And people here say you're looking to supply. That true?"

Akosua exchanged a glance with Brian, then nodded. "We can move weight—chemicals, pills, the stuff that moves without a smell."

Kayla smirked. "Then you're going to need protection. Because this city eats the unprotected alive."

Brian leaned forward. "And who offers that kind of protection?"

Kayla's smile faded. "You'll meet him when it's time. But first, you have to prove yourself."

The trap was closing.

But so was the distance to the truth.