Chapter 1
Chapter Text
The first time I heard the name “Ghost,” it was spoken in hushed tones over the crackle of a poorly tuned radio. At the time, I had no face to attach to the name, no understanding of the reputation that followed it like a shadow. To me, it was just another codename—one of the many I’d come across in my years of doing the dirty work no one else wanted to acknowledge. But even then, something about it stuck. Ghost. A name meant to inspire fear or, perhaps, respect. I wasn’t sure which.
I had been in the game long enough to know better than to ask questions. Mercenaries, smugglers, intelligence brokers—our circles weren’t exactly built on transparency. So when the whispers of a mission connected to this enigmatic Ghost reached my ears, I chalked it up to idle chatter and turned my attention back to my own problems.
And, God, did I have plenty of those.
The mission I was on wasn’t glamorous. It never was. I specialized in the kinds of jobs that didn’t make headlines—extracting sensitive information, running interference, delivering packages no one wanted to admit existed. The kind of work that demanded discretion and paid just enough to keep me coming back for more. This time, I was in a nondescript corner of Eastern Europe, holed up in a dilapidated safehouse that smelled faintly of mold and regret. The mission brief had been simple: retrieve a flash drive containing intel on a rogue paramilitary group. Simple in theory, but in practice? Nothing ever was.
My contact was late, which wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the sense of unease gnawing at the edges of my composure. The kind of instinct that’d kept me alive this long—and one I never ignored.
I adjusted my earpiece, listening for any sign of trouble. The safehouse was eerily quiet, save for the occasional drip of water from a leaky pipe. My weapon sat within arm’s reach, its presence a comforting weight in this sea of uncertainty.
Time stretched thin. Five minutes turned into ten. Ten into twenty. I glanced at my watch, my patience wearing as thin as the soles of my boots. Finally, the door creaked open, and a man stepped inside, his face obscured by the low light.
“You’re late,” I said, my voice low but firm.
The man’s gaze flicked to me, and something about his demeanour set me further on edge. He looked ordinary enough—average height, dark hair, non-descript clothing—but there was a tension in his movements that screamed trouble.
“Couldn’t be helped,” he replied, his accent faint but unplaceable. He reached into his jacket, and I tensed, my hand hovering near my weapon. “Relax,” he added, producing a flash drive and holding it up. “This is what you’re here for.”
I didn’t move. “And?”
“And I’m telling you to be careful.” He stepped closer, his expression shadowed but serious. “What’s on this drive… it’s bigger than you think. Bigger than me. Hell, bigger than any of us."
I raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it always?”
His lips quirked in a grim semblance of a smile, but his eyes remained hard. “No. This is different. If I were you, I’d disappear after this job. Go somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one will find you.”
I reached out, snatching the drive from his hand. “Appreciate the advice,” I said, slipping it into my pocket. “But I’ll take my chances.”
His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, then he turned and disappeared into the night without another word.
I exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the weight of his warning. Paranoia wasn’t uncommon in this line of work, but something about his tone had wormed its way into my thoughts. I brushed it off, focusing on the task at hand. The intel needed to be delivered, and I’d learned long ago that distractions got people killed.
The city was a maze of desolation, its streets narrow and cracked, bordered by dilapidated buildings that seemed to lean against one another for support. The glow of flickering streetlights barely pierced the fog, casting long, jagged shadows that danced with every gust of wind. If trouble had a scent, it would be this place—damp, metallic, and vaguely acrid.
The safehouse I’d picked wasn’t much better than the streets outside. The apartment building was half-abandoned, its peeling paint and shattered windows a testament to years of neglect. The unit I’d chosen was on the third floor, the door reinforced with makeshift bolts I’d scavenged from the hardware store next door. It wasn’t perfect, but it would slow anyone down long enough for me to prepare.
Inside, the air was stale, carrying the faint tang of rust and mildew. A single, dim bulb dangled from the ceiling, flickering sporadically like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to stay alive. I dropped my pack on the table and bolted the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment as I exhaled.
The flash drive was still in my pocket, its edges pressing into my palm as if it were trying to remind me of its importance. I pulled it out, holding it up to the light. It was plain—black plastic, unmarked, the kind of thing you’d find on a discount rack in any electronics store. And yet, the weight of what it represented was undeniable.
I couldn’t shake the man’s warning. His words had wormed their way into my mind, burrowing deeper with each passing minute. What’s on this drive… it’s bigger than you think. Bigger than me. Hell, bigger than any of us.
I set the drive on the table and powered up my laptop, its battered casing held together by duct tape and prayer. The screen flickered to life, bathing the room in a cold, pale glow. It wasn’t connected to the internet—an old habit I’d picked up after learning the hard way that even encrypted networks weren’t as secure as they claimed.
When I inserted the drive, the laptop froze for a moment before a single file appeared on the screen. Encrypted, of course. Whoever had created it hadn’t wanted anyone to stumble across its contents by accident.
My fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced efficiency, running the file through a series of programs designed to break down its defenses. It was a painstaking process, every second ticking by like an eternity. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the loose panes of glass in the window.
Finally, the encryption cracked, and the file opened.
The first thing that caught my eye was a photo. Grainy, black-and-white, but unmistakable—a clandestine meeting in what looked like a shipping yard. Two figures stood in the frame, their faces obscured by shadows, but one of them had a distinct feature: a skull-patterned balaclava.
I clicked to the next image. Another meeting, this one in a dimly lit alley. The same figure was there, flanked by two others whose faces were visible. I didn’t recognize them, but their presence raised questions.
The deeper I delved, the more the puzzle pieces began to emerge: leaked communiques between military factions, plans for weapons transfers, and records of payments funneled through offshore accounts. Every thread seemed to tie back to one entity, their name scrawled across the files like a signature: Ghost.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the screen.
“Who the hell are you?” I murmured.
The question wasn’t rhetorical. Ghost was more than just a codename. It was a symbol, one that carried weight far beyond the borders of any single nation.
A video file sat at the bottom of the folder. My cursor hovered over it for a moment before I clicked. The screen filled with grainy footage, shot from a hidden camera. It showed a man in tactical gear, his face hidden beneath the same skull-patterned mask. His movements were calculated, methodical, as he approached a group of heavily armed mercenaries.
The sound quality was poor, but I could make out fragments of their conversation. The mercenaries seemed tense, their postures defensive. The masked man—Ghost—spoke calmly, his tone almost disarmingly composed. And then, without warning, chaos erupted.
The camera shook as gunfire lit up the frame. Ghost moved with deadly precision, dispatching the mercenaries one by one until only silence remained. He stood there for a moment, surveying his work before turning and disappearing into the shadows.
I closed the file, my pulse hammering in my ears.
This wasn’t just some operative working in the shadows. Ghost was an executioner, a phantom who left devastation in his wake. And now, I had his name and face—what little of it he chose to show.
A sudden noise outside the apartment jolted me from my thoughts. It was faint, barely audible over the wind, but enough to set my nerves on edge.
I grabbed my weapon, moving to the window. The street below was empty, the fog thick enough to obscure anything beyond a few feet. Still, the sense of unease persisted, gnawing at the edges of my awareness.
Paranoia wasn’t uncommon in this line of work, but this was different. It was as if the shadows themselves were watching, waiting for me to let my guard down.
I checked the barricades on the door, making sure everything was secure before returning to the laptop. I needed to act fast. Whatever was on this drive, it wasn’t just valuable—it was dangerous. And if I was in possession of it, that made me dangerous too.
As I packed up my things, a realization hit me like a gut punch.
If Ghost’s name was tied to this intel, then chances were, he already knew someone had it. And if he was half as good as the files suggested, it wouldn’t take him long to find me.
The thought wouldn’t leave me as the train sped through the fog-drenched countryside, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks offering no comfort. I tried to focus, to piece together a plan that might keep me alive long enough to make sense of this mess.
Vienna in three days. It was neutral ground, a safe zone where I could meet my contact without tipping the balance too far in any direction. But three days meant I had to survive on my own until then, and survival wasn’t just about staying hidden. It was about staying ahead.
When the train finally lurched into the station, I gathered my belongings and slipped into the stream of disembarking passengers. The platform was crowded, full of people bundled against the chill, their faces pale and drawn in the dim light. It was the kind of place where a stranger could blend in, but that comfort came with a caveat: if I could disappear, so could anyone tailing me.
I kept my head low and my movements deliberate, weaving through the crowds with the practiced ease of someone who’d been doing this for far too long. The city beyond the station was just waking up, its narrow streets coming alive with the noise of vendors setting up stalls and shopkeepers pulling up their shutters. I turned into an alley, away from the bustle, and began to lose myself in the labyrinth of backstreets.
Every few minutes, I glanced over my shoulder, scanning for anything out of place—a shadow that lingered too long, a figure that moved when I moved. Paranoia was a survival tool, but it had to be tempered with precision. Acting too fast, or in the wrong direction, could do more harm than good.
A café came into view, its window fogged with condensation, the scent of strong coffee wafting through the air as someone pushed open the door. I slipped inside, the warmth and noise enveloping me in a strange, fleeting sense of normalcy.
I found a seat near the back, my back to the wall, and ordered a coffee I had no intention of drinking. From my vantage point, I could see the entrance and most of the dining area, a habit drilled into me through years of living on the edge.
Pulling out the burner phone, I checked for any signs that my number had been compromised—nothing yet. My contact’s instructions were clear: no further communication until Vienna. That left me to my own devices, but it also meant I had time to dig deeper into the flash drive.
The café’s Wi-Fi was unreliable at best, so I worked offline, connecting the drive to my laptop once again. I navigated back to the files, combing through each document and image with a meticulous eye.
It didn’t take long to find what I’d missed before: a hidden layer of encryption buried within the primary file structure. Whoever had designed this drive was clever, but not infallible. I started working on decrypting the new layer, the hum of conversation around me fading into the background.
As the minutes ticked by, I became acutely aware of my surroundings. Every scrape of a chair, every clink of a cup, every muffled laugh—it all registered, but none of it set off alarms. Yet.
The new layer finally cracked, revealing a fresh cache of files. My chest tightened as I opened them.
Blueprints. Detailed schematics for high-security facilities, most of them labeled only with codenames. Alongside them were dossiers—profiles of individuals, complete with photos, timelines, and annotations. Some were marked as allies, others as targets.
But it was the videos that made my blood run cold.
The first was shaky, shot from a hidden camera in a sterile, white-walled room. A man sat bound to a chair, his face bloodied, his breathing labored. Behind him, a figure loomed, the now-familiar skull-patterned balaclava obscuring his face. Ghost.
The audio was faint, but I could make out fragments of their conversation. Ghost’s tone was measured, almost clinical, as he extracted information from the man with a terrifying combination of precision and patience. When the video ended, I realized I’d been holding my breath.
The next file was worse. It wasn’t an interrogation—it was an operation. The footage captured Ghost leading a small team through a dense forest, their movements silent and coordinated. When they reached their target—a makeshift encampment—they struck with brutal efficiency, leaving nothing and no one behind.
I closed the files, my hands trembling slightly as I leaned back in my seat. Ghost wasn’t just a shadow. He was an apex predator, and I was starting to feel very much like prey.
The café’s door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and a pair of new customers. I tensed, watching them out of the corner of my eye as they ordered at the counter. Neither of them seemed interested in me, but that didn’t mean anything.
I needed to move again. Staying in one place for too long was asking for trouble, especially with the kind of intel I was carrying.
Packing up my laptop and slipping the flash drive into my pocket, I left a few bills on the table and made my way to the door. The city’s streets were livelier now, the morning crowd giving way to the midday rush. I ducked into another alley, this one narrower and quieter, and kept moving.
The files on that drive had told me enough to know two things: the people behind this weren’t playing games, and Ghost wasn’t someone I wanted on my trail. The question was whether it was already too late to stop him from finding me.
I couldn’t think about that now.
I had three days to make it to Vienna, and if I wanted to live long enough to hand this drive off to my contact, I’d have to stay two steps ahead of whoever was out there—and pray that I didn’t hear the sound of boots closing in behind me.I kept to the shadows as I moved through the narrow alley, the muffled hum of the city pressing in on all sides. The air smelled faintly of damp concrete and diesel fumes, a pungent reminder that this was no sanctuary. A delivery truck rumbled past on the main road ahead, its engine growling as it slowed to unload crates into a nearby shop. I lingered in the alley, watching from the corner of my eye, scanning the street for anything out of place.
The files on the drive hadn’t just painted a target on my back; they’d carved one into my chest and handed the knife to whoever wanted to claim the prize. The way the intel had been laid out—so deliberate, so precise—it felt like bait. Like someone had left breadcrumbs in just the right places to lead me here. And now, with Ghost’s name stitched into the threads, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the trap was closing faster than I could run.
I slipped out of the alley and into the flow of foot traffic on the main street, blending into the crowd as best I could. The weight of the flash drive in my pocket was a constant reminder that I wasn’t safe, not here, not anywhere. My pace quickened as I made my way toward a quieter district on the edge of the city centre, where a series of abandoned warehouses offered the kind of solitude I needed to think.
The streets grew quieter as I approached, the din of commerce giving way to the eerie stillness of disuse. Broken windows gaped like empty eyes in the facades of old brick buildings, their frames warped from years of neglect. I ducked through a rusted chain-link gate and crossed a yard overgrown with weeds, heading for one of the warehouses near the back of the lot. The door hung slightly ajar, creaking as I pushed it open and slipped inside.
The interior was cavernous, its high ceilings swallowing the faint echoes of my footsteps. Faded graffiti covered the walls, and the faint scent of motor oil lingered in the air. A few rusted barrels and stacks of wooden pallets dotted the space, but otherwise, it was empty. I moved to a corner where the light was dimmest and set my pack down, pulling out the laptop and powering it up.
The files on the flash drive had told me enough to know two things: the people behind them weren’t just playing games, and Ghost wasn’t someone I wanted on my trail. The question was whether it was already too late to stop him from finding me.
The laptop screen flickered to life, casting a pale glow on the cracked concrete floor. I plugged in the drive again, my fingers hovering over the keyboard as I debated my next move. The information I’d uncovered so far painted a damning picture—blueprints, dossiers, encrypted messages—but I hadn’t yet pieced together the full scope of what I was holding. And something told me the answers I needed weren’t buried in plain sight. Whoever had compiled this intel had gone to great lengths to protect it, hiding layers of encryption and leaving trails that felt almost too easy to follow.
I opened a folder labelled “Echo” that I hadn’t explored fully before. Inside were more transcripts, fragments of conversations between operatives who were clearly in over their heads. Their words were laced with tension, fear, and a sense of inevitability that mirrored my own. One log stood out—a recording marked with a timestamp just days old.
I hesitated, then clicked play.
A voice crackled through the speakers, low and hurried. “You’re running out of time. They’re closing in.”
Another voice responded, this one sharp and cold. “I can handle it.”
“You think you can handle Ghost?” The first voice was incredulous, almost mocking. “You don’t even know what you’re dealing with.”
The second voice paused, then lowered to a near whisper. “If he finds me, it won’t matter.”
The recording cut off abruptly, leaving me with more questions than answers. I leaned back against the wall, my mind racing. Whoever these people were, they knew exactly what kind of threat Ghost posed—and they’d been desperate enough to risk everything to warn someone else. But why? And why leave this trail for me to follow?
A faint sound broke the silence—the creak of a floorboard. I froze, every muscle in my body tensing as my ears strained to catch the noise again. It came from the far side of the warehouse, where a shaft of light cut through a broken window and illuminated a stretch of dusty concrete. I reached for my weapon, my movements slow and deliberate, and rose to my feet.
The sound came again, closer this time. Footsteps, deliberate and measured, echoing softly in the cavernous space. My heart pounded against my ribs as I scanned the shadows, my finger resting lightly on the trigger.
“Step out,” I said, my voice low but steady. “I know you’re there.”
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, from the darkness, a figure emerged. He was young, barely out of his teens, with a scruffy beard and wide, nervous eyes. His hands were raised in mock surrender, but there was a tension in his stance that set my nerves on edge.
“Easy,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I’m just passing through.”
“Sure you are,” I muttered, keeping my weapon trained on him. “What’s your story?”
He hesitated, his eyes darting toward my pack. That was all the confirmation I needed. In two quick strides, I closed the distance between us, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him against the wall. His breath hitched as I pressed the barrel of my weapon against his ribs.
“Who sent you?” I demanded, my voice low and dangerous.
“No one!” he sputtered, his hands scrabbling at my grip. “I swear, I’m just—”
“Wrong answer.” I tightened my hold, forcing him to look me in the eye. “Try again.”
His gaze flickered with panic as he stammered, “Okay, okay! I don’t know who they are, I swear! They just—paid me to follow you. Said you had something they wanted.”
“What did they tell you about me?” I pressed.
“Nothing! Just to keep an eye on you and report back.” His voice cracked, desperation bleeding into his words. “Please, I’m nobody—I don’t even know what’s going on here!”
I searched his face for any hint of deception, but all I saw was fear. Lowering my weapon slightly, I stepped back, keeping my eyes on him as he sagged against the wall. His story might have been true, but it didn’t matter. If someone had hired him to follow me, then they already knew where I was—and they wouldn’t be far behind.
“Get out of here,” I said coldly, gesturing toward the door with my weapon. “If I see you again, I won’t ask questions.”
He didn’t wait for a second warning. Scrambling to his feet, he bolted for the exit, his footsteps echoing through the empty space. I waited until the sound faded, then turned back to my pack, my mind racing. This wasn’t just paranoia anymore. They were closing in.
I needed to move.
Packing up my gear, I slung the pack over my shoulder and slipped out of the warehouse, keeping to the shadows as I made my way back to the main streets. The city felt different now—colder, more oppressive. Every face in the crowd seemed like a potential threat, every glance a warning. I tightened my grip on the strap of my pack and quickened my pace, the weight of the flash drive pulling at me like an anchor.
I melt into the crowd, slipping between pedestrians as if the city might swallow me whole. My grip tightens on my pack, pressing the flash drive against my ribcage. It’s a reminder of why I can’t afford to stop, why I can’t breathe easy. Someone’s already onto me. They sent that kid, half-scared out of his wits, but that won’t be the end of it. It never is.
I force myself to walk at a normal pace, fighting the instinct to sprint. Running draws eyes. Eyes mean questions. Questions mean trouble. If I keep moving, if I blend in, I might reach my next hideaway unscathed.
Might.
A tram rattles past on warped tracks, sparks dancing beneath its wheels. I use its screech to mask the sound of my footsteps as I duck down a side street. The wind here is colder, funneled through the narrow corridor by tall, listing buildings. At the far end, a neon sign buzzes weakly—a faded advertisement for some long-dead business. It’s exactly the kind of place I prefer to hole up in: neglected, forgotten, perfect for staying unnoticed.
I find a side door that’s been chained shut and give it a cursory tug. Rust flakes off the links, and the padlock looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. One good pull, maybe two, and it’d snap—but I don’t want to leave obvious signs I’ve been here. Instead, I move around to the back, spotting a half-ajar window propped open with a piece of rotting wood.
That’s my way in.
I hoist myself up and slip inside, mindful of the glass shards clinging to the sill. The room is dark, lit only by the flicker of the neon sign outside. Dust motes swirl in the pale light, and the air smells of stale cigarettes and mildew. It’s quiet. No footprints but mine on the grimy floor.
I find a corner that’s relatively free of debris and drop my pack. My eyes scan the room: battered furniture stacked haphazardly, a desk with a missing drawer, a few crates that might have once held bottles of cheap liquor. The silence here is thick, pressing on my ears like cotton.
I need to think, to make a plan. But first, I have to make sure I’m not being followed. With the meager light from the window, I approach the entrance—what used to be a doorframe leading deeper into the building—and listen. The place seems deserted, and there’s no sign of movement outside. Still, I wedge a splintered chair under the knob of the one remaining door and position myself so I can watch the window and the doorway at the same time.
Then I take out the laptop again, plugging in the flash drive. Every second I wait is another second Ghost—or whoever he’s working with—could be closing in. My palms feel clammy. That’s adrenaline. Fear. It’s been a while since I felt it this intensely.
