Brian stood by the door of Interrogation Room Two, arms folded, watching Loko through the glass. He sat alone, hunched forward, the bandage on his thigh soaked red at the edges. He looked like a man defeated — but not broken. Not yet.
The silence between them earlier still echoed. Loko hadn't spoken again since his cryptic offer to talk — but only away from the precinct.
Akosua approached with a soft knock on the door. "Ready?"
Brian gave a tight nod. "Yeah. Let's take him. If he talks, we get our breakthrough. If he's bluffing… we end this today."
They stepped into the room.
Loko raised his head slowly. "I meant what I said. This building is rotten. If I speak here, I'll be dead before morning."
Brian walked behind him and unfastened the cuffs from the table, clicking one side onto Loko's wrist. "Then let's take a drive."
Akosua handed over the chain-link evidence bag and pocketed the burner phone they'd recovered earlier.
As they moved down the corridor toward the parking bay, the air felt heavy, electric. Loko moved slowly, limping, but his posture was oddly relaxed — like someone who had finally made peace with something.
"You don't get to decide how this ends," Brian warned him.
Loko didn't respond. He just walked.
Outside, the evening breeze carried faint music from a radio in a patrol car. Somewhere down the road, a siren whined distantly.
Halfway across the parking lot, Loko paused. "Water," he said. "Please."
Akosua turned instinctively toward the vending machine just beside the wall. "I'll get it."
In that heartbeat — that sliver of time — Loko's free hand moved.
It was so quick Brian almost missed it. A flick toward his mouth. A snap of the jaw.
By the time Akosua turned back with the bottle, Loko was twitching violently.
"Loko?"
He dropped to his knees, hands clawing at the air, foam spilling from his lips. His eyes bulged, panic surging through every nerve in his body.
"Brian!"
Brian knelt immediately. "He bit something. Capsule. Cyanide — or worse."
Akosua grabbed her radio. "We need a paramedic! Now! Officer down!"
Loko's body convulsed once more. Then stilled. His eyes stared up, wide, unfocused.
Gone.
The hospital was cold in every way that mattered.
Brian sat on the hallway bench, shoulders slumped, hands clasped tight between his knees. Akosua paced slowly, phone to her ear, trying to reach the district coroner.
A nurse stepped out. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "There was nothing we could do. Fast-acting poison. Most likely cyanide. He had it in a false tooth, possibly implanted months ago."
"Planned," Akosua muttered. "He knew if he got caught, he'd go out this way."
Brian nodded slowly, face hardened. "This wasn't panic. It was protocol."
They'd been so close.
Too close.
Back at HQ, the mood was tense.
Selorm stared at the footage from the precinct parking lot. "He must've had it hidden all along. I reviewed his dental scans from his academy file. No mention of anything suspicious, but if someone inside helped him…"
"It means we've got more moles," Akosua said.
Brian stood by the whiteboard, marker in hand, staring at a single word: P.
"Loko didn't tell us anything," Brian said. "But he left us one thing — the burner phone. The messages. The club."
Kojo stepped in, holding a tablet. "I pulled footage from the city grid around Club Palms. Lots of high-end traffic, but one vehicle pops up three times over the last week — black Jaguar XJ, tinted, no plates."
"Same one Loko approached in that Makola footage," Akosua added. "It belongs to a shell company. I traced it back four layers. You know whose name pops up?"
Brian didn't look up. "Don Palms."
"Real name: Donatus Nyarko," Kojo confirmed. "Club owner. Event sponsor. He gave a speech at the last mayoral fundraiser."
"Of course he did," Brian said bitterly.
Club Palms stood like a monument to the sins of the city.
Four stories tall, black glass and gold trim, it loomed over the Osu nightlife like a king watching his court. Neon lights danced across the facade. Two palm trees in chrome guarded the entrance. The bass of music throbbed through the ground like a second heartbeat.
The B-Team had split across vantage points.
Brian and Akosua were in a shuttered food stand across the street, binoculars in hand. Selorm and Kojo waited in a nondescript van near the back alley. Adjeley had rooftop eyes.
"He's in there," Brian said, eyes focused. "And if we move too fast, we lose him like Loko."
Akosua nodded. "We go in quiet. Learn the patterns. Watch who he meets. Who leaves with what."
A hush fell.
Then came the car.
A black Jaguar XJ rolled up to the curb. The bouncers stood straighter. A man stepped out — dark cream suit, gold rings, crocodile shoes, cigar already lit. He didn't walk so much as glide. Every step said power. Untouchable.
Donatus Nyarko.
Don Palms.
He paused just before the club entrance and turned his head — just slightly — as if sensing something in the shadows.
For a brief second, Brian swore the man was looking directly at him.
"Shit," Akosua whispered. "Did he see us?"
"No," Brian said. "He felt us."
Don Palms smirked to himself and walked into the club. The bouncers stepped aside like curtains opening for a god.
"He's in," Selorm's voice crackled over comms. "What's the move?"
Brian lowered the binoculars and exhaled. "We're not ready yet. Tomorrow we go in — but not as cops. Akosua, Adjeley — you're going undercover. I want eyes inside by midnight."
Akosua straightened. "Understood."
As they packed up, Brian's phone vibrated.
A new message. No contact name. Just four chilling words:
"Turn back. Or burn."
Brian showed it to Akosua. She didn't speak. She didn't have to.
The war had officially begun.