The flight to Accra was quiet.
No press. No crowds. No carefully orchestrated arrival for public consumption. Just me in a disguise, Anthony, and a handful of other passengers on a commercial flight that departed in the early morning when most people were still asleep.
I'd chosen it specifically for that reason. Anonymity. The ability to think without cameras or questions or the weight of public expectation.
Anthony sat two rows behind me—close enough to intervene if necessary, far enough to maintain the illusion that we weren't traveling together. Professional paranoia that had kept him alive more than once.
I stared out the window as we climbed through cloud cover, the city below disappearing into white mist. Somewhere down there, four people were worried about me. Probably arguing about whether they should have fought harder to come along. Definitely not sleeping well.
I pulled out my phone and typed a quick message: On the plane. Everything fine. Will check in when I land.