The screen bathes my face in blue-white light. I breathe out slowly, forcing my heartbeat to settle. There’s a new angle I need to explore. The fact that I was so easily found at the warehouse nags at me—either I left a trail, or someone on the drive has ways of tracking me. Possibly both.
I open one of the transcripts from the hidden “Echo” folder again, scanning for names, places, anything that might indicate how they’re zeroing in on me so fast. My eyes land on a reference to a “secondary asset.” A part of me knows better than to dive headfirst into cryptic clues, but I don’t have much choice.
Secondary asset. Could that be me? Or is it the contact in Vienna? My mind spins with questions as I sift through the code names and half-deleted lines of text. The file mentions “blacksite nodes,” facilities that might double as communication hubs or safehouses. The coordinates are masked by cipher, but the pattern looks familiar—like a variant of old NATO encryption.
I run a quick decrypting tool, half expecting it to fail. Instead, the numbers slide into place one by one, revealing a set of coordinates that prick my memory. They’re nestled in the heart of Eastern Europe, not far from the route I traveled to get here. Could this be a staging ground where Ghost operates? Or a place where these files originated? My stomach turns at the thought of walking straight into another trap.
I freeze when the neon outside flickers, momentarily plunging the room into near darkness. I flick my gaze to the window, just in time to catch a sliver of movement across the street. My breath catches in my throat. Someone’s out there, half-shrouded by the low-hanging fog.
I can’t make out details—just a silhouette. Tall, broad-shouldered, standing perfectly still. Watching.
My hand drifts to my sidearm. In one smooth motion, I push my laptop shut to kill the glow. The darkness envelops me, and I press myself flat against the wall, inching toward the window for a better vantage point. Through the cracked glass, the silhouette remains rooted in place, like a statue.
Is it him? Or someone else on Ghost’s payroll?
A car rumbles by, headlights washing over the figure. For just a heartbeat, I see the glint of metal—maybe a weapon strapped to his side—and the pale outline of a mask. My blood goes cold. It could be the white of a painted skull. It could be nothing at all.
Before I can decide, the silhouette melts away into the fog as if it never existed. A trick of the light, or a ghost in the flesh? My heart is beating loud enough to rattle my ribcage.
I wait a full minute, the tension coiling in my muscles until they ache. No more movement. No shadows in the street. Finally, I risk a slow exhale. Maybe I spooked myself, but if that was Ghost out there… I’m not ready for this. Not yet.
My eyes drift back to the laptop. The next step is clear enough: either I run again, or I dig for an edge so I can stop running. My contact in Vienna will want every detail I can offer—and the better I understand these files, the better my chances of survival. Right now, the data is all I have.
I snap the laptop open again, ignoring the frantic beat of my heart. My fingers fly across the keys as I open the newly decrypted coordinates. A map appears, marking a remote site near a border. The label reads “Threshold—OP Active.”
Operation active. Great. If Ghost is running an op there, it means he’s got resources—and if these files mention it, there might be a reason. Maybe this “Threshold” is the missing piece linking everything together: the arms deals, the clandestine meetings, the paramilitary groups. All roads lead to Ghost, or from him. That means it’s exactly the kind of place I don’t want to be anywhere near.
Another flicker from the neon sign draws my attention to the window. Still nothing but grey fog and shifting shadows. If Ghost wanted to take me out, I wouldn’t be sitting here thinking about it. He’d already have made his move. So maybe he’s toying with me, or maybe he’s got bigger things to worry about than one freelancer with a flash drive.
A cynical laugh escapes my lips. Or maybe I’m in denial.
I power down the laptop, stuffing it back into my pack. My mind churns over the possibilities. If the warehouse was compromised, this place is a sitting duck. I can’t afford to linger. I need to keep moving, keep the initiative. Because if I let Ghost choose the battleground, I’m as good as done.
Slipping back out the window is trickier than getting in; the boards creak ominously, and the broken glass threatens to slice my palms. I make it outside without incident, dropping silently onto the wet pavement. The sign’s neon hum sets my nerves on edge, but the street is still empty. The fog seems thicker now, clinging to the streetlamps in gauzy halos.
Every step is a gamble. I stick close to the building fronts, avoiding the center of the sidewalk, my weapon snug against my side. The city around me feels claustrophobic, as if every wall is leaning in. A distant siren wails, and I slip deeper into the gloom, turning corner after corner until I’m half-lost in the winding backstreets.
A plan forms, hazy but forming all the same. I’ll find another safe spot—temporary, just enough to catch my breath—and then catch the next train or bus out. Doesn’t matter where, as long as it’s another hop closer to Vienna. Three days. I’ve got to make them count.
My mind drifts to Ghost again. I’ve never seen him in person—only in grainy images and horrifying videos. If he really is on my trail, he might already know about Vienna. For all I know, he’s the one who orchestrated this entire string of events, pushing me toward that city like a lamb to slaughter.
I pick up the pace, forcing my misgivings aside. Only way I’ll find out is by surviving long enough to get there.
Just when I think I’m in the clear, I feel it—that tingle at the base of my skull, the unshakable sense of being watched. I risk a glance over my shoulder. A single figure steps out from behind a parked van, masked by shadows. They don’t call out. They don’t rush me. They stand perfectly still, just like the silhouette before. The breath catches in my throat.
I don’t wait for them to vanish. My feet pound the pavement as I bolt down the alley, ignoring the blast of cold air whipping past me. Another glance back, and the figure is gone—like smoke on the breeze. I push harder, ignoring the burn in my lungs, my pulse roaring in my ears.
Whoever that was, it’s not over. They’ll come again, when I least expect it.
At the end of the alley, I emerge onto a poorly lit street. A battered taxi idles there, the driver half-asleep behind the wheel. I yank open the door, ignoring his startled yelp, and throw a handful of bills onto the seat.
“Drive,” I command, breathless. “Now!”
He doesn’t ask questions—maybe my tone or the wild look in my eyes convinces him. The taxi lurches forward, leaving the deserted street behind. As I sink into the seat, I clutch my pack tight, half-expecting a bullet to shatter the rear window.
But none come.
For now, I’m alive. For now, I have the flash drive. Three days to reach Vienna, three days to unravel the rest of this puzzle before it unravels me. And with every tick of the clock, Ghost is getting closer—like a phantom in the fog, ready to strike the moment I let my guard down.
I close my eyes for a second, letting the dull rumble of the taxi’s engine soothe my nerves. Ghost may be an apex predator, but I’m not prey unless I choose to be. Somehow, I’ll find a way to stay ahead of him. Because if I don’t… I’m not walking away from this.
“Where to?” the driver asks, voice trembling.
I exhale slowly, opening my eyes to stare at the dark road ahead. “Just keep going,” I say, forcing a steadiness I don’t feel. “I’ll let you know when we’re close.”
He nods, and the taxi blends into the night, carrying me one stop nearer to Vienna—and to the inevitable confrontation waiting for me there.
Chapter 2
Chapter Text
The taxi’s engine rumbles beneath me like a restless animal, jostling me in the back seat as the driver weaves through late-night traffic. I keep my gaze on the side mirror, scanning for anyone who might be tailing us. Streetlights cast halos in the mist, illuminating drifting silhouettes of pedestrians who appear and vanish like apparitions. Each one could be a threat, could be Ghost—if he even needs to walk among us at all.
The driver clears his throat, eyes darting nervously in the rearview mirror. I can see the questions stacking in his mind, but he doesn’t voice them. The wad of cash I tossed onto the passenger seat is enough to buy his silence, at least for now. Still, he fidgets with the buttons on the console, probably trying to decide whether I’m about to do something drastic.
I focus on my breathing, forcing it to slow. If I spiral into panic now, I’m a dead man. Right now, I have the advantage of movement. Ghost—if that was him—is behind me. Or above me. Or maybe even ahead, waiting. But as long as I’m unpredictable, I’m harder to catch.
“Take a left here,” I say when we reach an intersection. The driver jerks the wheel, squealing past a yellow light. I glance out the window, catching a glimpse of a figure standing at the curb. The pale glow of a streetlamp drapes him in shadow. Could be anyone. Could be him.
I grit my teeth, pressing my pack tighter against my side. The flash drive is tucked safely inside, along with my battered laptop and a handful of half-charged burner phones. I can’t shake the thought that Ghost might not be working alone. The files suggested a bigger network—paramilitary groups, arms dealers, corrupt officials. There’s no telling how many eyes might be watching me right now.
“Where to next?” the driver asks, voice quivering. The streets are emptying out as we press on, and a deep chill settles in my gut.
I force a casual shrug. “Keep going. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
We pass by a series of rundown apartment blocks, their windows dark except for the occasional flicker of an old TV or a solitary lamp. The taxi’s headlights reveal graffitied walls and garbage-strewn sidewalks—places where anonymity thrives. Maybe I can find a cheap hostel here, somewhere to rest a few hours before moving on.
A sign in a language I barely recognize flashes past. We’re venturing farther from the city’s centre, closer to its underbelly. Perfect. The fewer tourists, the fewer prying eyes. That little voice of survival chimes in the back of my head, warning me of hidden dangers, but right now, it’s all about risk management. The best I can do is choose the lesser evil.
“Pull over by that corner store,” I say, spotting a flickering neon sign promising beer and cigarettes. The driver hesitates, then nods, slowing the car as we approach a lonely stretch of curb.
He glances back at me, relief plain on his face. I shove a few more bills forward to cover the extra distance. “You never saw me,” I warn, levelling my gaze at him. The driver’s eyes widen, and he bobs his head in a hurried nod.
“I—I understand,” he stammers.
I push open the door, stepping onto the slick pavement. The air stings my lungs; it’s colder here, or maybe it just feels that way without the car’s heater. I offer the driver a brief nod and watch him pull away, headlights receding into the fog.
The street is eerily quiet. A stray cat darts under a rusted dumpster, spooked by my footsteps. Overhead, a single streetlamp sputters, threatening to plunge this block into darkness. A perfect place to vanish—or be ambushed.
Across the street, the corner store hums with electric light. Through the grimy windows, I see shelves half-stocked with instant noodles, bottles of cheap vodka, and dusty cans of vegetables. This place is barely staying afloat. All the better; means fewer customers, fewer witnesses.
I cross over, slipping inside to the tune of a jangling bell. A bored clerk with a shaved head and sagging eyelids lifts his gaze, then immediately looks away. Good. The less curiosity he shows, the safer we both are.
I stroll the cramped aisles, pretend to browse. In reality, I’m scanning every angle—where the mirrors are, whether there’s a back exit, if the windows show enough of the street to catch someone creeping up. Paranoia is my ally, but I need it controlled, harnessed.
Eventually, I grab a couple of water bottles and a stale-looking sandwich from a cooler. When I set them on the counter, the clerk grunts and rings me up. The old register pings and stutters. I pay in cash, exchanging a curt nod before ducking out.
The cold bites at my face. My breath fogs in the air. I skirt around the back of the store, finding a narrow alley that might lead to the rear exit of an abandoned building. These neighborhoods are riddled with such shortcuts, and they’re a godsend if you know how to use them.
I pick my way carefully, holding my sandwich and water close as I slide past overflowing trash bins. The alley dead-ends at a fence topped with barbed wire. Beyond it, I see the outline of another building, all its windows boarded up.
I scan for a place to rest. No obvious door, no easy access. But there’s a stack of broken pallets that leads up to a fire escape. Might be enough to reach the ladder. I set down my food, test the pallets with my foot. They wobble dangerously.
A sound—something scraping behind me. My heart hitches. I reach for my sidearm, spinning. A stray cat leaps out from behind a bin, hissing at me before darting off. Just a cat. I exhale, cursing my fraying nerves.
I climb the pallets as quietly as I can and grip the bottom rung of the fire escape. Rust flakes off on my gloves. The metal groans, protesting my weight. Slowly, carefully, I hoist myself up, ignoring the faint burn in my arms. One rung after another, until I reach the second-floor window. It’s boarded shut, but the wood looks rotten.
From my pocket, I fish out a small crowbar—always carry one. Wedging it between the boards, I apply steady pressure. The wood cracks but doesn’t give easily. Another push, and finally it splinters. I yank away the broken plank and slide inside, boots crunching on debris. The room beyond is empty, silent. A single beam from a streetlamp cuts through the gap, illuminating a cloud of dust swirling in the air.
I brace for movement, for some squatter or junkie to leap out, but the place seems deserted. Threadbare furniture, holes in the walls, a layer of grime on every surface. It’s not inviting, but it’ll do for a few hours of rest.
I replace the board over the window from the inside, pressing it tight enough to keep out the wind—and, hopefully, prying eyes. Then I wedge a broken chair leg against the door. It’s rudimentary, but it’s all I’ve got.
Finally, I let myself breathe. My lungs tremble, as if releasing hours of pent-up tension. I take a swig from the water bottle, the liquid icy against my parched throat. Sinking onto a lumpy couch, I unshoulder my pack and open it. The flash drive is there, along with my laptop. My entire future—and maybe my life—depends on what’s on that little piece of plastic and metal.
A fresh wave of fatigue washes over me. My eyes feel heavy. But I can’t sleep yet, not fully. I’ll rest in half-measures, weapon close at hand. Because Ghost is out there. Or maybe he’s everywhere. The only thing I’m sure of is that he won’t stop until the drive is out of my hands—or until I’m cold in the ground.
Three days to Vienna, I remind myself. Three days until I can hand this off and maybe, just maybe, come up for air. I close my eyes, willing myself to stay alert, to sleep lightly. Outside, the wind whistles through the alley, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wails.
I wake to the faint light of early morning seeping through a crack in the boarded window. For a moment, I lie still, adjusting to the hush that blankets the abandoned building I chose as my makeshift shelter. No sounds of footsteps, no creaking floorboards—just the distant hum of a city that sleeps in fits and starts. I can almost believe I’m alone.
Almost.
The memory of last night’s near-encounter with a lurking silhouette—or the possibility of one—sits heavy on my chest. Ghost. The mere thought of him keeps my pulse elevated. I swallow hard and push the sensation aside. I’ve lingered here too long already. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that staying in one place is an invitation for fate—or Ghost—to find you.
I gather my belongings, checking the flash drive to be sure it’s still securely tucked away. One quick glance at the battered laptop confirms it’s intact. My sidearm feels reassuringly solid at my hip. Outside, the sky transitions from a deep blue to a lighter grey, a signal that the city will soon wake.
Leaving the building is easy enough—no rusted doors to pry open, no broken pallets to climb. I slip out the same way I came in, ducking under a warped doorway and stepping into the chill of a predawn street. The air tastes of diesel fumes and damp concrete, and a light fog drifts along the cracked pavement. Already, my instincts prickle with caution, urging me to keep moving.
Time to go.
I turn down a deserted alley, my shoulders tense, eyes scanning every shadow for movement. If someone was waiting for me, they’d have no trouble blending into the gloom. But the alley stays silent, and I reach the main road unscathed. An old woman is sweeping her stoop with half-hearted strokes, and a single car idles at a red light, puffing exhaust into the cold air. It’s not exactly a cheerful scene, but it feels mercifully ordinary.
A few blocks later, I find a bus terminal that’s more of a relic than a functioning station. Chipped paint, broken benches, rusted signage pointing to places that might not exist anymore. According to a schedule taped to the wall—crinkled and faded—there’s a long-distance bus heading toward a border town in about an hour. From there, I can catch a train or another bus to Vienna. It’s not ideal, but it’ll get me closer to my contact.
I buy a ticket in cash, no questions asked. The bored attendant barely glances at me as he hands over a crumpled stub. Good. I take a seat on the far edge of the waiting area, back against the wall to watch anyone who comes or goes. Thankfully, no one pays me any mind. I’m just one more traveller trying to disappear.
A stale fluorescent light buzzes overhead, flickering as if the bulb’s about to give out. I pull out my burner phone to check the time. If all goes well—which is a big if—I’ll be in Vienna by tomorrow night. I allow myself a moment of guarded optimism. Once I’m there, I can hand over this flash drive and hope that it buys me a little breathing room—or at least sets Ghost’s sights elsewhere.
Outside, the sky grows brighter. A handful of other passengers trickle in, clutching plastic bags or small suitcases. None of them look like covert operatives or mercenaries, but that doesn’t ease my caution. Ghost has resources; his people could blend in as easily as I do. I don’t let my gaze linger on anyone too long, mindful of how paranoia can draw attention.
Finally, the bus arrives—an old, wheezing beast of a vehicle, the paint peeling off in long strips. The driver steps out and mutters something in a language I barely follow. Passengers shuffle forward, handing over tickets. When it’s my turn, I keep my head down and slip onto the bus without fanfare, choosing a seat in the back. A single overhead light buzzes feebly, casting long shadows across worn upholstery.
The engine rumbles to life, and the bus lurches forward. I peek out the window, half-expecting to see that familiar silhouette on the platform, the hint of a skull-patterned mask in the fog. Nothing. Relief tussles with dread in my stomach. It’s too quiet. But I have no choice now; the bus barrels onward, carrying me toward the border.
I settle in, forcing my mind to focus on the steps ahead—transferring buses, crossing the border, finding a train to Vienna. With any luck, the city will offer enough anonymity to keep me alive until I meet my contact. I won’t allow myself to think too far beyond that.
For now, I watch the city’s outskirts blur past, concrete giving way to sprawling fields and skeletal trees wreathed in morning mist. The hum of the bus’s heater and the drone of tires on asphalt create a lullaby of sorts, tempting me to close my eyes. I let my lids droop just enough to rest but not enough to lose all awareness. Every so often, I glance around the cabin. No one looks back.
Hours to the next stop. Hours closer to Vienna. Hours in which Ghost—or whoever else wants this flash drive—could be tracking me. But for now, there’s nothing to do but ride out this uneasy calm.
I tighten my grip on my pack. One day, I might look back on this and feel the full weight of the fear I’m suppressing. Right now, there’s only the dull thud of my pulse and the unending road ahead.
Vienna, I tell myself. Just get there. Then worry about the rest.
The bus growls under me like an aging beast, each jolt along the cracked highway rattling my teeth. Outside, the road unfurls in a series of grey swaths, pocked and scarred, as though worn down by every restless traveler who’s come before. Fog clings to the fields in the distance, lazy fingers of white that obscure skeletal trees and half-buried fence posts. A lonely farmhouse stands in the haze, windows dark, roof sagging under the weight of abandonment. The world is still waking, and for a fractured second, I almost convince myself there’s peace to be found here.
But I know better.
A sharp vibration in my pocket drags me back to the reality I’ve been dreading. My burner phone, as basic and battered as it is, rarely buzzes—only two people should have the number, and neither of them is due to contact me now. My stomach roils with sudden anxiety. Could Ghost be closing in faster than I anticipated?
I shift in my seat, peeling my head off the window where I’d dozed in a half-sleep. The chilly glass leaves a patch of condensation behind. Next to me, an older woman snores, her face turned toward the aisle. She’s oblivious to the electric tension now coursing through me.
I rub a tired hand across my eyes and flick the phone’s screen to life. The number is unknown. My nerves flare. My pulse hammers in my ears, each beat louder than the bus’s droning engine. Taking a steadying breath, I check the aisle—threadbare seats occupied by passengers who seem utterly disinterested in my existence. Good. Still, I grip the phone tighter, shielding it from any stray glance.
The message is short, a threat carved in pixels:
You have something that doesn’t belong to you. Give it back, and you might live.
I feel the colour drain from my face. No name, no signature—just words that could cut like a razor if I let them. My mind jumps to the flash drive tucked away in my pack, as if it’s physically heavier now. The seat cushions seem to press in on me.
Outside the smudged window, bare branches race past, the sky shifting from slate to a pale dawn. For a heartbeat, I wonder if the sender is hidden among these passengers, two rows behind or maybe right beside me. I force myself to breathe evenly. Panicking would only tip my hand.
A second vibration. I nearly drop the phone in my haste to read:
Don’t make me find you.
The bus hits a pothole, lurching, and the snoring woman mumbles in her sleep. I’m too keyed up to notice anything else. The words on the screen feel cold, predatory—like a blade laid delicately against my throat. I don’t recognize the style; no code, no careful encryption, just raw menace. Could Ghost be that direct? Or is it someone else serving as his mouthpiece?
