The Metro 29 Diner sat on a corner of Lee Highway like a relic from another century, its chrome exterior gleaming under the noon sun. Marcus parked three blocks away and walked the rest, scanning the street for black SUVs, for loitering men in dark glasses, for anything that felt like surveillance. He saw nothing but suburban traffic and a mother pushing a stroller.
Inside, the diner smelled of frying bacon and old coffee. Red vinyl booths lined the windows, and a counter ran the length of the room, populated by truckers and retirees. Marcus chose a booth at the back, facing the door, and ordered black coffee from a waitress who called him "hon."
He waited.
At twelve-fifteen, a young man slid into the booth across from him. He was in his early twenties, dark-skinned, with the lean build of someone who had never quite shaken off malnutrition. He wore a faded University of Maryland hoodie and kept his hands in his pockets. His eyes never stopped moving.
"You're Webb," the young man said. It wasn't a question.
"And you're the person who called me."
"My name is Samuel. Samuel Doe." He pronounced it "Doh-eh," the Liberian way. "I came here five years ago on a student visa. I'm studying engineering at College Park."
"You said you know Kojo."
Samuel's jaw tightened. "Kojo is my brother. My older brother. He was taken from our village when I was four years old. I don't remember him. But my mother talked about him every day until she died. She made me promise to find him."
Marcus set down his coffee. "Your brother was trafficked to the cocoa plantations?"
"Taken by recruiters. They promised my parents he would go to school in the capital, learn a trade, send money home. Instead, they sold him to a camp in Atakora. He was eight years old." Samuel pulled a worn envelope from his hoodie pocket. "Three years ago, I got a letter. From my brother. He's alive. He's in Canada."
"Canada?"
"Toronto. He escaped the camps in 2004. He made it across the border to Ghana, then somehow got to Europe, then to Canada. He was granted asylum there. He's been living under a different name, working construction, trying to forget." Samuel pushed the envelope across the table. "He's scared. He's been scared for twenty years. But he's been following your case. The news about Joseph Yeboah reached him. He knows you're looking for witnesses."
Marcus opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, covered in cramped handwriting. It was dated three weeks ago.
"To my brother Samuel," it began. "I have watched the news about the American lawyer who is fighting Croft Foods. I know things. I saw things that no child should see. I saw the white men who came to inspect us like livestock. I remember the one with the mark on his wrist. He called himself Mr. Julian. He took notes. He gave orders. The guards obeyed him. If this lawyer is real, if he is truly fighting for justice, tell him I will speak. But I will not come to America. They will kill me. He must come to me."
Marcus read the letter twice. "He wants me to come to Toronto?"
"He wants to meet you. But he's paranoid. He's been hiding for so long, he doesn't trust anyone." Samuel leaned forward. "I can arrange a meeting. There's a Malawan community in Toronto. A church where he feels safe. But you have to come alone. No lawyers, no journalists, no police. Just you."
"Why did you contact me and not the authorities?"
Samuel laughed bitterly. "The authorities? You think my brother trusts authorities? The police in Malawa sold him to the camps. The customs officials took bribes. The government ministers owned shares in Croft Foods. To my brother, authority is the enemy. You're not authority. You're a man who was bullied by Julian Croft and survived. That's why he trusts you. You understand what it means to be powerless."
The waitress refilled Marcus's coffee. He waited until she was gone. "I can go to Toronto. But I need to know this is real. I've already had my apartment broken into. My team is under surveillance. If this is a trap—"
"It's not a trap." Samuel's voice was fierce. "I have been looking for my brother for fifteen years. I am not going to let anyone hurt him. Or you, if you're sincere." He pulled out his phone and showed Marcus a photograph. It showed a man in his mid-thirties, thin and worn, standing in front of a brick building with a Canadian flag. He had the same cheekbones as Samuel. The same haunted eyes.
"Kojo," Marcus said.
"That was taken last month. He's real. He's waiting."
Marcus memorized the address Samuel gave him—a church on Lawrence Avenue East in Scarborough, the heart of Toronto's African diaspora. The meeting would happen in three days, on Sunday morning, during the service. Kojo would approach Marcus in the fellowship hall afterward.
"Don't tell anyone where you're going," Samuel said. "Croft has informants everywhere. Even in your own office."
"What do you mean?"
Samuel stood, pulling his hoodie tighter. "I have to go. Just be careful, Mr. Webb. My brother is the only family I have left."
He was gone before Marcus could ask another question.
The drive back to Alexandria gave Marcus too much time to think. Samuel's words echoed: "Even in your own office." Someone close to him was feeding information to Croft. Naomi? Impossible. Elias? The retired diplomat had been nothing but helpful. Mariam? She had connections across West Africa, but she also had a vendetta against Croft that seemed genuine.
