The boy's body was still warm when Brian arrived.
He lay behind a rusted blue kiosk in the shadow of the old Jamestown lighthouse, half-covered in a torn plastic sheet someone had pulled over him in a panicked, too-late gesture of mercy. His face was pale, lips cracked with white foam. His eyes stared into the sky with a kind of frozen question. A syringe rolled out of his fingers when one of the medics tried to lift his arm. His sneakers were mismatched, left laced, right one torn. His shirt was ripped across the chest, revealing ribs sharp enough to read like Braille.
Brian Amegashie knelt beside the boy, face unreadable. He had learned to keep his reactions bottled over fifteen years in the force, but some sights still punched through. This one did. A teenager. Thin as wire. Dead, alone, dumped like discarded evidence behind a kiosk selling biscuits and recharge cards.
He leaned in closer. There was a packet near the boy's waist — torn open. White dust clung to the boy's fingers. There were small burn marks across his forearms. His veins were dark, unusually so, like something toxic had erupted beneath the skin.
"Another one," muttered Sergeant Kojo behind him. "Jesus… He can't be older than seventeen."
Brian didn't respond. He stood slowly, wiped his palms on his jeans, and looked around.
The neighborhood was too quiet. For a place usually loud with sellers, kids, music, and roadside gossip, the silence felt unnatural. Suspicious.
A few onlookers stood across the street. A middle-aged woman with a headscarf. A man in fishing boots. Two teenage boys pretending not to look. Brian scanned their faces. No shock. No outrage. Just a tired, practiced resignation.
They had seen this before. Probably more times than they'd ever admit.
Akosua walked over, tablet in hand. "No ID on him. No phone. Just a matchbox with two sticks and one cedi in his pocket. I pulled facial data — nothing yet in the database. But we might get something from local CCTV once we check around."
"Locals?" Brian asked.
Kojo gestured toward a small group forming near the road. Brian crossed over slowly, showing his badge.
"Good afternoon," he began. "Anyone here recognize the boy?"
The group hesitated.
"I've seen him," said a man in a faded fishing jersey, rubbing his palms together. "He doesn't live here, but he's been around the last few weeks. Picks scrap, washes dishes, small errands."
"Where did he work?" Brian pressed.
"Sometimes at Sister Mercy's Kitchen. The chop bar near the cocoa shed."
"Did he hang out with anyone? Friends? Strangers?"
The man looked down, thinking. "He had someone who came often. Tall man. Neat haircut. Looked like a police officer. Sometimes in uniform, sometimes not."
Brian blinked. "A cop?"
"I think so. He never stayed long. Just came at night, talked to the boy at the side of the bar."
Brian turned back toward the team. "We're going to that chop bar. Now."
Sister Mercy's Kitchen was a modest, smoky food joint tucked between two rusting containers. A cracked Coca-Cola sign hung over the entrance. Inside, steam rose from bubbling pots, and two young girls served pepper soup to customers seated on plastic chairs.
The owner, a round woman with tired eyes and flour-dusted fingers, folded her arms as Brian introduced himself.
"Yes, the boy worked here," she said, voice low. "He was quiet. Didn't say much. But he looked troubled lately. Didn't sleep much. Would show up tired, sometimes shaking."
"Do you know if he was using drugs?" Brian asked.
"I'm not sure. But one time I found a rolled note in the bathroom. I didn't want to accuse him, so I just cleaned it and warned him."
"Did anyone visit him regularly?"
She sighed. "A man. Young. Military haircut. He'd always stand at the back, never ordered food. Just waited for the boy. Sometimes passed him something. Money maybe. I don't know."
"You have cameras?"
She nodded reluctantly. "Only one. Old camera, mounted outside to prevent thieves."
"Can we see the footage?"
She led them into a small, hot room at the back, filled with bags of rice and canned tomatoes. A dusty monitor showed grainy footage. Akosua plugged in her tablet and began downloading the files.
An hour later, in the safety of their operations base in Ridge, the B-Team watched the footage on the big screen.
The timestamp read: Two nights ago.
The boy was standing at the back of the kitchen, smoking a cigarette, fidgeting. A man approached from the shadows — broad shoulders, tight shirt, neat jeans. They spoke briefly, shook hands. The man passed him something small. The boy stuffed it into his sock.
Brian leaned forward.
"Pause."
Akosua froze the image.
"Zoom in."
She enhanced the frame. The resolution was low, but the face was visible — enough for recognition. Clean-shaved. Confident posture. A faint glint of a badge on his belt.
Kojo's expression changed immediately.
"No… no way... That's Loko."
"Loko?" Brian turned to him sharply.
"Our Loko. From the precinct. He works the front desk. Dispatch and paperwork."
Adjeley stepped forward. "He brought me coffee yesterday."
Akosua pulled up another clip. "Look at this. Last week, same place. Same man. Different boy. Same handoff. This time he's in uniform. Gun on hip. ID badge visible."
The room went cold.
"He's dealing," Brian said.
"On duty," Akosua added.
"To kids," Kojo whispered.
The implications were massive. Loko had access to case files, movement logs, vehicle keys. He knew their shifts. He processed detainees. He heard all the chatter. If he was embedded in the network, there was no telling how deep the breach went.
Akosua's laptop beeped.
"Live sync from traffic cams," she said. "Loko just entered the precinct compound. Thirty minutes ago. Still in uniform."
Brian didn't hesitate. He strapped on his vest and holster.
"We move now."
No one questioned him. The betrayal was too close, too personal. A fellow officer, a man they shared lunch breaks and war stories with, had been poisoning the city from behind their own lines.
As the team gathered their gear, the air shifted. The camaraderie was still there, but now it was laced with purpose.
This wasn't just a drug case anymore.
It was war. And the enemy had a badge.