My eyes dart around the bus again. A teenage girl nods along to music only she can hear, oblivious to my fear. A man with glasses turns a page of his newspaper, lips moving as he silently reads. If anyone is watching me, they’re doing a superb job of acting normal.
Despite every instinct screaming at me not to respond, my fingers clench around the phone. If they already know I have the drive, ignoring them might imply weakness. Or maybe replying is exactly what they want. My thumb hovers, sweat beading on my brow, and I curse myself for hesitating. But I do it anyway—I type:
Who is this?
I send it before I can second-guess further. The message icon vanishes; a new silence settles in, broken only by the rhythmic thump of the bus’s tires against the road. Every second drags on, my heart in my throat. By the time the phone vibrates again, I’m on the verge of pitching it out the window.
No more warnings.
Just four words, but they pierce my composure like a bullet. I stare at the screen, willing it to say something else—some hint of the sender’s identity or motive. Nothing. The bus rumbles on, unaware of the tumult in my chest.
I fumble, quickly deleting the messages. Paranoia washes over me like a fever, and I slip the phone back into my pocket. My shoulders ache from how tense I’ve become. They know I’m moving. They know I have the drive. Do they know I’m heading to Vienna? Or exactly where to intercept me?
My gaze flicks to the woman at my side—still snoring softly, head lolling. She has no idea she’s sitting next to a human target. Neither does the man with the paper, or the teenager with headphones. Normal lives, normal problems. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in a slow-moving cage on wheels, imagining a skull-patterned mask waiting just outside my field of vision.
Soon, the speaker crackles overhead with an announcement that we’re approaching a major station. Relief mingles with dread. I’ll have a chance to change buses and possibly lose any tail. But transferring means more eyes, more risk, more potential watchers. I’m reminded of a tightening noose, every mile bringing me closer to Vienna—and to whoever or whatever might be waiting.
Reaching into my pack, I press my hand against the hidden pocket, feeling the faint outline of the flash drive. My lifeline, my burden. I promised myself I’d deliver it, and I won’t let these threats—be they Ghost or another faction—stop me. If I give up now, I might as well hand over my life on a silver platter.
I steel my nerves, forcing a measured breath as the bus groans through another pothole. Step by step, I remind myself. Get off here, switch to a new line, maybe burn this phone if I can find another. Don’t let them corner me. Don’t look back. If Ghost is half as resourceful as the intel suggests, I’ll need every trick in the book to stay a step ahead.
Outside, the sun lifts a little higher, washing the horizon in a weak, wintry light. It does nothing to warm the icy coil of fear in my gut. The thought of those texts, so blunt and menacing, keeps my senses keyed up to their highest setting. I pull my pack closer, trying to appear relaxed but ready to bolt at the slightest sign of trouble.
“No more warnings.” The phrase loops in my head, a grim refrain that sets my teeth on edge. Fine, I think, clenching my jaw. I never needed a warning in the first place. All I need is to survive long enough to do what I came here to do.
The bus hisses to a stop, brakes squealing. Time to move again. As I stand, I catch sight of my reflection in the grimy window—a pair of tired, wary eyes staring back at me. Beneath them lurks a resolve I didn’t realize I still possessed.
I sling my pack over my shoulder, stepping into the narrow aisle. Ahead, the door wheezes open. Passengers gather their bags, shuffle forward, lost in their own worlds. I swallow my fear and join them, bracing myself for the next leg of this journey.
Because if those messages are any indication, every step I take toward Vienna could be my last. And yet, there’s no turning back—only the relentless push forward into the unknown, with Ghost’s shadow darkening the path.
I step out of the bus and onto the cold pavement, my breath catching in my throat at the sight of the station looming around me. Even from the outside, it looks tired—concrete stained by age, boarded windows along one side, and chipped paint flaking off metal pillars that hold up a rust-streaked awning. The air smells of engine fumes and stale coffee, and people shuffle in every direction like restless ghosts.
Clutching my pack, I mingle with the other passengers, none of whom spare me a second glance. Fine by me. My mind still echoes with that last text—No more warnings—like a pulse in my ears. As the crowd trickles inside, I hang back for a moment, scanning the area. There’s a line of battered luggage trolleys to one side, a flickering overhead light that bathes everything in a sickly glow, and a single security camera mounted high on a pillar. I can’t tell if it’s operational.
Better assume it is.
An unseasonably cold wind cuts through my jacket, urging me forward. I walk under the awning, ducking past a pair of loud-talking tourists who seem oblivious to the tension radiating off me. Inside, the station is worse than I expected. Patchy fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the scuffed tile floor is dotted with puddles of melted snow. A couple of shops line one wall—a tiny newsstand, a grimy café with a flickering OPEN sign, and a convenience store advertising pre-paid phones, among other cheap odds and ends.
That’s my first target.
Keeping my head low, I slip into the store. The faint smell of cheap air freshener and stale potato chips greets me. A bored-looking clerk in a sweatshirt scrolls through his phone behind the counter, occasionally glancing up. I pretend to browse snacks, heart beating double-time as I edge toward a rotating display of budget electronics—earbuds, chargers, and a handful of prepaid phones in plastic packaging.
I pick one out—the simplest, cheapest model. Perfect for a quick setup. At the counter, the clerk barely gives me a second look. He rings up my purchase with disinterest, sliding the box across the counter. I offer a quick nod, pay in cash, and slip out into the station’s main concourse again.
Now I’ve got to burn my old phone—only a matter of time before whoever messaged me pinpoints this number. But I can’t quite let it go yet; my contact in Vienna has that number, and if they try to reach me… I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to chuck the phone in the nearest trash can and be done with it. Instead, I settle for powering it off and tucking it deep in my pack. It feels like carrying a lit fuse.
Through streaked windows, I spot a row of buses parked in bays, engines idling as drivers wait for their departure times. Screens overhead display arrival and departure info in flickering text. I find a route heading east, closer to the border—a step toward Vienna. The departure is in twenty minutes. Perfect.
Stomach clenching, I move to buy a ticket from an automated kiosk. Its touchscreen is smeared with fingerprints, but it works well enough. A few taps, and I have a folded slip of paper spitting out at me, directing me to Gate 6. The sense of eyes on me returns. I glance around, but everyone is preoccupied: a mother juggling two squirming children, a middle-aged man fiddling with a travel pillow, a young woman tapping on her phone. Ordinary people with ordinary worries. Yet the text on my phone implies someone here might be anything but ordinary.
Ticket in hand, I find a corner near the gate with a few worn-out chairs. I choose one that offers a view of the entire waiting area, back to the wall. Instinct pulses in my veins, telling me to scan each face, each silhouette. Could that unassuming teenager with the backpack be a runner for Ghost? Could the old man in the frayed coat be an operative in disguise? My imagination runs wild.
Minutes crawl by. An announcement blares overhead, the PA system crackling with static. My bus is now boarding. I straighten, pick up my pack, and join the small trickle of passengers heading outside. The bus’s doors hiss open to reveal a dingy interior, not much better than the last ride. Thin seats with threadbare covers line a narrow aisle, and the driver gives me a curt nod when I hand over my ticket.
I choose a seat toward the back, stuffing my pack at my feet so I can feel its weight against my ankles. The new phone remains in its packaging for now—I’ll sort it out when I’m safely underway, somewhere between here and the next border crossing. Another rumour of footsteps or a glance in the wrong direction, and I’m out of here, phone or no phone.
My breath plumes in the chilly air as I wait for the bus to lurch forward. Every second sets my nerves on edge. At last, the doors hiss shut. The driver shifts gears, and the bus grinds out of the station. Through the smeared window, I watch the station drift away until it’s swallowed by haze and distance.
I can’t say I feel any safer, but at least I’m moving again—one more link in the chain that leads to Vienna, and hopefully, to handing over this flash drive. The thought brings a flicker of grim resolve. The text threatened no more warnings, but I don’t need them. I have my own reasons to press on, no matter the cost.
As the bus merges onto the highway, the city lights fade behind me, and miles of bleak countryside spread out ahead. My heart thrums in time with the engine’s laboring growl, fear and determination melding into one. Vienna may lie at the end of this road, but so might Ghost—and I refuse to be the one who flinches first.
The bus rattles on, devouring miles of dreary highway while dawn edges higher in the sky. I keep my gaze fixed on the horizon, trying to block out the low hum of engine noise and the occasional snore from a handful of drowsy passengers. Most people are slumped against the windows or scrolling through their phones, lost in their own worlds.
A chilly draft sneaks along the aisle. Maybe the driver cracked a window up front, or maybe this bus is just too battered to keep out the cold. I tug my jacket closer, trying to hunch into the seat. My pack rests at my feet, its weight pressing against my ankles, reminding me of why I can’t afford to slip up. That flash drive feels heavier every mile.
Suddenly, the seat beside me dips. Until now, it’s been vacant. I sense a figure settling in—hear the creak of the old upholstery, the brush of fabric. I tense up. So many empty seats, and he picks this one?
I don’t look right away. I’ve learned that the less interest you show, the better your chances of blending in. But the new passenger exhales a quiet sigh, and from the corner of my eye, I register a broad-shouldered silhouette and a faint scent of something clean—soap, maybe.
“Long ride, huh?” a low voice says. There’s a slight accent I can’t nail down—somewhere in the British Isles, perhaps.
I force myself to turn slowly, maintaining an air of calm. He’s a bit younger than I’d expect for a weary traveller, though a buzzed mohawk and a faint scar near his temple give him a rugged edge. There’s a careful alertness in his gaze, but not necessarily hostile. He offers a lopsided smile.
“Could say that,” I reply, wary. “You heading far?”
“Yeah,” he answers vaguely, gaze flicking to the window. “Figure I’ve still got a few hours ahead. Not exactly my preferred way to travel, but it gets the job done.”
I grunt in agreement, keeping my expression neutral. This might be simple small talk, or it might be something else. “You and me both.”
He drums his fingers on his knee, a restless motion. His eyes flick briefly to my pack, though it could be idle curiosity. “I’m John, by the way,” he offers, that half-smile appearing again.
I weigh my options. Giving away nothing can be just as suspicious as oversharing. Finally, I supply a name—one I’ve used before, in situations like this. He nods like it makes sense, but doesn’t ask if it’s real. Good.
“So,” he continues, leaning back. “Traveling on your own?”
My pulse leaps a little at the question, though I keep my tone casual. “Yeah, just me. Taking care of some business.”
He studies me for a second, then shifts to look at the aisle. “Gotcha. Same here, more or less.” He lets out a breath. “Never been one for sitting still, I guess.”
I glance around the bus. Nobody’s paying attention, and this guy—John—doesn’t seem overtly threatening. But the way he carries himself sets off a familiar warning in the back of my mind. Not enough to panic, but enough to stay on guard.
“Any idea how long till the next stop?” I ask, changing the subject.
John checks his phone, a standard model with a cracked screen. “Schedule says another couple hours, maybe three. Road’s rough. Guess we’ll see.”
I nod, pretending that bit of information soothes me. The bus bounces over a pothole, and John braces against the seatback easily, like he’s used to traveling rough roads—though I can’t quite place why he seems so at ease.
He gives me a polite nod. “Didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says. “Just figured it’s a long ride, might as well say hey.”
I let out a small breath, trying to loosen the tension from my shoulders. “No harm done. Better than total silence.”
A faint, wry smile tugs at his lips. He slides his phone away and settles in, eyes drifting to the window. The conversation lapses, leaving only the thrum of the engine and the soft murmurs of other passengers. Still, I catch him glancing at me every once in a while, as though gauging whether I’m going to keep talking or shut him out.
As for me, I’m still tangled in my own thoughts—about that threatening text, about Ghost, about how every mile I travel brings me closer to Vienna and, hopefully, to handing off this flash drive. But now there’s a new variable in the equation: John, with the short mohawk and the unreadable eyes. Friend or foe, or neither? I can’t tell yet.
Eventually, my eyelids grow heavy. Exhaustion creeps in—this might be my only chance to snag a little rest before everything kicks into high gear. I try to stay alert, but my breathing deepens in spite of myself. Right as I drift toward sleep, I sense John adjusting his posture, like he’s keeping one ear open for trouble.
Maybe he’s just another weary traveller wanting to get from Point A to Point B. Or maybe there’s more to him than that. Either way, I remind myself: trust is a luxury I can’t afford. Not when I’m carrying this kind of intel—and especially not when a man known only as Ghost could be tracking my every move.
My grip tightens on my pack, even as my eyes slide shut. Darkness begins to claim my mind, but I vow to stay half-awake, just in case. Because in this line of work, you never know who’s sitting beside you.
Chapter 3
Chapter Text
I wake with my chin nearly on my chest, stiff neck protesting as the bus rattles over a pothole. My pulse thuds in my ears for a beat—sleep must’ve taken me harder than I planned. I force my eyes open, blinking away haze and trying to gather my bearings. The musty smell of the bus is still there, and dawn has given way to a sky tinted the washed-out blue of mid-morning.
John—my unexpected seatmate—appears lost in his own thoughts. He stares out the window, arms folded across his broad chest, lips pressed into a thin line. The steady hum of the engine and occasional squeak of the bus’s suspension form a backdrop to my ragged nerves. There’s no immediate sign of danger, yet something about the morning feels tense, like the calm before a storm.
We crest a small rise in the road, and beyond it lies a dreary service stop—little more than a gas station, a squat diner, and a row of battered vending machines under a flickering neon sign. The driver slows, turning into the parking area. A hiss of brakes signals that this is our brief oasis before the next stretch of highway.
My stomach churns. I’m not hungry, but I know I should force something down. Running on an empty tank won’t help me stay sharp if trouble finds me again. With any luck, we’ll be here just long enough to grab coffee and stale sandwiches, then back on the road.
The doors wheeze open, letting in a gust of cold air. A few passengers near the front unbuckle themselves and file out with tired relief. I glance at John, who’s now turned toward me, eyebrows lifted in unspoken question.
“Stretch your legs?” he suggests, voice pitched low in the hush of the bus. “Looks like we’ve got a little break.”
I weigh my options. Sitting here alone doesn’t sound appealing, and staying cooped up on the bus makes me a sitting duck if anyone’s watching. At the same time, walking off with a near-stranger has its own risks. Still, the station looks open, public—less likely a stage for an ambush.
“Yeah,” I reply, clearing my throat. “Could use some air.”
He stands and gestures politely for me to go first. As I move past him into the aisle, I keep my pack slung over one shoulder, an unconscious habit of never letting it leave my sight. We step onto the pavement, and cold slaps me in the face. The air is crisp, tinted with the smell of diesel fumes and fried food from the diner.
John pivots, scanning the lot in a casual sweep, then glances at me. “They say coffee’s the best way to survive bus rides like this.” He nods toward the diner’s dull windows, where someone’s taped up a few worn posters advertising breakfast deals.
I give a mild shrug. “Worth a shot.”
A handful of our fellow passengers follow us across the parking area. A woman rubs sleep from her eyes while cradling a paper coffee cup; a couple speaks in low tones, their shoulders huddled together against the wind. No one appears the least bit suspicious, though I don’t drop my guard.
Inside the diner, the warmth hits like a wave. The décor is trapped in a prior decade: vinyl booths with torn cushions, a jukebox against one wall that’s seen better days, and a linoleum floor that’s scuffed to gray. Behind the counter, a waitress pours coffee into chipped mugs, her expression bored.
John claims a booth by the window. I slide in across from him, setting my pack at my feet. As the waitress approaches, he orders two coffees, then glances my way. “Black okay?”
I nod, feeling my throat tighten with paranoia. Sharing a table feels oddly intimate, and a voice in my head warns me that lowering my guard could be fatal. But the alternative—sitting alone, brooding on every worst-case scenario—isn’t exactly better. For now, I’ll keep my wits about me and maintain the upper hand by being alert to every detail.
“So,” John says, leaning back as the waitress sets our cups down, “you do a lot of traveling?”
The question hangs in the air. He makes it sound innocent, and maybe it is. My instincts say to keep details vague. “Here and there,” I reply, blowing on the steaming coffee. “Enough to learn that these buses aren’t exactly luxury travel.”
He chuckles, drumming his fingers on the table. “Too right.” For a moment, his gaze flickers to the window, scanning the parking lot. He seems restless, like he’s not used to sitting idle. “You said something about business earlier. Not prying, just… you seem like you’ve got a story.”
I tense, searching for the right response. “Everyone’s got a story,” I say, letting out a short laugh. “Mine’s not that interesting.”
He studies me in that same quiet way, then offers a casual shrug. “Fair enough.”
A lull settles between us. The coffee’s bitter, but it’s warm, and it anchors me back to the present. Outside, the service stop’s lights flicker, and a couple of trucks rumble through, tires crunching gravel. The scene feels transient, a place people pass through on their way to somewhere else—just like me.
“So what about you?” I ask, flipping the conversation around. “Any reason you picked this route?”
John’s expression flickers, something unreadable passing over his features. “I’ve got to be somewhere,” he replies, echoing my own brand of vagueness. “This bus was the quickest way.”
I let his answer hang. We both know we’re dancing around specifics, and it’s an unspoken agreement not to push too hard. The hush that follows is oddly comfortable.
A loud beep from the diner’s kitchen interrupts our silence. The waitress calls an order number, and a couple from our bus heads to the counter, collecting their food in styrofoam containers. John watches them go, then glances at me again. “You want anything to eat? I’m thinking I might grab something for the road.”
I shake my head. My stomach’s still in knots. “Not hungry.”
He rises anyway. “Suit yourself.” Before he goes, he nods toward my pack. “Better keep that close. These places can be a magnet for pickpockets.”
My heart stutters at the suggestion he’s guessed there’s something valuable inside. “Yeah,” I say, careful to keep my tone even. “Already planned on it.”
As he walks off, I exhale slowly, letting my gaze sweep the room again. My ears tune in to a half-dozen conversations—none of them mention me, or Ghost, or anything that sets off alarms. Still, the sense of danger lingers at the back of my mind. If Ghost really is trailing me, it wouldn’t be surprising if he had eyes in a place like this.
John returns a minute later, a paper bag in hand. He slides back into the booth and takes a sip of his coffee. “Cashier said we’ve got another fifteen minutes before the bus pulls out.”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Thanks.”
For a few beats, neither of us speaks. The tension I felt earlier softens around the edges, replaced by a curious neutrality. John doesn’t press me, and I don’t press him. We’re two strangers sharing a booth, each with our own secrets.
Eventually, the waitress circles back, asking if we need refills. I shake my head, and John downs the last of his coffee, grimacing at the bitterness. Outside, the driver returns to the bus, and a few other passengers trail behind him, likely anxious about missing the departure.
John stands first, clutching his paper bag. “Shall we?”
With a nod, I grab my pack and follow him. Stepping out of the diner’s warmth, the morning chill slaps my cheeks again, as if reminding me I’m still in hostile territory, no matter how mundane it looks. The sky is the color of dull steel, threatening a spatter of rain or perhaps an early snowfall.
Together, we cross the short stretch of asphalt to the bus, which idles noisily, the driver looking impatient. One by one, passengers climb aboard, and John gestures for me to go first. I take a breath and step up, reminding myself to stay alert, to keep my eyes open for anything out of place.
Because somewhere out there—maybe close, maybe far—someone is waiting for me to slip up. And while John’s presence is a question mark, he’s proven at least willing to share a coffee without prying too deep. That has to be enough for now, because Vienna still lies ahead, and my deadline with the flash drive isn’t getting any kinder.
The bus door sighs shut with a mechanical wheeze, cutting off the dull roar of the service stop. My shoes squeak against the rubber mat as I step inside, the stale warmth of the vehicle wrapping around me like a worn blanket. I hustle down the aisle, mindful of the driver’s impatient glare—he’s itching to get back on the road. John follows with his paper bag, looking unhurried despite the driver’s silent hurry-up.
We settle into the same seats we occupied before, me by the window, him on the aisle. He slips the paper bag under his seat and offers a polite nod, but doesn’t say much else. Maybe the half-hour break took some of the edge off. Maybe we’ve reached an unspoken agreement not to dig too deep. I appreciate the silence, using it to collect my thoughts.
Outside, the diner and flickering neon sign fade away into the distance, replaced by a sweep of barren fields. The day remains cold and overcast, sky tinted a colorless grey that promises rain—or worse. As the bus rumbles onto the main highway again, I lean my head against the window and watch power lines zip past in a steady rhythm. Every bump in the road jostles the pack at my feet, reminding me of the flash drive tucked carefully inside.