The traitor, if there was one, could be anyone.
Back at the safe house, Marcus found Naomi and Mariam in the basement, surrounded by case files. The television was tuned to a cable news channel, muted. On the screen, Julian Croft stood at a podium, his expression one of wounded dignity. The chyron read: "CROFT FOODS CEO DENIES CHILD LABOR ALLEGATIONS."
"He held a press conference this morning," Naomi said. "Called our lawsuit 'a baseless attack by activist lawyers seeking publicity.' Said Croft Foods has the highest ethical standards and a zero-tolerance policy for labor violations."
"He's going on offense," Mariam added. "His PR team is framing this as a political witch hunt. They're already planting stories about your personal history with Julian. Trying to make it look like a revenge plot."
Marcus sat heavily on the couch. "It is a revenge plot. Partly. But that doesn't make the evidence any less real."
"The question is whether the public will see it that way." Naomi pulled up a news article on her laptop. "The Post story dropped this morning. It's solid—factual, sourced, careful. But Croft's team is already attacking it. Their spokesperson says the allegations are 'recycled rumors from disgruntled former employees.'"
"They're good at this," Mariam said. "They've been managing their image for thirty years."
Marcus told them about Samuel, about Kojo, about the meeting in Toronto. Naomi listened with growing concern.
"You can't go to Canada alone," she said. "If Croft's people are already tracking you—"
"They won't be tracking me if they don't know I'm going. I'll use the Liberian passport. No one knows about it except you and Mariam."
"And the mole," Naomi said quietly.
The room went still. Mariam looked between them. "Mole?"
"Samuel said something. He warned me that Croft has informants. Even in our office."
"That's absurd," Naomi said. "There are five people in this room. Me, you, Mariam, Elias. And David, but he's a client, not staff."
"And yet someone broke into my apartment. Someone knew I was meeting David in Baltimore. Someone knows our moves before we make them." Marcus stood and walked to the window. "I'm not accusing anyone. But we need to be careful. From now on, sensitive information stays compartmentalized. No one person knows everything."
That night, Marcus couldn't sleep. He lay on the pullout couch in Elias's basement, staring at the water-stained ceiling, thinking about Kojo. The boy who had escaped twice. The boy who had seen Julian Croft's birthmark and lived to remember it.
If Kojo could testify—if he could describe the white men who inspected the camps, if he could identify Julian from photographs—it would be devastating. The birthmark detail alone would be hard to dismiss. No amount of PR spin could explain away a port-wine stain on the wrist of a man who had sworn he had never visited the plantations.
But getting Kojo to testify meant convincing him to come out of hiding. To trust a legal system that had never protected him. To face the man who had enslaved him.
Marcus fell asleep around three and dreamed of Harrington. In the dream, he was seventeen again, walking through the empty corridors at night. The walls were covered with ravens. Every door he opened led to the locker room. Every locker contained a child's face, pressed against the vents, eyes wide with terror.
He woke gasping, his shirt soaked with sweat.
At dawn, he called Naomi. "I'm going to Toronto. Don't try to talk me out of it."
"I wasn't going to. But I'm coming with you, at least as far as the border. If something happens, I need to know."
They drove north that afternoon in Naomi's sedan, crossing into Canada at the Thousand Islands Bridge. The border guard glanced at Marcus's Liberian passport, stamped their documents, and waved them through. No red flags. No alerts.
Toronto rose from the Ontario plain like a glass forest, its towers glittering in the June sun. Naomi dropped Marcus at a hotel in Scarborough and stayed in the car. "I'll be nearby. If you need help, call. But I won't interfere unless you ask."
The church on Lawrence Avenue was a converted storefront, its windows covered with colorful curtains. The sign outside read "Christ the Redeemer African Fellowship." Inside, the congregation was a vibrant mix of Nigerians, Ghanaians, Malawans, and Liberians. Women in bright head wraps sang hymns in Twi and English. Children ran between the pews. The pastor, a heavyset man with a booming voice, preached about the Exodus—about God leading the enslaved out of Egypt.
Marcus sat in the back, scanning faces. The service lasted two hours. When it ended, the congregation moved to the fellowship hall for coffee and pastries.
A man approached him. Thin, mid-thirties, with graying temples and the same haunted eyes from Samuel's photograph.
"Mr. Webb." His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I am Kojo."
They found a quiet corner, away from the crowd. Kojo sat with his back to the wall, watching the exits. Marcus recognized the posture. It was the posture of a man who had spent his life being hunted.
"Your brother said you want to talk."
