From the outside, Club Palms was pure seduction — dark glass, red neon, gold-lined doors. But inside, it beat like a second heart for the underworld. Thumping music. Laughter dipped in liquor. Shadows dancing between flashes of light. And beneath it all, the cold whisper of transactions: pills in palms, whispers in ears, cash in corners.
It had been five days since Loko's death. Five days since Don Palms had turned his head like a snake scenting prey. Brian hadn't pushed for a fast move. No rush-ins. No raid. Just patience. The deeper you sink, he said, the more you see who's at the bottom.
That's where Akosua and Adjeley came in.
The plan wasn't glamour. It was sweat, charm, and long hours.
They didn't enter Club Palms as cops. They entered as regulars.
On the first night, Akosua dressed down in worn jeans, a black tank top, and a fake Louis Vuitton sling. Adjeley wore hoop earrings, bold red lipstick, and a skirt short enough to flirt, but not scream desperation.
They weren't noticed. Which was perfect.
They sat at the bar and ordered Smirnoff Ice.
They laughed at jokes that weren't funny. Danced when invited. Tipped the bartender heavy.
They listened.
Two tables down, someone whispered about "the red room." Upstairs.
The next night, they came back — earlier this time. Greeted the same bouncer at the door. Waved at the bartender.
"Ah! You girls again?" the bartender smiled. "You dey enjoy this place oo."
"Why not?" Akosua said, flashing her teeth. "Good music, good people. Next time I come sef, I go bring my cousin."
They tipped again.
On the third night, a waiter with dreads leaned in. "You girls get vibe. Don like people with vibe. You for stay longer tonight."
By the fifth night, they were known — not deeply, but familiarly. Club Palms had swallowed them whole.
Adjeley leaned on the bar, sipping from a glass of Sprite that no one suspected wasn't alcohol. "We're in," she whispered into her concealed mic. "Still no access to the upstairs floors."
Brian's voice buzzed in her ear. "Keep the pace. Don't force it."
She touched her ear subtly and nodded.
That night, while the DJ blasted Stonebwoy's "Therapy" across the speakers, one of the floor managers — a petite woman with a shaved head and six piercings — walked up to them.
"You girls," she said, raising a brow. "You always here. What do you want?"
Adjeley laughed. "Enjoyment."
"Enjoyment?" The woman snorted. "You dress like hustlers. But you no dey hustle. You talk like street, but your tongue too polished. Where you really from?"
Akosua leaned in, eyes steady. "We're from where everybody lies. But sometimes we come here to forget that."
The woman paused, looked between them. Then she smiled faintly. "Hmm. Okay."
She motioned them to follow.
They walked past the main floor, behind a velvet curtain, through a narrow hallway that curved like a snake.
There were no signs.
Just a dark door with a fingerprint scanner.
The woman tapped her thumb. The lock clicked.
Inside, red lights painted the room in desire. Plush couches. Perfumed air. A faint haze of smoke.
Not chaos. Not dancing.
Deals.
Whispers.
A different world.
Her name was Dora, though she said most people in the club called her "Queen D." She managed the staff upstairs — dancers, hostesses, "girls who knew how to listen."
"Everything here," she said to Akosua and Adjeley, "works on silence and loyalty. You talk outside, you vanish inside. You get me?"
They nodded.
"You girls… I like you. You remind me of me. But more fire in your chest."
They smiled. Thanked her. Bought drinks for a few patrons. Laughed with the dancers.
The infiltration wasn't a sting. It was a slow drip of trust.
Over the next week, Dora invited them back. Gave them tips. Let them pour drinks. Whisper into the ears of shady men who laughed too loudly. They weren't police here.
They were potential.
On the ninth night, something shifted.
A man came in with a briefcase and four armed escorts. He didn't dance. Didn't drink.
He just entered the Red Room, whispered into Dora's ear, then disappeared through another door at the back.
Adjeley caught it all with her eyes. Akosua noted the time.
That night, Dora sat with them after the music dimmed. Her eyes looked heavier.
"You know this place looks beautiful, right?" she asked.
Akosua nodded.
"It's not. It's a monster. A monster with charm."
"Then why stay?" Adjeley asked softly.
Dora smiled. "Because you either ride the monster… or it rides you."
She lit a cigarette. "You know the boy who died last week? The one that ODed? You girls knew him?"
Akosua blinked. "No. Why?"
"He came here. Quiet. Just to clean sometimes. Loko brought him. Told us he was harmless. But he got curious."
She paused. Took a long drag.
"Curiosity kills faster than bullets in this place."
Silence.
Then Akosua leaned forward. "What are they doing here, Dora? What's really happening?"
Dora stared at her.
Long.
Hard.
"You girls…" she whispered. "You're not like the rest. You see more than you say."
She leaned closer.
"There's a man who comes every Thursday. His name is Pius, but here we call him P. Nobody questions P. Even Don listens to him."
Adjeley's spine straightened slightly. P.
Dora exhaled smoke. "He handles the east route — Tema, Ashaiman, Spintex. If Loko was distributing for someone, it was likely through P. But don't go looking. If he smells suspicion, he vanishes."
"Do you talk to him?" Akosua asked carefully.
"Only when he talks to me."
"Can you… tell us when he's coming next?"
Dora tilted her head. "Why?"
Akosua smiled faintly. "Because maybe we're ready to ride the monster too."
Dora stared for a while. Then nodded.
"I'll text you. But girls… be careful. This place smiles while it swallows you."
Back at HQ, Brian stood over the board again.
Kojo updated the files. "We've got confirmation. P = Pius Amartey. He's listed in the system as a logistics executive, but he's never filed tax returns. No digital footprint."
Brian tapped the photo of Loko. "He worked for P. And P works for Don."
"We don't move yet," Akosua said firmly. "Not until P shows up again."
Selorm walked in with bad news.
"Someone torched our backup car. Left a note."
He dropped it on the table.
Scrawled in charcoal, the words were jagged, angry.
"Your girl talks too much."
Brian's blood turned cold. "Dora."
Akosua clenched her fists. "They're watching us too now."
Brian stared at the board. At the maze. At the monster.
Then he circled one name.
P.