I steal a glance at John. He’s pulled a small paperback from his jacket pocket, flipping pages in a way that suggests he’s trying to focus on anything but the miles of monotonous landscape. Occasionally, his gaze lifts, scanning the rows of seats ahead of us, then drifting my way. Once or twice, our eyes meet, and I can’t tell if his expression is curiosity, concern, or just plain fatigue.
A hushed tension blankets the bus. It’s not just me; the other passengers seem subdued, either engrossed in their phones or nodding off. I catch a snippet of whispered argument from a couple near the front, but it fizzles into silence. The driver, up in his seat, shifts gears with a loud clank, urging the bus to pick up speed.
I force myself to think about the next steps. Getting to Vienna means staying out of sight and out of trouble for at least another day. Maybe two, if the connections are bad. After I switch to the next bus, or a train, I can burn the old phone and activate the new one. No more ominous texts lighting up my screen, no more unknown numbers threatening me. Of course, that doesn’t guarantee Ghost—if he really is the one behind those messages—won’t find some other way to get in my head.
My stomach knots at the thought. I focus on a silent mantra: keep moving, keep the intel safe, keep breathing. Outside, rows of leafless trees blur into one another. If I let my mind wander too far, I’ll sink into worst-case scenarios, and I can’t afford that. Not with so many miles left to go.
A sudden squeal of brakes jars me from my thoughts. The bus slows as we hit a patch of traffic: a procession of trucks kicking up dirty water from the road, tires spitting gravel. The driver curses under his breath—loud enough for me to catch—and eases us into the right-hand lane. Through the smudged window, I glimpse a sign that might indicate a nearby town or a border crossing, but it’s too faded to read. Either way, it means a delay.
John shifts in his seat, sliding the paperback into his pocket. He exhales, a quiet, frustrated sound. “Looks like we might be crawling for a bit,” he comments, eyes flicking toward me.
“Yeah,” I manage, trying to keep my tone casual. I can practically feel my pulse in my neck, adrenaline surging at the idea of being stuck in slow-moving traffic. More time for trouble to catch up—if it hasn’t already.
The bus grinds forward in fits and starts. Every jerk sends a ripple of unease through my body. I can’t help imagining a black SUV tearing through the lane behind us, someone stepping off the curb with a phone pressed to their ear—someone waiting for me to show my face. But all I see are tired truck drivers and bored passengers craning their necks at the jam.
John drums his fingers on the armrest. “I’ll be glad when we’re off this bus,” he mutters, half to himself.
I nod, forcing a thin smile. “Me too.” Though in my case, relief is a luxury I might not feel for a while.
Minutes pass in tense silence, and eventually the traffic loosens. The bus lurches forward, picking up speed. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Through the windshield, the open road beckons once more, framed by rolling hills in the distance. My seat vibrates as the driver tests the accelerator, like he’s determined to make up for lost time.
John settles back, gaze locked on the horizon. I do the same, chasing each passing second. For now, we’re back in motion, another small victory. I cling to that thought like a lifeline, telling myself every mile covered is a mile that keeps Ghost at bay.
Yet a knot of tension curls at the base of my skull, a quiet warning that none of this is over. One step at a time, I remind myself. Survive until the next station, the next transfer. Survive until Vienna. From there, maybe I’ll finally be free of this shadow that’s been tailing me.
I tighten my grip on the edge of the seat, ignoring the stale air and the rattling windows. The bus rattles on, and John sits beside me, an enigmatic presence I still can’t fully decode. But at least I’m not stranded or cornered. I’m moving forward—however slowly—and sometimes that’s all it takes to stay alive in this business.
Outside, the sky lightens incrementally, as though reluctant to let any real warmth through. The road stretches on, and with it, the weight of what I carry. Vienna is out there, somewhere beyond the fog of uncertainty. And I mean to reach it—no matter who or what waits in my path.
--------------------------
The road unspools beneath us, mile after mile of flat, featureless terrain. Here and there, a rusting sign or a skeletal tree flickers past, a reminder of just how far we are from anything resembling a city. Inside the bus, the air feels stale and heavy, like a coat that’s grown too warm. Even the steady rumble of the engine has lulled into a lower hum, as if it, too, is tired of the journey.
Eventually, the driver veers onto a narrower road, and a large sign looms into view—faded text in multiple languages, too worn to make out from a distance. My pulse quickens all the same. This might be the border. If so, it means passport checks, or at least a cursory look by uniformed officers. And that means questions I don’t want asked.
John notices my sudden tension. He shifts in his seat, sets aside his paperback. “Everything okay?”
I force a neutral shrug. “Not a big fan of border crossings,” I lie, hoping it’ll explain away my restlessness. “They can be… unpredictable.”
He gives a soft grunt, eyes searching my face for a moment. There’s no flicker of judgment or suspicion, just a vague understanding. “Yeah. Bureaucracy can be a nightmare.”
Before I can respond, the bus slows to a crawl. Ahead, a checkpoint comes into focus. It’s not large—just a squat building and a barrier arm across the road. A couple of uniformed guards stand around, stamping papers or waving cars through. Two lines of vehicles wait in front of us, brake lights glowing in the mid-morning haze.
The driver brakes hard, causing us to lurch. He mutters something under his breath, likely cursing the delay. Passengers stir, some peering out the windows, others rubbing sleep from their eyes. My stomach feels like it’s shrinking. The presence of officials—any officials—makes my pulse climb. Even with a solid fake ID, border crossings can go sideways fast.
“Probably routine,” John says quietly, perhaps more to reassure himself than me.
I nod, feigning calm. The bus finally inches up behind a truck loaded with crates, and from where I sit, I can see a guard beckoning the truck driver to roll forward. There’s a small booth with tinted windows—likely scanning passports or IDs with battered computers that freeze more often than not.
The tension in my gut twists tighter. I shove my phone deeper into my pocket, hoping no one demands to see it. As for the flash drive, it’s well-concealed in my pack, but if they decide to search thoroughly…
One of the guards steps onto the bus. He’s middle-aged, face lined by years of boredom or maybe chain-smoking. In heavily accented English, he says, “Passports, please,” and starts down the aisle.
A rustle of jackets follows as everyone fishes for their documents. My own ID is a carefully constructed forgery—it’s worked before, but you never know when someone might spot a discrepancy. I flick open the passport to a well-worn page, reminding myself to stay calm and hand it over without hesitation.
John passes his own passport with a polite smile, then sits back, arms folded. The guard glances at it briefly, rubs a thumb across the photograph, then hands it back. “Thank you.” No further questions.
My turn. I inhale and offer my passport, adopting a mask of mild impatience rather than nervousness. The guard eyes it for a moment, flicks through pages. I keep my face impassive, forcing my heartbeat to slow. The guard’s gaze lifts, and for a split second, our eyes meet. My lungs feel like lead.
He says nothing, just presses the passport shut and hands it back. “Thank you.” Then he moves on down the aisle, repeating the same lines to every passenger.
I exhale quietly, pulse roaring in my ears like an echo of the bus’s engine. John, next to me, glances sideways. “Told you,” he murmurs, voice almost teasing. “Routine.”
I manage a tight smile and nod, as though I’ve been silly to worry. But my palms still feel clammy, and a sheen of sweat clings to the back of my neck. Next time, we might not get off so easy.
The guard steps off the bus, confers with someone at the booth, then waves us forward. The driver releases an audible sigh—relief, frustration, or both—and cranks the engine into motion. We bump past the barrier, out of the checkpoint, and back onto the open road.
John stretches in his seat. “Guess that’s that,” he says, taking out his paperback again. His casual air puzzles me; either he’s genuinely unbothered by officialdom, or he’s much better at hiding tension than I am. He doesn’t seem curious about my anxiety, which I appreciate. Trust is still a slippery slope I’m not ready to climb.
I press my forehead against the window, watching the checkpoint fade into the distance. The countryside beyond looks much the same—flat fields, distant hills, a scattering of skeletal trees. But I feel a small surge of triumph. One more hurdle cleared, one more mile behind me. If I can keep pushing forward, keep Ghost at bay, maybe I’ll reach Vienna in one piece.
The bus rattles over a rough patch of asphalt, jostling me from my thoughts. My pack slides against my feet. I think of the flash drive, so small and inconspicuous, yet heavy with consequences. Another few days—less if I’m lucky—and it’ll be out of my hands.
Beside me, John turns a page in his book, eyes flicking across the text. He occasionally glances up, checking the aisle and the row behind us, like he’s monitoring the bus for trouble. Maybe it’s just habit, or maybe he’s as jumpy as I am, but for different reasons.
We ride in silence for a while, the bus forging ahead through patches of farmland and clusters of wind-blasted trees. A drizzle starts, raindrops tracing crooked paths down the window. The sky darkens, and the temperature in the bus drops accordingly.
At some point, John closes his book, slipping it back into a pocket. He taps his foot against the floor, a restless rhythm. “You think we’ll have another stop soon?” he muses, clearly not speaking to anyone in particular.
“Probably.” My voice comes out slightly hoarse from disuse. “These routes usually have some rest area every couple of hours.”
He hums in agreement, gaze sliding toward me. “You planning on switching buses at any point?” It’s a casual question, but it sets off alarm bells in my mind.
I hesitate, biting the inside of my cheek. “Maybe. Depends on connections.”
He nods, leaving it at that. No pushback, no further inquiries. Good. I don’t want to lie any more than I have to.
Gradually, the conversation peters out, replaced by the rhythmic thud of tires on wet asphalt. The miles keep slipping away, dragging me closer to Vienna and whatever awaits me there. Every so often, I think I see a shape in the distance—a dark SUV following our route, or a figure peering from the roadside—but it always turns out to be just my imagination.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that Ghost’s shadow stretches far, a specter of danger waiting to materialize. The phone in my pocket is silent, thankfully, but I can’t let down my guard. Not when I still have so much to lose.
Eventually, my eyelids droop. The drizzle outside, coupled with the steady vibration of the bus, lulls me into a kind of half-doze. I let it happen, knowing I have to conserve what energy I can. The warmth of the seat seeps into my bones. John shifts beside me, but says nothing, which suits me fine.
I keep one hand curled around the strap of my pack, as if to anchor myself in place. Even in this uncomfortable seat, surrounded by strangers, I allow my mind to wander just far enough to rest. But beneath the surface, a quiet hum of tension remains—because no matter how many border crossings or miles I pass, Ghost’s name still looms large, and I’m not out of the woods yet.
Chapter 4
Chapter Text
The rain drums relentlessly on the motel’s metal awning, a steady roar that swallows up most other sounds. After a few moments of simply sitting there, I push myself upright, heading for the window. The drab curtains hang limp, half-parted; beyond them lies the sullen glow of the parking lot, dark puddles reflecting dull neon from the VACANCY sign.
My breath fogs the glass. I scan for anything unusual: a vehicle parked too long with its lights off, a silhouette huddled near a wall, any sign of movement in the sheets of rain. Nothing. Just my own jittery reflection and the flicker of a faulty streetlamp across the lot.
I let the curtain fall back. The clock on the nightstand—an ancient LED model—blinks a meaningless 12:00. Must be broken, or unplugged. I check my watch instead. No matter the exact hour, it’s late, and I’m beyond exhausted. Still, my nerves won’t let me rest. Every time I inhale, my lungs feel tight with the suspicion that I’m being watched. Ghost’s presence is like a phantom in my periphery, never confirmed but always looming.
With a sigh, I kneel by my pack on the bed. Gingerly, I undo the zipper and feel around until my fingers brush the edges of a zippered compartment. Inside rests my battered laptop and, more importantly, the flash drive. I hesitate, then pull the laptop out. Might as well see if I can glean any further clues from the data—anything to keep me awake and a step ahead.
I set the laptop on the rickety table near the window, where a lone lamp casts a feeble, yellow glow across the chipped surface. The seat wobbles under me as I ease down, the plastic frame creaking in complaint. My sidearm sits inches away, safety on but within easy reach. That thought alone steadies me.
Booting up takes forever. The old machine whirs, fan sputtering like it might give out at any second. A bead of water drips from the awning outside, tapping against the glass in an irregular rhythm. My pulse syncs with it, each drop a reminder that time is slipping by.
Finally, the screen lights up, bathing my face in pale blues and greys. I plug in the flash drive. As soon as it mounts, I’m assaulted by that same folder structure I’ve been tiptoeing through for days—encrypted files, scattered images, half-deciphered logs referencing Ghost’s name. Each layer I’ve cracked reveals something more twisted: paramilitary deals, blacksite locations, even images of covert meetings. But I still don’t have the full picture.
Tonight, exhaustion makes it hard to think. My vision blurs slightly as I scroll through file after file, scanning for anything new. Nothing stands out. I consider going deeper, trying a new decryption approach, but my eyelids feel like lead. Before I can decide, a noise makes me freeze—a soft shuffle, like footsteps just beyond my door.
Instantly, I kill the laptop screen and flick off the lamp, heart pounding so hard it drowns out the rain. I grab my sidearm, flipping the safety off, and inch toward the door. The chain is in place, but that’s not much of a barrier if someone really wants in.
A beat passes. Another shuffle. My pulse thunders. Through the thin walls, I catch the faint murmur of a voice, then a low laugh. Could be another motel guest. Could be something else. I press my ear to the door, trying to distinguish words, but all I hear is the steady rush of rainfall and muffled conversation.
Then a door somewhere down the row opens, hinges squealing. Footsteps. A moment later, it shuts again, and silence settles. I exhale, forcing my grip to loosen on the gun. Just other guests—probably. The tension in my shoulders doesn’t dissipate, though. The paranoia is too deeply rooted.
I return to the table, but turning the lamp on again feels risky. Instead, I let the laptop’s glow illuminate the screen. No sense diving back into those encrypted files tonight; I’ll only make mistakes if I try. My eyes ache, and the adrenaline spike left me jittery. I save my progress and shut the laptop down, waiting until the fan whirs to a stop.
At least John’s in the next room. That knowledge offers the barest flicker of comfort—if anything does happen, there’s someone within shouting distance. Then again, I still know so little about him. He’s been polite, helpful, but always just vague enough to make me wonder. Friend, foe, or just another traveler? I have no idea.
I stash the laptop, slip out of my boots, and eye the bed. The sheets look clean enough in the half-light. My body aches for real rest, even if my mind rebels at the idea of letting my guard down. The best I can do is a compromise: keep the sidearm on the nightstand, keep one ear open.
Stretched out under the thin blanket, I try to steady my breathing. Rain taps on the window, a constant lullaby that might have been soothing in different circumstances. Every so often, a car passes on the highway, headlights briefly slicing through the gloom. My heart rate refuses to settle.
Then, just as I’m on the brink of uneasy sleep, my phone buzzes from inside my jacket pocket. My entire body goes rigid. No one should be contacting me. My old burner is off—and this is the new phone, which hardly anyone in the world should have the number for. My pulse hammers all over again. Slowly, carefully, I pick it up.
The screen’s glare stings my eyes. An unknown number flashes across it, followed by a short text:
Enjoying your stay?
My blood runs cold. The only reason to send such a message is to let me know I’m being watched—or to toy with me. My stomach twists, a hot flush of anger mixing with dread. Was someone out there just now, listening at my door? Or snapping pictures from the parking lot?
A second message follows before I can even formulate a response:
Time’s running out.
Tremors course through my hands. Every instinct screams at me to throw this phone out the window, or charge into the night to confront whoever sent those words. But that would be reckless, and whoever this is, they thrive on my fear. My mind loops to Ghost, his network, or some new threat I haven’t even identified yet.
I power the phone off, forcing myself to breathe in, then out. Panicking is exactly what they want. Fine. They can know I’m here—I can’t change that. But I won’t give them the satisfaction of a reply. Clutching the sidearm, I slide back beneath the blanket. My heart won’t stop hammering, but I do my best to stay composed.
The motel’s walls feel thinner than ever, and the darkness presses in like a living thing. The rain, that once-familiar rhythm, now seems taunting—an echo of the time slipping through my fingers. Still, I refuse to budge from this spot. Running now, half-cocked and unprepared, would be suicide.
Instead, I lay still, sidearm in reach, eyes locked on the door as though it might burst open. Eventually, exhaustion starts to weigh me down, my muscles turning leaden. My thoughts blur together—a swirl of Ghost’s name, the threatening messages, and the knowledge that John is just one door away. Maybe two hours pass, maybe more. I slip in and out of light dozing, mind never fully at rest.
But I survive the night, listening to the rain and waiting for dawn to break. By the time the first grey light creeps around the edges of the curtains, I’m already sitting up, jacket on, gun stowed in my pack. One more night behind me, one more morning in this game of cat and mouse. And I’m still breathing.
Now, it’s time to decide the next move. And whatever that is, it’ll bring me one step closer to Vienna—or one step closer to whoever just sent me that message.
Dawn seeps into the motel room in a smear of grey light, chasing away the worst shadows of the night. I’ve been awake for what feels like hours, perched on the edge of the bed with my pack at my feet. The sidearm is tucked into a hidden pocket inside the bag, easily reachable if things go south. My nerves still hum with the memory of those text messages, each threatening line etched behind my eyelids.
Outside, the rain has dwindled to a halfhearted drizzle. Through the thin walls, I hear a muffled TV—someone catching the morning news, maybe—and the slow shuffle of footsteps in the corridor. My watch shows it’s nearly six, the time John mentioned for the next bus. If I want to make it to Vienna before the trail grows any hotter, I need to move.
I stand, one hand braced on the wobbly table, and take a final scan of the room. Nothing looks disturbed. No new messages on my phone—the one I powered off after the late-night threats. My heartbeat thrums a steady tattoo in my chest. Time to go.
When I open the door, I’m greeted by a dull, overcast sky and the hiss of tires on wet pavement. The motel’s neon sign still flickers, a ghostly reflection wavering in puddles along the walkway. I pull my hood up against the drizzle and make for the small patch of parking lot that doubles as a bus stop. A handful of travelers, huddled beneath umbrellas or jackets, gather by a rusted signpost that presumably marks where the bus will pull in.
John is easy to spot—broad-shouldered and upright despite the early hour, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. He’s talking quietly with a pair of older women who look exhausted from yesterday’s journey. Catching sight of me, he offers a slight nod. We don’t exchange smiles—it’s too early, and we’re both too worn for pleasantries—but the simple acknowledgment feels almost reassuring.
“Morning,” he says when I’m close enough to hear. Rain beads on his buzzed hair and glistens on the scar near his temple.
“Something like that,” I reply, my voice still hoarse from a sleepless night. I glance around, scanning the lot for anything or anyone out of place. Some battered sedans idle near the motel’s office, but none strike me as suspicious. No figures lurking in doorways this time. Still, I can’t shake the sense that eyes are on me.
The older women shuffle off to stand closer to the signpost, leaving John and me in the thin shelter of the motel’s overhang. “You get any sleep?” he asks, tone neutral.
“Enough,” I lie. No point explaining my midnight phone messages. If he’s trustworthy, I don’t want to put a target on his back; if he isn’t… well, I’m not about to reveal my weak spots.
He nods, lips pursed as though weighing whether to press further. In the end, he just gestures to his watch. “Bus should be here any minute. We’re headed east—driver last night said it takes about five hours to reach the next big station.”
I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets to hide their slight tremor. “Let’s hope we don’t get delayed.”
A squeal of brakes pulls our attention. The bus appears, headlights cutting through the mist, water spraying from its tires. It’s no better than the last one—scratched paint, a dented panel near the rear wheel—but it’ll do. We fall in line with the other passengers, shoulders hunched against the wet morning.
Boarding is quick. The driver mumbles a greeting, taking tickets with a half-lidded expression that speaks of too many hours on the road. John and I find seats near the middle, me by the window again, him on the aisle. Outside, the motel recedes into the drizzle, just another grim waystation left behind.
The bus lurches into motion, the interior lights flickering. I keep my hood up, face angled away from the aisle, scanning the other passengers for anything out of the ordinary—an unblinking stare, a hand hovering over a phone. Nothing jumps out. For now, we might be safe, or at least not in immediate danger.
