Brian sat alone in the safehouse's side room, the low hum of the overhead fan the only sound. The lights were dimmed, his laptop screen casting soft blue shadows on his face.
He had typed her name three times already.
**Alicia Mensah-Antwi.**
Each time, he hovered over the "Search" key as if pressing it might break something.
He took a long breath.
Then clicked.
The system loaded. Civilian records. Public deployments. Civil service entries. Everything looked clean — too clean. The absence of data told him more than its presence.
Kojo knocked gently at the door.
Brian didn't look up. "You need something?"
Kojo stepped in, laptop under his arm. "We picked up fresh data from Danso's secondary node. The 'Pineapple Drop' route is active."
Brian turned. "Where?"
"Volta Region. Scheduled for 72 hours from now. Marked as a diversion route through Kpeve, but it's a cover — final stop is likely Agbozume, near the border."
Brian rubbed his jaw. "Agbozume's perfect. Swamps, sparse patrols, local corruption. They'll disappear without a trace."
Kojo nodded. "I'm prepping for reconnaissance. Want Selorm and Akosua to join me."
Brian waved a hand. "Do it."
Kojo hesitated, watching his team lead with the practiced eyes of a field man. "You okay?"
Brian forced a smile. "Just tired. Go."
Kojo didn't press. "We leave at 5 a.m."
As the door closed, Brian exhaled. Hours later, when the house was asleep, he pulled out an old USB drive — a ghost from his police days. On it, encrypted archives from the Army Intelligence Unit's personnel files. He wasn't supposed to have access anymore.
But he was still Brian.
He entered the secure string of backdoor codes and loaded the database.
**Operation Firebelt (2010)**
*Restricted: Level 5 Clearance*
He scrolled.
There she was.
**Lt. Alicia Mensah. Tactical Reconnaissance. Codename: Whisper.**
Brian's brows furrowed. She never told him about a codename. And the file was classified for field espionage — deep cover only.
He clicked "Mission Log."
**ACCESS DENIED.**
He tried again. Same result.
The only available note read:
"Assignment reclassified under Executive Black. Direct reporting to Gen. K. Danso."
He stared at the screen.
So she had worked under Danso. But why keep it from him? Why burn that part of her past entirely? His heart twisted. He wanted to believe there was a good reason. But secrets like this weren't left to chance.
His phone vibrated.
A message from Akosua:
"Something weird. Turn on GTV. Now."
He grabbed the remote and flipped the channel.
It was late-night news, but the feed had been hijacked. A video played — grainy, night-vision, shot from a shaky handheld.
A woman's voice echoed over the footage:
> "This is what happens to traitors. This is what happens when you forget who you serve."
The footage showed a shipping container. Inside: a man, bleeding, tied to a chair. A figure stood over him — her back to the camera.
The voice again:
> "Let this be your last message."
A loud pop — gunshot. The feed ended. The screen returned to static.
Akosua texted again:
"Pause the video. Zoom in on the standing figure. Enhance."**
Brian rewound, paused, screenshot.
The figure's frame — unmistakable.
Slim. Limp on the left foot.
"Dora."
She was alive.
Adjeley burst into the room moments later. She had a still of the video in hand, already printed, laminated by urgency.
"You're sure it's her?"
Brian nodded slowly. "The limp. The profile. I'd bet my badge."
"She doesn't look like she's running anymore."
"No," Brian said. "She looks like someone who's come back to finish something."
Adjeley narrowed her eyes. "We need to act fast. If Dora's this close, someone's losing control."
Meanwhile, at the safehouse's operations room, Kojo, Akosua, and Selorm finished prepping their gear. Maps lay sprawled across the table. Drones had already been programmed for aerial surveillance.
Selorm checked the clips for his sidearm. "If this Pineapple Drop's legit, we'll need to do more than watch."
Kojo nodded. "Agreed. But Brian's orders are clear. No engagement unless greenlit."
Akosua watched them both. "What about Alicia? She was close to Danso too, wasn't she?"
Kojo paused. "She's the First Lady of this unit. Let's not throw shade unless we've got proof."
Selorm raised an eyebrow. "Shade's already crawling across our backs."
Akosua didn't respond.
Elsewhere, Alicia stepped out of her car at work, wearing sunglasses to mask the fatigue behind her eyes. The city bustled around her. Horns. Street hawkers. Life.
But she moved through it like a ghost.
She entered her office, unlocked her drawer, and found the envelope still there.
Same black wax. Same weight.
She ran her finger over the edge, then paused.
What if Brian knew?
What if he was watching her too?
She took the envelope, slid it into her coat pocket, and stepped outside. Her breath was steady — but her heartbeat wasn't.
Back in the safehouse, Brian received another alert from Kojo's drone surveillance. Two trucks had pulled into a warehouse at Agbozume — same drop location suspected in the intel.
Kojo's voice came through the comms: "We've got visuals. Military-grade rifles. Unregistered trucks. One of the men matches Judas Atta's profile."
Brian stood slowly. "Track them. No heroics."
Then Adjeley stepped in again, holding something new.
A printed still from a security cam outside a medical clinic.
It showed Dora — older, thinner, dressed in white. Talking to a nurse. Leaving something on the counter.
Brian studied it in silence.
"She's not hiding anymore," Adjeley said quietly.
"No," Brian whispered. "She wants to be found."
She looked at him carefully. "You're hiding something too."
He didn't respond.
She dropped the still on the table. "I think it's time we all stopped hiding."