"I want to stop running." Kojo's hands trembled around his coffee cup. "For twenty years, I have been hiding. Changing names, changing cities, never staying in one place too long. I am tired, Mr. Webb. I am so tired."
"If you testify, we can protect you. The lawsuit has been filed. You'll have legal status as a material witness. The court can provide security."
"Security. I have heard that word before. The people who promised to protect Joseph Yeboah—where are they now?"
Marcus had no answer. Joseph was still in a Malawan prison, his fate unknown.
"I understand your fear," Marcus said. "But I need you to understand something. You are the only person alive who can place Julian Croft at the scene of the crime. You saw his face. You saw his birthmark. Your testimony could be the difference between winning and losing this case."
Kojo looked down at his hands. "I remember the mark. A red stain on his wrist. He came to the camp four times that I saw. He walked through the barracks like a king inspecting his property. He never spoke to us directly. He spoke to the guards in English. I didn't understand the words, but I understood the tone. He was giving orders."
"Would you recognize him now? After twenty years?"
Kojo reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper clipping. It was a photo of Julian Croft, taken at the United Nations gala. "I saw this. I knew him immediately. He is older, but the eyes are the same. The eyes of a man who sees other people as objects."
"You could identify him in court?"
"Yes." Kojo's voice steadied. "I could. But I need to know that this will matter. That your courts will actually hold him accountable. Because if I testify and nothing happens, I will never be safe again. None of us will."
Marcus met his eyes. "I can't promise you victory. No lawyer can. But I can promise you this: we have evidence. Customs records, internal memos, testimony from other survivors. Your testimony will be the capstone. And if we win, Julian Croft will be held accountable for the first time in his life."
Kojo was silent for a long moment. The fellowship hall buzzed around them, oblivious to the transaction taking place in the corner.
"Okay," Kojo said finally. "I will testify. But on one condition. My brother Samuel must be protected too. He is all I have left."
"We'll protect both of you. I give you my word."
Kojo nodded slowly. "Then I will come to America. I will face him."
They spent another hour discussing logistics. Kojo would enter the United States through official channels, his asylum status granting him legal entry. Naomi would file an emergency motion for witness protection as soon as he crossed the border. The deposition would happen in a secure location, with armed federal marshals present.
As Marcus stood to leave, Kojo caught his arm. "There is something else. Something I didn't tell your associate. The man with the birthmark—Julian Croft—he was not the only white man at the camps. There was another. A younger man. He came less often, but when he did, the guards were even more afraid of him. They called him 'the Raven.'"
"Julian was the Raven," Marcus said. "He founded a group called the Raven Society in school."
"No." Kojo shook his head firmly. "The first man, the one with the mark—the guards called him 'Mr. Julian.' The second one, they called 'the Raven.' They were different men. The second one was younger. Darker hair. And he had something on his hand—a ring with a black stone."
Marcus's mind raced. If Julian wasn't the Raven at the camps, who was? Preston Hale? Another Harrington alumnus? The Raven Society had dozens of members. Any of them could have been involved.
"Can you describe this man?"
Kojo closed his eyes, concentrating. "He was tall. Thin. He wore a ring on his right hand. A black stone with a bird carved into it. I remember the ring because it glinted in the sun when he pointed at us. He spoke to Mr. Julian as an equal. Sometimes he gave orders and Mr. Julian listened."
A ring with a raven carved into a black stone. It was a specific detail, the kind of detail a traumatized child might remember decades later.
"If I showed you photographs, could you identify him?"
"Maybe. I was very young. But the ring—I would know the ring."
Marcus drove back to the hotel in a daze. Julian was not the Raven. Someone else had been at the camps, someone with authority over Julian himself. The conspiracy was wider than they had imagined.
He called Naomi from the car. "We have Kojo. He'll testify. But there's something new. Julian wasn't the only American at the camps. There was another man—younger, with a raven ring. The guards were more afraid of him than of Julian."
Silence on the line. Then: "Who was he?"
"I don't know. But Kojo said Julian took orders from him. Julian Croft, CEO of a Fortune 500 company, took orders from this man."
"Someone above Julian," Naomi said. "Someone higher up the food chain."
"Find out who else from Harrington was in Malawa during those years. Anyone who graduated between 1995 and 2005. Anyone with connections to Croft Foods or Raven Holdings."
"I'll start tonight."
Marcus hung up and looked out the car window at the Toronto skyline, the CN Tower piercing the dusk like a needle. He had gone looking for a witness against Julian Croft. He had found something larger—a conspiracy that reached beyond a single corporation, beyond a single country.
Somewhere out there, the real Raven was watching. And he knew Marcus was getting closer.
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