John settles in, arms crossed. He doesn’t say much, and I’m grateful for the silence. My thoughts churn with possible scenarios. Whoever texted me knows I’m traveling, and they know I spent the night in that motel. The question is: are they on this bus? Or waiting at the next station? The hair on my neck prickles at the possibility.
The engine’s rumble intensifies as we merge onto the main road, leaving the rain-soaked parking lot behind. Another leg of the journey. Another chance for Ghost—or whoever he’s got working for him—to close in.
I rest my elbow against the window, forehead against the cold glass. My reflection is a pale blur. Every mile is a victory, I remind myself, no matter how minor. I made it through the night. I’m still holding onto the flash drive. And I’m still on course for Vienna, a city that might offer a final chance to pass off this intel and finally get Ghost’s shadow off my back.
I tighten my hold on my pack. Rain hammers on the roof, drowning out most other noises. In my peripheral vision, John shifts, glancing my way. Maybe he wonders why I’m so tense. Or maybe he’s got secrets of his own. Either way, I’m in too deep to trust anyone fully. Not yet.
So I watch the foggy countryside roll by and do what I’ve done every day since this nightmare began: count each breath, each pulse, each minute without incident, and pray it continues until I reach the next stop on the road to Vienna.
We ride in silence as the bus pushes east through drizzle-soaked roads, the scenery outside melting into a blur of grey. Now and again, the tires jolt over potholes, making the cabin shudder and a few passengers mutter under their breath. I grip the edge of my seat, nerves on a slow burn, mind replaying that text message from last night—Enjoying your stay?—over and over. I can’t decide if it was just a taunt or a genuine warning, but either way, it tells me I’m under a microscope.
John sits beside me, gaze flicking between the rain-streaked window and the center aisle. He doesn’t talk much, and I’m fine with that—my thoughts are busy enough. There’s a tension to his posture, though, like he’s keeping watch. Sometimes he drums his fingertips against his leg, a soft, restless staccato that nearly syncs with the bus’s rattling. If he notices my sideways glances, he doesn’t let on.
A few more stops come and go—small towns where a person or two steps off, or a handful climb aboard. Each time the doors hiss open, my pulse spikes. I watch closely, sizing up anyone who boards. The possibility that Ghost’s people could just waltz in and take a seat behind me feels all too real. But the passengers are uniformly exhausted-looking locals, retirees with heavy coats and battered suitcases, or younger travelers exchanging weary nods. No one stands out as a threat—or at least, no one makes a show of it.
Sometime in mid-afternoon, the driver announces a longer stop at a roadside café. “Thirty minutes, then we head on,” he mumbles through the speaker, his voice crackling. Rain’s let up to a fine mist by now, though the sky remains iron-grey. John and I join the slow shuffle off the bus. I hook my pack over a shoulder, not daring to leave it behind. The air outside is damp and chilly, prickling across my skin.
The café is a squat, neon-lit building clinging to the edge of the highway. Muddy tire tracks crisscross the parking lot, and a couple of long-haul trucks idle nearby, engines rumbling. A glow of fluorescent light spills onto wet concrete through the café’s windows, reflecting dingy pastel menus and a row of empty barstools. The smell of frying grease rolls over me the moment I step in.
John and I slip into a booth near the door, a vantage that lets me watch whoever comes and goes. He sets his phone on the table, then pulls a laminated menu from behind a napkin holder. “Figured some hot food might help,” he says quietly, scanning the listings of burgers, eggs, and questionable soup.
I nod, though I’m not sure my stomach can handle much. The tension coiling in my gut never truly went away after last night. Still, I skim the menu if only to keep from obsessing over the door. Outside, the drizzle slides down the windows in translucent sheets, blurring the view of the parking lot and the bus parked at an angle. I make out a few other passengers—mostly older folks—hobbling in behind us.
A waitress in a stained apron approaches, notepad in hand. John orders something that involves eggs and black coffee. I stick to coffee alone, forcing a polite smile. As soon as she leaves, I lean forward, lowering my voice. “We’ll be switching buses again, right?”
He tilts his head. “Likely. Closest main station isn’t too far from here, if the schedule’s right.” The look in his eye suggests he knows there’s more behind my question, but he doesn’t press. “After that, I’ll figure my next move.”
I offer a vague nod, my mind already on the next leg of travel. That’s the pattern now, always one step ahead, always scanning for signs of a tail. If I can reach Vienna, maybe this cat-and-mouse nightmare will finally slow down—or at least pass the burden of the flash drive onto someone more equipped to handle the fallout.
When our orders come, I wrap my hands around the steaming mug of coffee, letting the warmth bleed into my fingers. John picks at his meal, not devouring it the way someone with real hunger might. The same restlessness that haunted him on the bus lingers now, an undercurrent of focus that sets my nerves humming in sympathy.
Every so often, the door chimes, and I flick my gaze up, heart pounding. Just tired travelers, a couple of truckers, a mother juggling a crying toddler. No skull-mask, no hardened operative stepping inside with a gun under their coat—at least, not obviously. Yet the anxiety never fully eases. My phone is still powered off, a silent weight in my jacket pocket, and I’m glad for it. No more ominous texts. For now.
After a few bites, John checks his watch. “Better not linger too long,” he says, nodding toward the bus. Already, the driver is pacing beside it, lighting a cigarette and eyeing us through the café windows.
I toss a few bills on the table, ignoring the half-full coffee mug and John’s worried glance. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Outside, the drizzle has turned back into a patter of rain. We hurry across the lot, heads down against the wet. One by one, passengers climb back into the bus, bearing the smells of fried food and cheap coffee. As John and I settle back into our seats, I try to calm my pounding heart. Another checkpoint cleared, another half-hour survived.
The driver stubs out his cigarette, boards, and slams the door. With a heave of the engine, we roll onto the highway again. I wipe rainwater from my hood, angle myself to the window, and let my mind churn over possibilities. Every second is both a curse and a gift—more time for Ghost to close in, or more time for me to inch closer to Vienna.
I guess I’ll find out which it is soon enough.
We’ve been back on the road for less than an hour when the bus lurches around a sharp bend, tossing me against the window. I push myself upright, annoyed at how tense my muscles are—like I’m expecting the worst at any second. Outside, sheets of rain streak the glass, the weather as dismal as my mood. I catch a glimpse of evergreen trees passing in a blur of dark green and grey.
John is beside me, as he’s been for hours now, seemingly lost in thought as he drums his fingertips on his thigh. Despite the occasional small talk, there’s been an air of something unspoken—a current of restlessness in the way he sits, in the way his eyes flick over every new passenger who boards, in how he never fully settles.
I’m just beginning to wonder if I should switch seats at the next stop when he abruptly twists toward me, his face calm—but his eyes sharp.
“Lass,” he says in a low voice, “I’m gonna need you to hand over that flash drive.”
I blink, my pulse stuttering. Immediately, my fight-or-flight instincts roar to life. I try to feign ignorance, forcing my expression into careful neutrality. “I— What are you talking ab—”
Before I can finish, he shifts in his seat, drawing a handgun from inside his jacket with unsettling smoothness. The barrel points directly at my ribs, hidden from view by the back of the seat in front of us, but close enough that I can’t mistake the threat.
“Don’t play daft,” John mutters, voice barely above the rumble of the bus engine. “Ghost has eyes everywhere, and he’s done waiting.” His accent thickens, and that single word—“lass”—turns from friendly nickname to a warning laced with steel. “So let’s keep it quiet, aye?”
My blood runs cold. I glance around. The bus is full enough that I can’t risk a scuffle without drawing attention—attention that might end with a stray bullet hitting an innocent passenger… or me. Outside, the rain smears the world into a grey haze. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
I force myself to breathe, lifting my hands in a slow, placating gesture. “John,” I say quietly, “you don’t have to do this.”
He gives a short, humourless laugh. “Aye, I do.” He angles the gun fractionally closer. “Now, the drive. Slip it out of that pack and pass it to me.”
My mind races. My sidearm is stowed inside my bag, out of reach. The flash drive is in a hidden zippered compartment, but it won’t take him long to find it if he forces me to open everything. A few rows ahead, an old man dozes against the window, oblivious. A young mother and her child are seated behind us, headphones on, missing every word.
“I… fine.” My voice shakes, but I try to steady it. “Just don’t hurt anyone, okay?”
John’s expression is grim. “Give me no reason to.”
With my free hand, I unzip the top pocket of my pack, fishing around as though I’m retrieving the drive. In truth, I’m stalling—my mind already forming a desperate plan. My old phone is in there, powered off, but that’s no use. My only real weapon is the surprise factor and a scrap of nerve.
I grab the small black case that holds my laptop cables, using my body to block his view. Slowly, I tug it out, making it look like I’m fumbling for the drive. John’s gaze narrows; he’s tense, finger resting along the trigger guard. One wrong move and he could fire. I need perfect timing.
The bus hits a pothole. The entire vehicle bounces, passengers jolting in their seats. It happens so fast that John’s focus wavers—his arm shifts to keep steady, the muzzle dipping for a fraction of a second.
I seize that instant.
With a swift jerk, I slam my elbow into his forearm, aiming to knock the gun aside. He curses under his breath, fighting to keep his grip, but the jostling bus helps me. The weapon angles downward—and I use my other hand to push the seat in front of me hard, trapping his gun arm momentarily between the seat and my own body.
“Bloody hell,” he growls, struggling to yank free.
I don’t give him the chance. Twisting, I lunge toward the aisle, snagging my pack with me. John tries to grab the back of my jacket, but the bus’s lurching movement throws him off-balance again. One of the passengers—startled by our abrupt commotion—looks over, brow furrowed, but he’s more confused than alarmed.
John regains enough composure to bring the gun up again, but there’s now a seat back between us. “Don’t move!” he hisses.
I duck low in the aisle, heart hammering. If he fires now, half the bus will see. A shot will reverberate in this tight space, and chaos will erupt. Even John must realize how risky that is. For a second, we stare each other down between the rows of seats: me crouched in the aisle, him pinned in place, gun still aimed in my direction but with a seat blockading a clean shot.
Passengers shift restlessly, sensing tension without fully understanding its source. Some side-eyes flick our way. The driver is oblivious up front, fiddling with the radio knobs.
My chance to bolt is now. I shove myself upward, gripping the overhead luggage rack to stabilize. In one motion, I slam my knee into the seat in front of John. The seatback jolts him backward, arm wedged awkwardly again. He snarls in pain.
A flash of fear crosses my mind: if he gets loose too quickly, he might fire wildly. But I can’t wait. I dart toward the front of the bus, ignoring startled yelps from other passengers. At the head of the aisle, I yank the bell cord—a signal usually for city buses, but I’m praying the driver will stop or at least slow, confused by the alarm.
John wrenches himself free behind me, shouting. “Hey! Stop her!”
But nobody moves to help him; they’re too shocked, and he still has a gun in his hand, half-concealed. Instead of confronting me, they recoil in fear. That’s enough hesitation for me to reach the driver’s seat, where I grab his shoulder.
“Stop the bus!” I bark, my voice trembling with urgency. “He’s got a gun!”
The driver’s eyes widen—he slams the brakes by pure reflex, squealing the tires on wet asphalt. Bodies lurch forward with the momentum. John, halfway down the aisle, stumbles but keeps his gun. I know I have only a split-second advantage.
As the bus screeches to a halt, the door hisses open automatically. I leap down the steps, nearly crashing onto the slick road. Rain assaults my face, and the cold air sucks the breath from my lungs. I spin, peering into the bus’s open door.
John is inside, furious and torn. He can’t just gun me down in front of all these witnesses. Some passengers scream; others scramble to the back. My eyes lock with his. For a moment, I see the conflict written on his face—he wants that drive, but there are too many eyes, too much chaos.
“Lass!” he shouts. “You’ll regret this. Ghost won’t let you run forever!”
I grit my teeth, chest heaving. “Tell Ghost he can try.”
Then I bolt. Rain slicks the road, and cars honk, swerving around the halted bus. I sprint down the shoulder, pack slamming against my spine. My heart feels like it’s about to tear free of my chest, adrenaline surging. Behind me, I hear the bus door slam shut and the driver shouting, but I don’t look back.
All I can do is run—away from John, away from Ghost’s looming shadow—and pray that I’ll find another way to reach Vienna and pass off this damned flash drive. The downpour soaks me in seconds, but it also cloaks me from sight. I veer into a thicket of trees at the edge of the highway, breath ragged, pulse roaring in my ears.
Somewhere, footsteps might be chasing. But for now, I’m alive, and I still have the intel that Ghost wants so badly. One more narrow escape. One more promise to myself that I’ll end this, no matter what it takes.
I keep running until my lungs burn and my legs threaten to buckle. Only then, in the murky shelter of dripping pines, do I glance back—no sign of John, no sign of the bus, just my ragged breaths echoing in the gloom.
Shaking water from my face, I clutch the pack tight. Another brush with death. But I’m still standing, still holding the flash drive. For now, that’s victory enough. Ghost’s reach is long, but I’m not beaten yet.
Chapter 5
Chapter Text
My lungs burn as I press deeper into the trees, leaves and pine needles tangling underfoot. The downpour thrashes the canopy overhead, dripping cold rivulets down my face and neck. Every ragged breath sounds deafening in my ears, competing with the steady roar of passing traffic on the highway behind me.
I can’t stop yet. My entire body trembles with adrenaline, but I force myself to keep moving, deeper into the shadows where John—if he’s still on my trail—won’t spot me from the road. A sharp ache radiates along my side where the pack thumps against bruised ribs. Getting slammed around on the bus didn’t do me any favors.
Finally, I find a small clearing—a pocket of relative calm beneath the rain-soaked branches. I crouch against a fallen log, struggling to steady my breath. My heart is pounding so hard it’s making me lightheaded.
John pulled a gun on me.
That thought alone is enough to kick the adrenaline back up a notch. I can still picture his steely stare, the barrel aimed at my ribs, that single word on his lips: Lass. The friendly tone he used earlier is gone, replaced by the cold certainty of a man who’d do whatever it takes to collect his payday. Ghost’s payday.
I grit my teeth. Ghost—some shadow I’ve never even spoken to—nearly got me killed back there. That bullet might’ve been for me if the bus hadn’t lurched at just the right moment. But here I am, drenched and alone, clinging to the flash drive everyone seems to want.
All right, focus. My breath rasps in the damp air. I need a plan. The bus is out of the question—no way I can go back without walking straight into John or the local authorities, and who knows if they’re in Ghost’s pocket. For all I know, John’s out there right now, scanning the roadside for any sign of me.
I brush rainwater from my eyes and mentally piece together my next move.
Get out of this forest without being spotted: If John is still on the highway, I need another route. Maybe I can circle around, find a back road or a side path.
Secure new transportation: Hitchhiking is risky—especially now that Ghost’s people have my description. But I can’t hoof it to Vienna. It’s too far.
Contact my handler: My phone is probably compromised—especially after those creepy texts. But maybe I can find a burner at a gas station or convenience store, something John and Ghost aren’t expecting me to use.
A low rumble of thunder in the distance jolts me from my thoughts. The wind picks up, shaking branches overhead, and water splashes onto my shoulders. I have to move. Staying in one place only gives John more time to find me.
I sling my pack tight against my back, wincing at the flare of pain in my side. Each step through the undergrowth is clumsy, my boots skidding on slippery ground. Once I’m confident the road is masked by a thick belt of pines, I steer east—away from the highway. With any luck, there’ll be a side road or service path that runs parallel.
The minutes drag on, punctuated by the drip of water through leaves and the hammer of my own heartbeat. Gradually, the forest thins, the tree line receding to reveal muddy ground pocked with rocks and low shrubs. I crouch low, peering through the gloom. A narrow dirt track cuts through the undergrowth, slick with rain. It’s not much, but it’s a start.
I follow it, nerves flayed raw. Every rustle of branches sounds like footsteps, every crack of a twig sets my pulse racing. Twice, I spin around, convinced I hear someone behind me—but there’s no one, just dripping leaves and the hiss of the rainfall. Paranoia is good, I remind myself, paranoia keeps you breathing.
Eventually, the dirt path curves, meeting a small, disused roadway that looks like it might connect to the main highway further down. My breath catches. A single streetlamp stands at the intersection, flickering with feeble light. Beneath it, there’s a battered sign in a language I barely understand—maybe directions to the nearest town. That’s something.
Decision time: Risk heading for the town and hope John hasn’t gotten there first? Or keep off the grid entirely? My next contact in Vienna is out of reach unless I find transport. I clench my teeth, shivering in my soaked clothes. I need a place to dry off, regroup—somewhere I won’t stand out.
Despite the fear gnawing at my gut, I push onward toward the sign. If I linger, I’ll freeze out here, or worse, be found by Ghost’s associates. The narrow road curves downhill, water sluicing across its surface, and I slip once, landing hard on one knee. Pain flares, and I curse under my breath.
When I straighten, I spot headlights in the distance—two or three vehicles, maybe, traveling on a road a few hundred meters away. Could be local farm traffic, or maybe a small settlement ahead. I press myself flat to a tree trunk, letting the cars pass before edging closer. The faint glow of civilization—lampposts, maybe a small cluster of buildings—shimmers through the rain.
It’s not big. Doesn’t look like more than a handful of structures. But it’s my best shot at covering ground and possibly hitching some kind of ride. If John shows up, well, I’ll have to improvise again. At least I’m not on a confined bus this time.
Cautiously, I approach the outskirts—a couple of ramshackle houses, a store with a handwritten sign in its fogged window. The place appears half-deserted, likely another roadside pit stop for truckers who can’t make it to the next major town. My heart thuds painfully. This is risky as hell, but the alternative is stumbling through the forest at night, half-dead from cold.
A single, flickering overhead lamp illuminates the store’s entrance. Through the glass, I see a bored-looking clerk leaning on the counter. The place might have cheap phones, or at least a pay phone—one I can use without leaving a digital footprint. I exhale, trying to calm the tremor in my hands.
Before stepping inside, I glance around the street—only a lone sedan parked by a shabby-looking bar, the driver nowhere in sight. No sign of John, or any black SUVs full of Ghost’s henchmen. Yet.
I push open the door, and a bell jingles. The clerk straightens, eyes flicking over my soaked clothes and bedraggled hair. I mutter a greeting in a butchered attempt at the local language, then move toward a rack of electronics by the back wall. A row of prepaid phones, each sealed in plastic, stares back at me. They’re cheap, outdated models—but that suits me just fine.
I grab one, plus a SIM card pack. At the counter, the clerk rings it up, more interested in his phone screen than in me. I pay in cash, stammering thanks. He slides the bag across without making small talk. Perfect.
Stepping back out into the drizzle, I’m relieved—though not by much. I still need a place to power up and activate this phone discreetly, then call my contact in Vienna. Maybe I can find a corner in that bar or a closed-off alley nearby. Just keep moving, I tell myself. One step at a time.
As I turn the corner, footsteps crunch on gravel behind me. My heart clamps in my chest. Every muscle tenses. But when I glance back, it’s just an elderly couple, sharing an umbrella as they shuffle toward the store. I breathe out, my pulse still galloping.
The night is falling faster now, the sky thick with storm clouds. I’d guess it’s near dusk, though the rain makes it hard to tell. My clothes cling to me like a second skin, cold and uncomfortable. If I don’t find shelter soon, I’ll be shivering too hard to think straight.
A sign across the road catches my eye: “Rooms” scrawled in chipped paint on a battered plank. Looks like someone’s version of a bed-and-breakfast, or maybe a hostel. It’s not much, but it’ll have a roof and four walls. I press my lips together, scanning for any sign of a trap. No suspicious cars. No silhouettes lurking in corners. If John or Ghost’s people are here, they’re hiding well.
I jog across the puddle-ridden street, each splash of water making me shudder. My footsteps echo as I approach the door—a simple, wooden affair with a small handwritten note: Ring bell for service. Gingerly, I push it open. A dim foyer greets me, walls painted in peeling pastel. A stained counter sits at the far end, next to a door that presumably leads into the living quarters.
Breath quivering, I ring the bell. One step at a time. If I can just get a room for the night, dry off, load up this new phone in private, and figure out the next move to Vienna, maybe—just maybe—I’ll stay ahead of John and Ghost.
It’s a gamble. But everything’s been a gamble since I laid hands on that cursed flash drive.
Somewhere, a lock clicks. A middle-aged woman appears, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She offers a wary smile, eyeing my drenched state. I swallow my nerves. Here we go.
“Just need a room,” I manage, showing a bit of cash. My voice sounds hollow in my own ears.
She hesitates, then nods. “Of course. Follow me.”
I cast one last glance over my shoulder before the door closes behind me. The street is empty, the drizzle relentless. No sign of John. No sign of rescue. Just me, my stolen moment of safety, and the knowledge that time is running out with every step Ghost’s network takes in pursuit.
I bite my lip, stepping inside. For now, this is enough—shelter from the storm, a chance to catch my breath, a new phone in hand. Tomorrow, the clock resumes its countdown, and I’ll fight another day to keep Ghost at bay.
The woman leads me down a narrow corridor, the walls painted in that same faded pastel—once cheerful, now dulled by time and neglect. Our footsteps echo on warped floorboards, and I catch the faint smell of mustiness mixed with a hint of cooking onions—maybe her dinner left unattended. At the end of the hall, she stops by a door with chipped paint and produces a key from the pocket of her apron.
“Here,” she says, unlocking the door. Her English is halting, but clear enough. She flicks on a bare overhead bulb, revealing a tiny room crammed with a narrow bed, a battered dresser, and a small table in the corner. A single window overlooks the rain-soaked street.
I step inside, water still dripping from my hood. The bed creaks ominously when I brush it with my knee, and the entire place smells faintly of damp. But after today’s chaos, it might as well be a five-star suite.
“You stay?” she asks, voice uncertain.
“Just for the night,” I manage, patting my damp jacket pocket to indicate the cash. “Thank you.”
She nods, sets the key on the dresser, and quietly closes the door behind her. The latch clicks, leaving me alone in the stale warmth. For a long moment, I just stand there, letting the hush settle. My pulse thuds in my ears, adrenaline still flaring whenever I picture John’s gun. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to banish the memory.
I’m safe. For now. That’s the best I can say. Ghost’s network might be vast, but this nameless little hostel in the backwoods of nowhere doesn’t exactly scream “obvious target.” Still, I can’t drop my guard. They found me once; they can find me again.
I shrug off my soaked jacket and sling it over the rickety chair, then set my pack on the table. My clothes cling to my skin, and I shiver in the chilly air. First order of business: warm up. Second: secure the phone. Third: figure out where to go from here.
I spot a small radiator near the window—turned off, but hopefully functional. Twisting the knob, I hear it rattle to life. A faint groan suggests ancient plumbing, but at least it’s trying to heat. Next, I rummage in my pack for a towel. My fingers brush the battered laptop, the old phone, and the plastic-wrapped burner I just bought. All the instruments of my ongoing nightmare.
Once I’ve toweled off as best I can, I trade my sodden shirt for a spare from the bottom of the pack. The rest of me is still damp and uncomfortable, but at least I’m not freezing. I drape the wet clothes near the radiator and flick the overhead light off, leaving just the soft glow of a table lamp. I don’t want to announce my presence more than I have to.
Time to see if this phone works.
Peeling open the cheap plastic packaging, I slide out the burner phone and the SIM card. My hands still tremble slightly—blood sugar crash, exhaustion, leftover adrenaline—but I force them steady enough to punch out the SIM and install it. The device lights up with a generic splash screen, prompting me through setup in halting translations.
While it boots, I check the window again. Beyond the rain-streaked glass, the little street is dim, the only light coming from a flickering lamppost and a sign across the way—some kind of bar, I assume, though it’s hard to read in the gloom. No cars pass. No footsteps, no silhouettes under umbrellas. Good.
When the phone finally finishes setup, I kill the overhead lamp, letting the screen’s faint glow guide me. Next step: contact my handler. The number’s committed to memory, but I hesitate. If John’s still on the prowl, or if Ghost’s people are scanning for signals in the area, the call might tip them off. Still, I need instructions, and I need them soon.
I press the phone to my ear after the first ring, heart kicking in my chest. One ring… two… three… four… pick up, damn it.
A click. Then a strained whisper: “Who is this?”
“It’s me.” I keep my voice barely above a breath, fear coiled tight in my gut. “I…I need help.”
A pause. “Are you compromised?”
My throat tightens. “Almost. Someone tried to take the drive. I lost my ride. I’m—” I glance around the tiny room. “I’m off the main route now.”
I hear rustling on the other end, like my handler’s moving to a more private spot. “All right. Breathe. Tell me your location.”
The question makes my stomach twist. Do I even know where I am? I rub condensation from the window, peering out for any clue. “Some small town off the highway. Signs are in—” I mention the partial name I saw on the battered road sign earlier.
A muffled curse on the other end. “That’s well off-course. You’ll have to move soon. Are you armed?”
I think of John’s gun, of my own sidearm tucked away in the pack. “Yes,” I say simply.
“All right. Listen closely: there’s a train route about thirty kilometers north, near the border. If you can get there, you can slip into the rail system. It’s not heavily patrolled, but it’s also not safe for long. Once you’re across, get to Vienna—try the western station. Our contact can meet you at midday, two days from now.”
“Two days,” I echo, pressing fingers to my temple. My muscles ache just imagining the journey. But at least it’s a plan. “Where exactly in the station?”
Static crackles. “There’s a café on the lower level—Hall C. Name’s in German, can’t miss it. Be there.”
I open my mouth to ask more, but the line cuts off abruptly. Silence. Did they hang up or lose signal? The phone still shows a faint signal bar. My breath trembles in the emptiness. Two days to cross at least one border, possibly more. Thirty kilometers to the train line. And John—plus whoever else Ghost sends—is out there, possibly zeroing in on me.
I power the phone off. I can’t risk leaving it on in case someone’s tracking. Setting it aside, I sag into the lone chair, letting the hum of the radiator and the patter of rain anchor me back to reality.
All right, I think. One night here. At dawn, I need to move.
Though I’m desperate to keep watch, my body protests—aching legs and that bruise on my side insist I rest. I check the door’s lock and realize with a grimace there’s only a flimsy chain. It’ll have to do. I wedge the chair under the knob for extra measure, rigging a quick alarm system with an empty glass set precariously on the seat. If someone tries to force the door, the glass should crash to the floor and wake me. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.
Then I slump onto the bed. The springs squeak, but it holds. My eyelids droop, exhaustion pulling at me like a riptide. Just a couple hours, I tell myself. I’ll be gone by first light.
As I close my eyes, the images of John’s betrayal flicker behind my lids—his voice turned cold, the muzzle of that gun aimed at my ribcage. Ghost’s threat echoes too, that intangible presence looming over me like a storm cloud. Part of me wants to quake in fear, but another part stokes the embers of rage. They took me for easy prey, but I’m still alive, still holding that damned flash drive.
They won’t get me without a fight.
Outside, the rain shifts to a steady downpour, lulling me like a grim lullaby. My muscles loosen, breath evening out at last. Beneath the dull throbbing of bruises and the persistent chill in my bones, a spark of determination burns. I hold onto it as I slip into the uneasy embrace of sleep, because come morning, I’ll need every ounce of resolve to survive whatever Ghost throws my way next.
A fitful sleep clings to me like a heavy net, thick with ominous dreams of narrow bus aisles and the glint of John’s gun. Despite my exhaustion, I bolt awake at the faint creak of the floorboards, heart drumming against my ribcage. The dull grey of dawn filters through the window, illuminating the cramped room. For a frozen moment, I expect the door to burst open, but nothing happens. No footsteps, no crash of the glass perched on the chair. Just the echo of my own panicked breath.
Slowly, I peel myself away from the bed, limbs protesting every movement. My side aches from a blossoming bruise, and my face feels puffy with sleep. Outside, the rain has settled into a quiet drizzle, dripping from the eaves to form small puddles along the street. It’s barely light, but I don’t have the luxury of lingering. Two days to reach that train line. Thirty kilometers between me and any real chance of safety.
A glance at the chair under the doorknob confirms it’s undisturbed—the glass balancing precariously on the seat is still intact. I exhale a shaky breath and peel off the makeshift alarm. In the weak morning light, the peeling wallpaper looks even more tired, and the radiator is still clicking and rattling, trying to keep the small room warm.
I gather my things quickly, keeping an ear out for voices or footsteps in the corridor. My damp clothes from last night are still cold to the touch, so I settle on a compromise: I’ll layer my driest shirt underneath the wet jacket. Less than ideal, but everything else is equally soaked. At least my boots, stuffed with a bit of newspaper from the night before, are mostly dry.
From the bedside table, I scoop up the burner phone. Powered off. That’s how it’ll remain for now. No telling if Ghost—or anyone else—has resources to track my signal. The battered laptop stays in my pack, along with the flash drive, still tucked in its secret compartment. My sidearm is loaded and stowed in an inside pocket, within easy reach.
The corridor is silent as I ease the door open. Not a single creak from the old building’s bones. At the far end, the entrance to the reception area is propped open just a crack, letting in a slice of grey daylight. Somewhere, a radio plays softly—some local station, the language lilting and unfamiliar.
I slip out, wincing at each squeak of the floorboards under my weight. The place smells faintly of brewed coffee and stale cigarette smoke. No sign of the woman who rented me the room. Maybe she’s in the kitchen or out running errands—either way, I’m grateful not to have to explain my hasty departure.
Just outside, the drizzle hits my hood with a soft patter. The cold nips at my nose, but I welcome the bracing air. My breath fogs as I scan the quiet street. A single battered truck idles by the curb, the driver fiddling with something in the glove box, but he doesn’t look up. No one else seems to be around. No sign of John or any other watchers. Still, I don’t let my guard down.
I tug my hood lower and set off along the edge of the road, boots squishing on wet gravel. There’s no sidewalk—just a narrow strip of dirt that’s turned to mud. The plan is simple if not foolproof: find a route heading north, avoid main highways if I can, and hope to slip onto the train line unseen. It’s not a brilliant plan, but it’s the only one I have.
A shiver runs up my spine as a gust of wind slices through my damp jacket. My side throbs in dull protest. I push it all aside and pick up my pace, scanning the area for any sign of a ride. Hitchhiking here, where no one knows me, could be risky, but trudging thirty kilometers on foot in the cold rain is near impossible.
Rounding a bend in the street, I spot a small diner with peeling paint and a neon sign that’s half-burnt out. A couple of trucks are parked haphazardly in front, the engines still warm, sending faint curls of exhaust into the damp air. My pulse speeds up. If I’m lucky, maybe I can sweet-talk or barter a ride out of one of these drivers. If I’m unlucky… well, there’s always my sidearm.
I step inside, a waft of frying grease and coffee hitting me full force. The interior is cramped, four or five tables scattered around, half of them occupied by truckers hunched over plates of eggs. A lone waitress moves between them, balancing a coffee pot. They all glance up when I enter, then return to their meals without much interest.
Pulling my hood back, I approach the counter. The waitress, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, offers a polite nod. “Coffee?” she asks in accented English.
“Sure,” I say, voice rasping. “Thanks.” My eyes flick over the patrons. Two men in heavy jackets talk quietly at a corner table. Another man sits alone at the counter, reading a paper and sipping from a chipped mug. None of them look particularly friendly or hostile—just road-weary. I swallow hard and force my shoulders to relax.
The waitress hands me a steaming cup. I wrap my fingers around it, letting the warmth settle some of the trembling in my hands. “You, uh… know if anyone’s heading north?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual.
She shrugs. “Everyone’s heading somewhere. North is farmland. Few hours away, maybe. Ask around?”
I nod, nursing the coffee. It’s strong and a little burnt, but it’s hot, and that’s good enough for me. The lone man at the counter sets his paper down, regarding me over his mug. He has deep-set eyes and a thick beard peppered with grey. The jacket he wears bears the faded logo of a hauling company. A trucker, I’m guessing.
“Looking for a ride?” he asks, voice low.
My pulse kicks up. “Might be. I’m trying to get closer to the border.”
He tilts his head. “Not much out there but fields and train tracks.”
“Works for me,” I reply, taking another sip to hide my nerves.
He eyes me a moment longer, then shrugs. “I can take you as far as the junction. About an hour’s drive. After that, I’m heading west.”
An hour’s drive north could shave off a good chunk of distance. I try not to let relief show too clearly on my face. “That’d be great,” I manage, keeping my voice steady. “I can chip in for gas or… whatever you need.”
He waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Name’s Dirk.”
I give him a name—it doesn’t matter which alias, so long as it’s consistent. He nods, finishing the last of his coffee in one gulp. “I’m rolling out in five,” he says, sliding a few bills onto the counter. With a nod to the waitress, he turns on his heel and heads for the door.
My heart thrums. Is this good fortune, or a setup? Dirk doesn’t strike me as one of Ghost’s men—he’s too unassuming, too weary. Then again, I’ve been fooled before. But time is against me, and walking isn’t an option.
I drain my cup, leaving a little extra money for the waitress, then follow Dirk outside. The drizzle thickens, beading on my hood. Dirk’s truck is an older model, battered but sturdy-looking. He tosses his paper onto the passenger seat, nudges an empty fast-food bag aside, and gestures for me to hop in.
The cab smells like cold leather and stale fries. My stomach twists with anxiety as I settle in, hugging my pack. Dirk climbs behind the wheel, turning the engine over with a cough and a roar. For a moment, we just sit there, the defrost blowing fog off the windshield.
“You got somewhere in mind?” he asks, pulling the truck into gear.
“There’s a rail line north of here,” I say, voice tight. “Figure I’ll hop a train the rest of the way.”
He makes a noncommittal sound and guides the truck onto the road. The wipers thump rhythmically, clearing a path through the grey drizzle. The town slides away behind us, replaced by sprawling fields and crooked fences. My gaze flicks to the side mirror every so often, watching for any sign of a trailing vehicle. Nothing yet.
Dirk doesn’t ask many questions, and I don’t volunteer details. Occasionally he makes small talk about the roads, the weather, some hailstorm that hit a few weeks back. I nod politely, scanning every passing car for trouble. Still no sign of John or anyone else giving chase. A flicker of hope sparks—maybe I really did slip the net.
Half an hour later, the fields give way to patches of scrubby woodland, and the road narrows. Dirk slows the truck, peering through the windshield. “I think this is the junction coming up,” he says, clearing his throat. “Another mile or two. Then I’ll turn west.”
Relief unfurls in my chest. I press my hand against my pack, feeling the faint bulk of the flash drive within. “Thanks,” I manage. “Really, I appreciate it.”
He shrugs. “No problem, kid. Just watch yourself out there. Some folks… well, they ain’t so kind.”
I clamp my jaw, recalling John’s cold stare. “I know.”
Not two minutes later, Dirk eases the truck onto a gravel shoulder. Beyond the windshield, an intersecting lane stretches north, a sign pointing to farmland and a small arrow for the railway. I can’t see tracks from here, but they can’t be far.
I unbuckle, tucking the new phone carefully into my jacket. “Thanks again,” I say softly.
He gives me a curt nod, watchful eyes scanning the empty road. “Good luck.”
Stepping out, I shut the door and watch as Dirk’s truck rumbles away, disappearing into the rainy grey. The air feels colder here, empty, like the hush before a storm. There’s nothing around but wet fields, bare trees, and a faint, distant silhouette of what might be a grain silo.
I set off north, boots grinding on gravel. The hours to come loom large—thirty kilometers, maybe less now, but still an unforgiving stretch. If luck holds, I’ll find that train line and slip onto a route heading east, inching ever closer to Vienna. If not… I swallow the knot of fear.
Lightning flashes at the horizon, illuminating the fields in a brief, ghostly glow. Thunder follows, rumbling through my chest. I tighten my grip on my pack and push forward, every footstep a reminder that I’m still on the run—from John, from Ghost, from the cold certainty that I’ve become the hunted.
But I’m not done yet. Not by a long shot. And as the rain lashes my face, I cling to that spark of defiance. Vienna still lies ahead, and I’ll be damned if I let Ghost claim me before I get there.
Chapter 6
Chapter Text
The distant crack of thunder rolled across the sky, heralding the next wave of the storm as I trudged up the road’s gravel shoulder. My boots squished in the mud, each step a reminder of how thoroughly drenched I still was. Dirk’s truck had disappeared minutes ago, leaving me alone in the perpetual drizzle that blurred the landscape into one continuous smear of dull greens and grays. If not for the directions my handler had given, I might have questioned everything—my route, my purpose, whether there was any sense to continuing on. But I clung to those instructions with single-minded focus:
Find the rail line. Move quietly. Reach Vienna.
One foot in front of the other. I tried not to let the monotony of the road seep into my bones, tried not to think of how John had pinned me in that bus seat and nearly relieved me of the flash drive that now pressed against my side like a living thing. My memory of that moment—his cold gaze, the sneer creeping over his features as he called me lass—sent a surge of anger and fear flaring through my chest. Ghost had found me once, employing John’s false friendship to do the job. Who was to say they wouldn’t try again?
I shook the thought away, inhaling the scent of wet earth and grass. The farmland extended in gentle ridges to either side of this narrow road, peppered with dilapidated barns or rusting equipment. The fields looked abandoned or at least seasonally dormant, the crops nothing but broken stalks rotting in the mud. Occasionally, a battered fence leaned precariously along the roadside, but for the most part, I was alone in a raw, open country, an easy target if anyone came looking.
Lightning flashed once more, illuminating the horizon. I stopped, blinking the afterimage from my eyes, and let the thunder’s rumble roll over me. I found myself searching the distance for a glimmer of train tracks. The railroad was out there somewhere, forging a path north or east, perhaps crossing into the next country’s territory. If I could board it discreetly—maybe stow away, maybe bribe the right person—I had a shot at crossing borders undetected. If not… well, I’d have to improvise.
I reached the crest of a small rise in the road and peered down into a shallow valley. A single structure stood at the far side: a sagging barn with a half-collapsed roof. Tendrils of mist curled from its broken windows. I debated taking shelter there until the rain let up, but my gut told me I couldn’t afford delays. My handler’s instructions had been explicit: two days to the western station in Vienna. Time was slipping through my fingers like water.
Keep moving, I told myself.
The next few hours blurred into a relentless march, a pattern of stepping, slipping in the mud, adjusting my hood, and scanning the horizon for movement. My breath misted in front of me, and the cold gnawed through my damp clothing. More than once I paused to sip from the canteen in my pack, water tasting of metal and plastic. The temperature felt like it was dropping even further, wind nipping at my cheeks. What if it started snowing? The idea of trudging across a winter wasteland brought a sick ache to my stomach.
Eventually, the rain eased to a drizzle, then to a lingering mist. The sky lightened enough to suggest midday rather than morning, though the sun never fully broke through the clouds. My legs felt like lead. I considered resting in the ditch, behind a stand of brush, just to get off my feet. But fear thrummed constantly through my veins, reminding me of how easily Ghost’s network might catch up.
“Next time,” I muttered aloud, to no one. “Next time I see anyone, I’ll—”
I trailed off, unsure what threat or promise I intended to make. The truth was, I didn’t want to hurt anyone. But if the choice came between handing over the flash drive and fighting to keep it, I knew which I’d choose. My resolve had hardened the moment John’s gun pressed into my side.
A new sound penetrated the hush of the countryside: a low rumble, different from thunder. I turned, scanning the open fields. Far behind me, over a faint dip in the landscape, came the growl of an engine. My pulse spiked. Instinct urged me to hide, though I had no proof this was them. I dropped into the soggy ditch, crouching behind tall grass as headlights flared over the next ridge.
The vehicle, a large truck, barreled toward me. I pressed myself into the mud, heart pounding. Maybe it was just a local farmer or a delivery driver. But if it was one of Ghost’s people…
I waited, barely breathing, as the truck roared past, spraying a curtain of water across the road. I caught a glimpse of its rust-flecked side in the watery sunlight—no markings, no black SUV. Relief hummed through me, followed by a rush of self-recrimination. You’re getting jumpy, I told myself. Keep your head on.
When the sound faded to a distant hum, I pushed upright, wincing at the mud clinging to my jacket. A chill wind snaked along my spine, making me shiver. Focus. I climbed out of the ditch, stomping the mud from my boots. The day wore on; the rail line still lay ahead.
Late afternoon settled in with a cloak of grey shadows. The road curved away from the farmland into a patch of sparse woodland—a line of spindly trees arching over the narrow lane. The canopy, stripped bare of leaves, offered little shelter from the moody sky. Pools of standing water dotted the path, reflecting the sky in opaque gray. My breath came ragged, each exhale like a small cloud in the chill air.
I kept my eyes peeled for any sign of tracks, occasionally spotting open land to the east and scanning for the telltale glint of rails. Nothing. Am I even going in the right direction? Doubt gnawed at me. The directions had been rough: thirty kilometers north, near the border. And I’d traveled for hours. Without a map or local signs, I had to hope this meandering road was vaguely correct.
I considered risking a phone call, but the memory of those threatening texts—and my handler’s caution—stayed my hand. Until I was certain I could slip away undetected, turning on the phone might paint a big target on my back. I left it powered off.
The wind shifted, carrying a distant clang of metal on metal. I froze, heart leaping. A train? Straining my ears, I heard it again: a rhythmic clank, then a rumble. A moment later, a mournful whistle echoed through the gloom. A flush of excitement spiked my veins. The tracks had to be close.
Feeling renewed energy, I left the road and veered east, trudging through a belt of scrub brush and the remains of some farmer’s orchard—gnarled fruit trees that had long since dropped their leaves. Mud sucked at my boots, resisting each step. Finally, after cresting a small ridge, I saw it: a slender line of iron rails cutting across the land, raised slightly on a gravel embankment. Beyond it, the terrain sloped into low-lying fields.
Relief nearly buckled my knees. The next train route… That’s it. I half-laughed in the solitude, ignoring how my voice cracked with exhaustion. Now came the real challenge: how to board a train without being noticed. If this was a remote cargo line, maybe I could hop a freight car. If it carried passenger trains, I’d need money and a ticket, which was risky unless I found a station. But stations have security, or at least prying eyes.
I scraped mud from my soles against the gravel embankment, climbing onto the tracks. A wave of weariness washed over me. The adrenaline spike had ebbed, leaving me shaky. The sun—if it even was visible—hovered somewhere behind the thick clouds, hinting that dusk might not be far off.
I need shelter. A passing train would be too fast or too infrequent to rely on luck alone. Maybe there was a small station or a siding further along. I set off down the line, boots crunching on the gravel. The worn wooden ties were slick with moisture, each step requiring careful balance. But the clang I’d heard earlier suggested a train was running, so perhaps I wasn’t too far from civilization.
Time blurred. My stomach growled, reminding me I’d had no real meal since Dirk’s coffee. My entire body ached for rest, but the fear of Ghost’s men—and of the unstoppable John—kept me pushing forward. The possibility that John might be combing these roads with a fresh vehicle made my pulse flutter. He’d said it himself: Ghost was done waiting.
Night had begun to settle by the time I spotted the faint glow of lights ahead. I slowed, dropping into a crouch. A small cluster of what looked like industrial lamps illuminated a wide section of track. Drawing closer, I made out a squat building beside the rails—likely a depot or maintenance shed. A chain-link fence ran along the perimeter, with a single open gate.
I crouched in a stand of bushes at the edge of the clearing. Through the fence, I saw a short siding where two freight cars were parked. Some workers—three or four men in reflective vests—stood near a truck, smoking and chatting in low voices. The building’s windows glowed a tired yellow. This looked more like a maintenance outpost than a full station, but it might still offer me a chance to stow away or glean information.
Careful not to rustle the branches, I watched the men for several minutes. They seemed bored, occasionally flicking ash from their cigarettes or taking sips from steaming thermoses. My gaze shifted to the freight cars. No visible crane or forklift. Maybe they were waiting for an engine to haul them away.
This could be a way north, I thought. If these cars continued in that direction, I might slip inside. But how to do so without alerting the workers?
My heart hammered as I weighed the risks. The men didn’t look armed, but one phone call could bring local authorities—or worse, Ghost’s contacts. The leftover paranoia from the bus hijacking ran hot in my veins. Still, if I waited around for some passenger train on a line this remote, I might be waiting days. You have two days, I reminded myself.
Decision made. I’d try to stow away in the freight car. If luck was on my side, it would move by morning. If not, I’d reassess. I inched backward from the bushes, keeping low until I reached the embankment. The last streaks of dusk clung to the sky, and the overhead lights around the depot cast pale circles across puddled ground.
I circled wide, putting distance between me and the chatty workers, then crept along the fence. Rust coated the chain-link, and in places the ground had eroded, leaving small gaps beneath. My hands were numb, but I managed to pry up a corner, making just enough space for my body to slide through.
A dog barked in the distance. I froze. The men laughed at something, one voice rising above the others. They sounded casual, not alarmed. I exhaled, then crawled under the fence. My jacket snagged on a jagged edge of wire, but I tugged it free with minimal noise.
Inside the yard, I stuck to the shadows behind a stack of wooden crates. The thick smell of diesel and wet concrete clung to the air. One of the men tossed a cigarette butt to the ground and stomped on it, muttering something to a coworker. Footsteps crunched over gravel, moving away. My breath came in shallow bursts.
From here, I could see the freight cars better: large, rectangular containers on wheels, the kind used for hauling goods. The closest had a partially open door, about a foot of darkness visible between the metal lip and the wall. An invitation, or a trap? I swallowed, mustering nerve. If these men were waiting for an engine to couple onto the cars, I might have a shot at slipping inside without detection.
Wait for a lull.
The men ambled toward the building, voices drifting. Two ducked through a side door, leaving one final figure outside, leaning against the truck. He scrolled through his phone, glancing at the freight cars every now and then. My legs screamed to move, to sprint for the opening while I had the chance, but I waited. My side throbbed, and my teeth chattered in the damp cold.
Eventually, the man huffed, stuffed his phone in a pocket, and followed the others inside. The yard fell into a hush. A single overhead lamp buzzed. I counted to twenty, listening for footsteps or voices. Nothing. With a quick prayer, I darted from behind the crates, slipping across the open ground in a low crouch.
The freight car towered above me, its metal sides streaked with rust. I gripped the ladder on the side, my fingers slippery with rain, and hauled myself up. My boots clanged softly on the rungs, each sound a thunderclap in my ears. At the open door, I grabbed the edge and levered my body inside, landing on the floor with a hollow thump.
Darkness. The smell of old cargo—wood, maybe grain—coated the interior. I fumbled behind me, drawing the door shut just enough to avoid detection but not so far as to risk locking myself in. The interior was mostly empty, save for some stacked pallets in one corner and a scattering of refuse on the floor.
My heart hammered so loud I worried someone might hear it through the metal walls. But after a few seconds, no shouts rang out. No footsteps came pounding. I breathed, pressing my forehead to the cold metal.
I did it. For now.
I scouted the container with my flashlight—just the barest flick, shielding it with my hand so the glow wouldn’t leak out. Nothing of interest: no crates or sacks, just empty space. Fine. I found a corner behind the pallets, set down my pack, and sank to the floor. My body ached from head to toe, exhaustion gnawing at my bones. At least it was drier in here than outside, though the metal radiated cold.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d have before the train moved—hours, a day, more? The yard workers might load cargo first, or wait for an engine to arrive. But I couldn’t risk leaving and returning. Better to hole up here. With no guarantee I’d find another ride, this was my best shot.
I rummaged in my pack for something to eat, coming up with an energy bar I’d forgotten about. Tearing the wrapper open, I devoured it in three bites. It tasted like cardboard and chocolate, but the calories sent a jolt of life through me. I sipped water, mindful of my limited supply. Then, adrenaline finally spent, I let my head rest against the metal wall. Sleep tugged at me.
I tried to stay alert, to keep watch in case someone slid the door open. But as minutes crawled by, my eyes drooped. The wind outside buffeted the car, and distant thunder rolled again. The sweet oblivion of rest pulled me under, despite my best efforts.
I woke sometime later to a hiss of hydraulics and a metallic thud. Confusion swamped me. For a moment, I thought I was back on that bus, pinned beneath John’s gun. Then the train car lurched, rattling me against the pallets. My eyes flew open.
We were moving.
Night pressed in from every crack, the only illumination a sliver of light through the partially open door. A rumble beneath the floor told me a locomotive had coupled to our freight cars and begun pulling us along the tracks. My pulse fluttered with excitement and dread. It’s happening. I’m on my way. But where, exactly? And how far would the train go?
The car clanked and squealed, picking up speed. I braced myself, hugging my pack. My side throbbed from sleeping in a cramped position, and my mouth felt parched. I rummaged for the canteen again, forcing myself to sip only a little. Who knew when I’d next get fresh water?
In the darkness, the rails’ rhythm lulled me with a repetitive click-clack, click-clack. Occasionally, the train slowed or jerked, but it never fully stopped. Time lost meaning. I dozed, snapping awake at every squeal of brakes or change in speed, half expecting an ambush each time. But no one opened the car door. The wind whistled through the gaps, stirring stale air.
At some point, I had the presence of mind to check my watch. The luminous hands told me it was nearly four in the morning. More than an hour or two since we started. The next question: Which direction are we traveling? It felt like north, but I couldn’t be sure. If the line veered east, that might be even better, closer to Vienna.
I rose, cautious, and slid over to the door, pressing my ear to the gap. With the train in motion, the yard workers wouldn’t likely do spot checks, but still, I moved slowly. Peering out, I saw only darkness, occasional flickers of distant lights across farmland or small towns. The sky, though still overcast, showed the faintest glow near the horizon. Dawn wasn’t far off. My stomach flipped, a mix of anticipation and anxiety.
I retreated to my corner, hugging my knees. My mind churned. If this train slowed near a bigger station, I’d have to slip out before being discovered. If it crossed a border, would there be customs officers or train staff who might look inside? Worry after worry gnawed at me, but in the end, I had no control. All I could do was ride this metal box as far as it took me—away from John, away from Ghost’s immediate grasp—and hope it nudged me closer to Vienna.
Exhaustion eventually overwhelmed fear. Slumping against the pallets, I drifted back into a shallow, uneasy sleep, the rails’ lullaby carrying me through the night.
When next I awoke, a pale light edged through the gap in the door, bright enough to illuminate the cargo hold in a dull, bluish glow. Morning. My watch said a little past seven. My entire body ached from sleeping on bare metal, and my side felt bruised and stiff. I grimaced, rotating my shoulders. The train still rumbled beneath me, though at a slower speed.
Shuffling to the door, I stole a quick glance outside. The train was passing through a small station—no more than a raised platform and a squat building. People stood on the platform, some with suitcases, others sipping from travel mugs. But our freight cars rolled right on by, ignoring the passenger boarding area. My heart leapt into my throat at the sight of armed guards near one end of the platform. Border crossing? Possibly. Or local security.
I ducked back inside before anyone could glance up and notice my silhouette. The train hissed, wheels screeching slightly, then picked up speed again. Good. We hadn’t been flagged or stopped. My relief was tempered by the realization that eventually, if this was a border crossing, we might be inspected. I pressed my ear to the metal wall, straining for any announcements or overhead speakers. All I heard was the grind of wheels against rails.
Minutes dragged. The train soared past farmland, industrial parks, and a small patch of forests. Then it began to brake, gradually at first, then with more force. My insides clenched. Another station?
We came to a near-stop, the car shuddering. The door rattled, metal scraping metal. My mind conjured images of uniformed guards yanking it open, demanding ID. I scrambled behind the pallets, hand on my sidearm. Footsteps thumped near the front of the car. Muffled voices outside. My breath stuck in my throat.
The train jerked forward again, rolling slowly, then stopped. The harsh clang of couplings echoed. We’d uncoupled from the rest of the train or attached new cars. The distant voices grew louder. Heart hammering, I crouched low, peeking around the pallet stack.
A shadow moved across the slit of light at the door. Then a man’s voice, rough and impatient: “Just these two cars? All right, check the seals—if they’re good, we’ll attach them.”
Footsteps crunched. My pulse skyrocketed. Seals? If the door was supposed to be sealed, they’d notice it was open. Shit. I pressed myself flat, trying to breathe silently.
Sure enough, someone tugged at the door from outside. It rumbled, squeaking an inch or two, but I had left it only slightly ajar. A curse. “Damn door’s not shut right,” the voice muttered. More jostling. “Hang on, let me—”
The door slid halfway open, flooding the interior with pale daylight. My stomach twisted. If the worker stepped inside, he’d see me. I readied my sidearm, heart pounding. Don’t panic. Maybe he’d just check quickly and leave.
A face appeared in the gap—a bearded man in a reflective vest, ball cap pulled low. He frowned into the dark hold. “Looks empty…” he said to someone behind him. “But the seal’s busted or something.”
“That’s a problem,” the second voice responded, still out of view. “They’ll blame us for tampering if we don’t fix it.”
The bearded man climbed onto the narrow ledge just inside the door, resting his boots on the lip of the car. Panic flared. He’d see me in moments. My mind spun with possible actions: threaten him, knock him out, or hide?
I pressed myself behind the stacked pallets, which gave minimal cover. The man’s silhouette fell across the floor. He flicked on a flashlight, shining it around. The beam swept across the metal interior, up the walls, then near the pallets. I squeezed my eyes shut. The beam touched the top pallet, revealing dusty boards, then moved away.
“S’not loaded,” he called back. “No cargo at all. Must be an error on the manifest.”
He hopped down from the ledge. “Check for stowaways,” the second voice insisted.
The bearded man sighed. “All right, all right.” He pointed the flashlight again, this time more systematically. The beam drifted across the far corner, traveled the floor, then rose toward the pallets once more. I held my breath, tightening my grip on the gun. If he inched closer, I’d have seconds to decide—shoot or surrender.
Just as the light reached the pallet, a shout from the second man pulled his attention. “Hey, they need us on the next track! Hurry up!”
“Coming!” the bearded man answered. He let out a frustrated grunt, aimed the flashlight at the gap overhead near the roof, then flicked it off. “Bloody waste of time,” he muttered. “Okay, the car’s empty. I’ll rig the door shut. Let’s go.”
He hopped off. I heard him grunt, presumably pulling on the door from outside. Metal screeched. I realized with horror what was happening: he was locking the door. The freight car rumbled as a mechanism slid into place, sealing it from outside. A jolt, a clang. Then the footsteps receded, followed by the hiss of an engine shifting gear.
I exhaled slowly, limbs quivering. I’d come within seconds of being discovered. Now I was effectively trapped inside—assuming they’d left no way to open the door from inside. My chest tightened with anxiety. But it was better than a confrontation… for the moment.
Soon, the train jerked again, rolling forward at a plodding pace. We must have been shunted onto another track, the car swaying with each switch. Eventually, the motion steadied, and we picked up speed. I remained crouched, ears ringing with tension.
I wasn’t caught. Relief coursed through me. But what now? If the door was truly sealed from outside, how would I get out at the next stop?
Shaking, I put the gun away, sinking onto the floor. The side of my face pressed to the cold metal. Surviving on scraps of luck was taking its toll. My stomach growled again, but I only had one more energy bar. I tore it open and chewed slowly, forcing myself to ration water as well. The train’s steady rocking lulled me. My next major worry was whether the route would pass the border, and if so, how strict security might be.
One problem at a time.
Time drifted in that murky half-sleep domain, the freight car rattling endlessly over the rails. I soared between brief naps, jolted awake each time the train slowed or changed speed. Through the door’s small crack—maybe half an inch now—I caught glimpses of fleeting scenery: farmland, small towns, forests. The skies remained an iron gray, spitting occasional bouts of rain.
At some point, the train slowed to a crawl and a new sound threaded through the air: voices shouting in multiple languages, the shriek of metal gates, barking dogs. My blood went ice-cold. A border checkpoint, almost certainly.
Pressing my ear to the gap, I heard a swirl of commands, some in English, some in a local tongue. The accent was heavy, the words harsh. My heart hammered. The dogs barked again, somewhere near the front of the train. This must be a major crossing. If border guards decided to check the freight cars…
I fumbled for my sidearm, heart in my throat. The car had once again slowed nearly to a stop. If they had scanning equipment or a thorough process, I was screwed. I considered ditching the car if they opened it—but the presence of dogs made that plan risky. Could I slip out unseen? Unlikely. My mind flashed on the possibility of climbing to the roof or dropping from the underside, but that carried its own dangers.
Moments later, a loud clang reverberated from the next car down. Muffled orders. The train lurched, advanced a few meters, then halted again. The dogs’ barking intensified. My grip on the gun was so tight my hand shook. Calm down, I told myself. They might not check every car. This area of Europe wasn’t always thorough with cargo if the manifest matched. I prayed the men earlier had updated the paperwork to show an empty car.
Minutes ticked by like hours. The barking receded, replaced by the whine of hydraulic brakes releasing. The train jerked forward again, picking up speed gradually. I nearly cried with relief as the crossing slipped behind us, no one opening my door. The next time I peered outside, I saw a new language on the signs rushing past. We’d definitely crossed a border. One step closer to Vienna.
I allowed myself a small smile. Despite everything—Ghost’s threats, John’s betrayal, the near discovery at the yard—I was making progress. Maybe I’d arrive in time, meet my contact in the city, and finally hand off this damned flash drive. The idea of exorcising that burden buoyed me enough to endure the next hours of cramped, hungry waiting.
Abandoning the Car
The train barreled on through the afternoon, occasionally slowing at sidings but never fully stopping. Each time, my nerves twanged, anticipating discovery. Yet no one came. By the time dusk rolled around again, my muscles ached fiercely, and thirst gnawed at me. My water supply was dangerously low. I’d planned for a day or two, not indefinite captivity in a sealed cargo car.
I had to get off soon.
Darkness fell, the faint orange of streetlights flickering past. I inched to the door, testing if there was any internal latch or mechanism that might open it. I found none. It had been locked externally when the yard worker discovered the seal was broken. I cursed under my breath.
Plan B: The roof hatch. Most freight cars had one for ventilation or loading certain goods. Feeling along the ceiling, I found a small panel secured with a sliding latch. My heart lifted. This might be my exit if I could pry it open. I rummaged in my pack for a slim metal tool—one I used for prying crates. Positioning myself on the stacked pallets, I tried to lever the latch free.
The metal groaned, flaking rust. I put all my weight into it, biceps burning. Finally, with a wrenching snap, the latch gave way. A small metal panel, about two by two feet, swung open, letting in a rush of cool air. Relief, but also a spike of fear. Climbing onto a moving train’s roof was risky as hell.
I braced my arms on either side, hoisting my torso through the opening. Wind and night enveloped me, the train’s roar filling my ears. My hood whipped back, and my hair lashed my face. Carefully, I swung one leg up, then the other, until I lay flat on the train’s curved roof. The motion was dizzying. Lights blurred by in the distance, and the rails clattered beneath me. The car rattled, and I pressed low, heart hammering.
Moonlight—or maybe the faint glow of towns in the distance—revealed a line of freight cars stretching ahead. I needed to move carefully, or risk being thrown off. Beneath my belly, the metal vibrated with the train’s speed—maybe 40 or 50 kilometers an hour. I scanned the horizon: farmland, industrial parks, the occasional flicker of city lights. If we approached another station or slowed enough, I could jump. Better than starving in that box.
Summoning courage, I crawled forward until I reached the gap between cars. A small platform connected them on the side, but crossing the top was more dangerous—one misstep and I’d tumble onto the tracks. The wind buffeted me, stinging my eyes. Gritting my teeth, I carefully lowered myself off the roof, hooking a foot onto the rung of a ladder attached to the car. My knuckles whitened on the metal rungs as I hung there, the ground a blur beneath me.
Taking shallow breaths, I moved hand over hand along the side ladder. The next car’s top was slightly lower. I transferred my grip, feeling the joints protest. If I fell now, I was dead. With one final effort, I swung onto the next car’s small catwalk near the coupling. My boots thudded on the metal grate. The train jolted, and I nearly lost my balance, but I clung to the railing, cursing under my breath. Adrenaline roared in my ears.
Was I insane to try this? Possibly. But the only alternative was rotting in a sealed hold with no water. I tightened the straps of my pack, ensuring the flash drive was secure. Then I made my way car by car, searching for one with an accessible door or an easier path to jump off. The scene was surreal—endless metal roofs and the glow of passing lights in the distance, wind tearing at my clothes.
After moving three cars forward, I found a container with a partially open top hatch. Maybe it held grain or some other bulk cargo. I peered down—darkness, but no lid. No, that wouldn’t help me get out. Another car was a tanker, smooth and uninviting. The next looked like a standard boxcar. If I dropped onto the small side ledge, maybe the door could be forced open from outside. But that would still leave me on a moving train.
I needed a plan to disembark.
I paused, scanning the horizon. The train was crossing a wide stretch of farmland, occasional road intersections flickering by. If it slowed near a signal or a curve, that might be my chance. Jumping at full speed was too dangerous. My body tensed at the memory of the bus escape. Did I want to risk injury now?
Then I spotted it: a row of lights in the distance, an industrial yard or perhaps a station. The train was definitely slowing, the squeal of brakes echoing. We must be approaching some distribution center. My pulse quickened—perfect. If we slowed enough, I could jump and disappear into the darkness.
Steeling myself, I shuffled along the side catwalk, boots scraping on metal. The train lost momentum. Wind whipped my face, carrying the tang of diesel and wet earth. When the cars jerked beneath me, I knew we were under 20 or 30 km/h—still fast, but maybe survivable if I rolled. I took a deep breath.
A line of trees blurred by, then a fence. Spotlights revealed a warehouse in the distance. The train continued to decelerate. This is it.
I climbed down a side ladder, heart in my throat, until I was a few feet above the ground. Gravel rushed past under the rail bed. My hands shook. Just do it. With a grunt, I launched myself off, aiming for the grassy strip beyond the gravel. Impact slammed through my body, jarring every joint. I tumbled, smashing my shoulder into the mud, the pack driving into my spine. Pain exploded in my side, the bruise throbbing anew.
Then I was lying there, breathless, the train’s rumble receding as it crawled onward. A groan tore from my throat, but I forced myself to roll onto hands and knees. My vision swam. Check for injuries. My left shoulder ached fiercely, and my palms were scraped raw, but nothing felt broken. The pack had taken some of the impact.
I bit back a whimper, staggering upright. The train was still visible, creeping away into the yard, but I was hidden in the darkness behind a low embankment. Overhead, the sky churned with clouds, offering just enough gloom to hide me. I limped away from the tracks, each step a stab of agony in my side. But I was free. Alive. A fresh wave of relief rolled through me.
A tall chain-link fence stood between me and the warehouse lights. I hobbled in the opposite direction, into the farmland. If the yard was guarded, I didn’t want to risk another brush with security. My body craved rest—real rest, not the cramped half-sleep of the freight car. But I couldn’t collapse here, out in the open.
I meandered down a slope, ignoring the persistent drizzle. The ground squelched with each step, soaking my boots anew. After ten minutes of careful trudging, the lights from the yard were no more than a faint glow behind me. I spied a cluster of low trees and brush. It would have to do as a hiding spot for the night. My watch read nearly midnight.
Sheer exhaustion weighed on me. I found a patch of ground beneath a half-fallen tree, shielded by brush. Dropping to my knees, I fumbled for the last of my water, sipping it sparingly. My body wanted to collapse, but I made myself check the phone. Still off. If I was close enough to the border crossing or major roads, Ghost’s watchers might be around. Not yet, I decided. Tomorrow, if I found a quiet place, I’d power it on to check for messages from my handler.
I pulled out a small thermal blanket from my pack, one of those foil-like emergency sheets. It crinkled as I draped it over my shoulders, huddling against the trunk. The damp chill gnawed at me, but at least I was out of direct wind. My side pounded, shoulder throbbing. Another wave of headache threatened to drag me under.
One more day. That’s all I had to endure, maybe less, to reach some semblance of real civilization. Then I could find a bus, a train, something official heading to Vienna. I’m so close…
My eyes drifted shut. Sleep claimed me in a rush, nightmares swirling at the edges of consciousness. John’s gun. Ghost’s name. The slip of the flash drive pressed to my ribs.
I woke to damp grey light filtering through the branches, the sound of distant birds calling across soggy fields. My neck cricked painfully, the position I’d slept in offering zero comfort. Groaning, I shoved the emergency blanket aside and rose on unsteady feet. My entire body radiated aches. My reflection in a puddle would probably be that of a half-drowned, mud-splattered ghost myself.
At least the rain had stopped. The sky remained overcast, but the air felt marginally warmer. I checked my watch: 7:20 a.m. Another day gone. My shoulder twinged. I reached up, rotating the joint. No serious damage, just bruising.
My first priority was water—and potentially food. I’d exhausted my supply, aside from a few stray drops. The farmland around me might have streams or irrigation ditches, but the water could be contaminated. My battered phone would have to come online soon so I could coordinate with my handler or at least get directions to the nearest settlement.
But not here. I needed a place out of sight. Hoisting my pack, I trudged east, guided by some faint sense that Vienna lay that way. A muddy path cut through the fields, possibly used by farm vehicles. I followed it, scanning for any sign of a farmhouse or small village. The early morning hush pressed in, broken only by crows cawing overhead. My stomach cramped with hunger, and thirst rasped my throat.
After a mile or so, I spotted a shape on the horizon—a squat building with a rusted silo or water tower. Could be a farm. Cautious, I approached, stepping off the path to move through tall grass. When I drew near, I realized it was abandoned. Broken windows, collapsed roof in places. Another ruin. My heart sank, but maybe I could salvage something. At the very least, shelter to check the phone.
Drawing closer, I checked for footprints or signs of recent habitation. Nothing. A half-collapsed fence surrounded the place. I slipped through a gap in the boards, boots sinking into muck. Inside the yard, tall weeds sprouted around a battered tractor. The front door hung off its hinges, the interior dark and silent.
I stepped in, wrinkling my nose at the musty smell of rotting wood and animals that had likely nested here. Broken furniture lay scattered, and an old refrigerator stood gutted in the corner. Broken glass crunched underfoot as I made my way into what might have been a living room. No door, but four walls and a partial roof—enough for privacy.
I set my pack down, alert for any noises. None came. The morning light filtered through cracks in the walls, illuminating dust motes. Good enough. I sank against the relatively dry corner, rummaging for the phone. My battery was still mostly charged from before. I powered it on, breath catching. Would it beep with more ominous messages from Ghost’s unknown ally?
The home screen blinked to life. One bar of signal, flickering. Slowly, I typed in the PIN, waiting as the phone searched for a network. Then, nothing. No new texts. Relief warred with dread. Maybe they’d backed off? Or maybe they had other ways of tracking me. I scrolled to my handler’s number, ready to call—but paused. If I had only a single bar, the call might drop. Also, placing a call could alert watchers in the area.
I decided to text instead:
ME: Made it across the border. Where to next?
I held my breath, sending it. The phone’s status circle spun, trying to send. Then: Message failed. I cursed under my breath. Weak signal. I stood, inching around the room, searching for a spot where the bar might climb to two. Eventually, near a window with half the glass missing, it flickered to two bars. I tried again. The text went through.
Then I waited, tension coiling in my chest. A minute passed. Two. The phone pinged.
HANDLER: Secure location?
I exhaled. At least the line is still safe. I typed back:
ME: Abandoned farmhouse. East of freight line. Need directions. 1 day left. Water/food low.
This time the reply came faster:
HANDLER: Nearest safe route is north of your position. 20km to small city—Streimfeld. Busses/trains to Vienna from there. Wait for my further instructions upon arrival. Avoid major stations if possible. Ghost’s watchers active.
So, 20 kilometers. On foot, that could be a full day, especially in my condition. But I had no better option. I was about to confirm when another text arrived:
HANDLER: Be aware: John not alone. Ghost has more assets in play. Trust no one.
My stomach twisted. I typed a quick acknowledgment, then powered the phone off. The longer it was on, the bigger the risk. If Ghost had ways to track phone signals, I didn’t want to paint a neon target on this farmhouse. I slid the device into my jacket.
20 kilometers. Possibly a city with a bus or train to Vienna. My contact would message me again once I was near. My body felt like lead at the thought. That was a lot of ground to cover on little sleep, no real food, and almost no water. But if I stayed here, I’d eventually collapse or be found.
A flicker of movement caught my eye—just the wind stirring a ragged curtain. My nerves felt raw. I needed water, maybe the remains of a well outside. Abandoned farms often had wells or cisterns. I left my pack in the corner, gun on my hip, and cautiously ventured out. The yard offered a broken water trough, scattered junk, and a collapsed shed. The silo itself was locked with a rusted chain. Didn’t look promising.
But near the rear of the house, a stone well rose from the ground, topped by a rotted wooden cover. My chest fluttered with hope. If the water wasn’t rancid, I could filter it with the small purifier kit in my pack. I pried the cover aside, peering down. Darkness. I tossed a pebble and heard a faint splash. Excellent. With my kit, I might salvage enough water to keep going.
I hurried back inside, rummaged for the small water filtration pouch, then returned. Rigging a makeshift rope from some cord, I lowered a plastic bottle. After a moment, I hauled it up. The water was murky, flecks of dirt swirling. Better than nothing. I rigged the filter and squeezed the water through, drip by drip. It took time, but in the end I had about half a liter of something drinkable.
Greedily, I gulped half, saving the rest. The taste was earthy and metallic, but I felt immediate relief on my throat. Next, I scrounged the farmhouse for anything edible—cupboards were empty, the fridge gutted, no hidden cans in the corners. I found only cobwebs and rot. My stomach growled, but I’d have to make do until I reached Streimfeld.
Returning to my pack, I tidied up any trace of my presence, not wanting to leave footprints or wrappers. This was purely reflex. The memory of John’s infiltration stung. Anyone could be an enemy. Ghost’s network was bigger than I realized, and time was ticking. My watch read just shy of 8:30 a.m. If I pushed, I could make Streimfeld by dusk or later, assuming good terrain.
With a final glance around, I left the farmhouse behind. A swirl of crows took to the sky as I passed, their cries echoing. The land stretched open and gray, but my path was clearer: keep east or north, find a route to Streimfeld.
The hours that followed tested every scrap of resolve I had left. I navigated by the weak morning sun and the phone’s compass—kept off except for brief checks, paranoid about signals. Each time I turned it on, I’d see no new messages from my handler, which was both relief and worry. My boots caked with mud, my shoulder flared with pain, and hunger gnawed with each step.
I passed empty roads, swaths of farmland, a scattering of distant houses. Twice, I heard vehicles approaching and hid in ditches or behind trees, refusing to take chances. The memory of John’s betrayal, that muzzle pressed to my ribcage, fueled my paranoia. The sky threatened more rain, but only occasional drizzle fell, soaking me further.
By early afternoon, the landscape hinted at more civilization—paved roads, a bus stop sign near an intersection, though no bus or schedule posted. I pressed on, swallowing thirst again and again, reminding myself I had half a liter of well water. My body felt heavier with each mile, and I lost track of time, stumbling in a half-daze. The only anchor was the knowledge that every step brought me closer to Streimfeld. Closer to Vienna. Closer to ending this nightmare.
Sometime near dusk, I crested a gentle rise and caught sight of a cluster of buildings in the valley below. A church spire rose in the center, rooftops flanking it. Streets wound through what looked like a modest town—Streimfeld, if luck held. My chest fluttered. I could practically taste the relief. Food, water, a bed, and maybe a bus or train station. Then the old caution flared: Ghost’s watchers could be here. I’d need to keep a low profile.
Darkness gathered as I approached the outskirts. Streetlamps hummed to life, illuminating tidy houses with small gardens. A sign at the road read “Streimfeld” in the local language. I read the smaller text: Population: ~4,500. Not huge, but enough to have some transport options. I kept to side streets, hoodie pulled low, trying to blend in. The occasional car passed, headlights glaring.
My stomach twisted with hunger, and exhaustion weighed on me like lead. I scanned for a cheap-looking hostel or motel. The first lodging I found was a quaint inn, lights glowing warmly. Too visible. I wandered on, eventually spotting a sign for “Zimmer” posted near a modest building. Might be a small guesthouse. I hesitated outside the gate. Safer than the main inn, I reasoned. Less staff, fewer eyes.
Steeling my nerves, I approached. The house was quiet, a single lamp on the porch. No car in the driveway. I rang the bell. Heart pounding, I prayed no one recognized me or asked too many questions.
After a moment, a man answered. He was in his fifties, with a thick sweater and a weary expression. He regarded me curiously, noticing my mud-spattered clothes. “Yes?” he said in accented English.
I forced a polite smile. “I’m looking for a room for the night.”
He glanced at the sign on the gate, then back at me. “Ah, you are traveling?”
“Yeah,” I lied smoothly. “Backpacking. Need somewhere to rest before I catch a train.”
He studied me a moment longer, perhaps weighing if I was trouble. Finally, he stepped aside. “Okay, come in.”
Relief washed through me. The interior was quaint—wood floors, old photos on the wall, a faint smell of cabbage from the kitchen. He led me to a small guestroom with a single bed, a chair, and a lamp. Cozy enough.
“You pay cash?” he asked, voice polite but firm.
I nodded, pulling out the last of my bills. Running low, but enough for a night. He counted them, scribbled a quick receipt in a ledger, then handed me a key. “Breakfast is in the morning, seven to nine. The station is about fifteen minutes’ walk north if you’re going that way.”
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.
Once he left, I locked the door, leaning against it with a soft groan. A real bed. A roof that wasn’t caving in. I shrugged off my pack, rummaging for the phone. My watch read nearly 8 p.m. If I was to meet my contact in Vienna tomorrow at midday, I needed to leave early. One day left…
First, though, I needed a meal. My body shook with fatigue and hunger. I debated returning to the homeowner to ask about dinner, but decided it might invite questions. Instead, I peeled off my filthy clothes, changed into my spare shirt, and pulled on a jacket less covered in mud. Time to find a convenience store or cheap eatery.
I unlocked the door, checked the hallway. Empty. Quietly, I slipped out. The front door creaked as I left the house, stepping into the crisp evening air. Streetlamps cast pools of light along the pavement. Streimfeld was calm, the occasional bicycle passing, or a pair of neighbors chatting. I kept my hood up, head low.
A few blocks away, I found a small grocery store still open. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and a bored teenage clerk manned the register. I grabbed bottled water, two sandwiches, a pack of crackers, and some fruit. The clerk barely looked at me as he rung it up. Perfect.
Back in my rented room, I devoured the sandwiches and fruit as though I hadn’t eaten in days—which, to be fair, I mostly hadn’t. The water tasted heavenly. My stomach clenched at first, unused to real food, but the sensation of nourishment was bliss. Finally.
Now for the next risk: contacting my handler. I sat on the bed, phone in hand, the overhead lamp casting harsh shadows. Powering it on, I typed a quick text:
ME: In Streimfeld. Checking transport for morning to Vienna. Safe for now.
I hovered, indecisive about sending. If Ghost was intercepting signals, he might narrow down my location. But I needed the final instructions. With a resigned breath, I hit send. The phone beeped: Message sent. The reply came within minutes.
HANDLER: Good. Buses/trains run at 6. They suspect you’ll head to main station. Avoid. Take bus from local stop to Farnheim, then change lines. Arrive Westbahnhof in Vienna by midday. I’ll send final details en route. Stay invisible.
My shoulders eased. They had a plan. Farnheim—wherever that was—would hopefully be safer than a major central station. Perfect. One last push. I responded with confirmation, then powered off again, heart pounding. If John or any of Ghost’s new assets were lurking, they wouldn’t catch me so easily. I hoped.
Relief blending with cautious optimism, I finally peeled off the rest of my dirty clothes, used the small en-suite sink to wash my face and arms, and collapsed onto the bed. My body felt like lead, bruises twinging with every movement. Despite the discomfort, the sense of relative security lulled me toward sleep.
And for the first time in days, I fell into a slumber unbroken by nightmares—until the final morning arrived.
Dawn came swiftly, amber light creeping through the blinds. My eyes snapped open, alert. For a heartbeat, I expected the floor of a cargo car under me or the frigid night outside. But the warm bed and pastel walls reminded me I was in Streimfeld, a day’s journey from the final handoff in Vienna.
I rolled from bed, wincing as bruised muscles protested. Time? 5:20 a.m. The bus was at 6—my handler’s text had indicated an early departure. That gave me just enough time to gather my gear, maybe snag a quick bite if the homeowner offered breakfast early.
In the small mirror above the dresser, I caught sight of my reflection: bloodshot eyes, a scab on my left temple, hair mussed from too many nights sleeping rough. I barely recognized myself. Yet a spark of determination burned in those eyes. Almost there.
I rechecked the phone for updates. No new texts. Fine. After quietly dressing and tucking away the rest of my groceries, I slung my pack over one shoulder. I debated leaving a tip or note for the homeowner but decided against it. Less record of me, the better. I left the key on the side table, slipped out the door, and let myself into the cool morning air.
Streimfeld’s streets were largely empty, a faint haze drifting from chimneys. The bus stop wasn’t hard to find—a small shelter near an intersection, illuminated by a single overhead lamp. My breath puffed in the chill. At 5:50 a.m., I settled on the narrow bench, scanning the quiet road for any sign of watchers.
A lone figure strode across the street, carrying a briefcase, presumably heading to work. Another paced near the corner, listening to music. No suspicious black cars, no ominous silhouettes. My heart hammered with anticipation. Hold it together.
At precisely 5:58, headlights rounded the bend. A bus squeaked to a stop in front of me, its sign reading Farnheim in the local language. The doors hissed open. I boarded, paying in cash—just enough for the fare—and retreated to a seat near the back. Only a handful of passengers dotted the rows: a young couple whispering, an older man reading a newspaper, a woman in a business suit tapping on her phone. None looked my way. Perfect.
The bus pulled off, rattling down the street. Tension coiled in my gut, but each passing block without incident felt like a victory. We left Streimfeld behind, the sun climbing, painting the horizon in pale gold. I cradled my pack, feeling the familiar shape of the flash drive inside. Soon, I told it silently. Soon, you’ll be out of my life.
The ride lasted about an hour, winding through smaller towns and farmland. Sleep tugged at me, but I forced my eyes open, alert for any sign of tailing vehicles. Nothing. The bus beeped at stops, letting a few passengers on or off, but none seemed interested in me. Eventually, we pulled into Farnheim, a slightly bigger city with sprawling suburbs and a bustling main street.
“End of the line,” called the driver. Passengers gathered their belongings. I followed them off onto a busy sidewalk. Cars, bicycles, and morning foot traffic jostled around me. Farnheim felt alive—cafés opening, shop owners sweeping sidewalks, office workers rushing with coffees in hand. I fished out the phone once more, checking for final instructions.
HANDLER: Find local bus #42 to East Terminal. Connect to express bound for Vienna Westbahnhof. Leaves 10:30. Arrive ~12:00. I’ll be at Westbahnhof mezzanine café.
I glanced at my watch: 8:10. I had time. But Farnheim was big enough to have prying eyes. Ghost’s watchers might be scanning stations, especially after he lost track of me. I kept my hood up, blending with the morning crowd. My stomach churned with a mix of hunger and nerves.
I located the bus stop for #42 in front of a large department store. The timetable said the next departure was 8:30—perfect. I waited among a cluster of locals, eyes peeled for anything off. A red delivery truck idled across the road. A pair of teenage girls chatted. A policeman strolled by with a bored expression. No sign of trouble.
When the bus arrived, I boarded swiftly, found a seat near the door. My reflection in the glass revealed the anxious lines on my face. The city passed in a blur—streets, office blocks, small restaurants. The bus crossed a river, winding along Farnheim’s outskirts. Eventually, we arrived at East Terminal, a busy transit hub with multiple buses and a few train lines.
Focus. The express bus to Vienna was my last major obstacle. I stepped off and scanned the departure boards mounted on a large electronic kiosk. The one labeled “Vienna Westbahnhof” read 10:30, as my handler had said. I had an hour or so.
I bought a ticket from an automated machine, paying in cash. The clatter of people around me was almost overwhelming—commuters, travelers, families. Tension prickled at my skin. Any of them could be Ghost’s watchers. But so far, no one even glanced my way. The ticket printed, I clutched it, stuffing it into my pocket. One step left.
An hour to kill. My body insisted on food, but I worried about stepping into a café or store. In the end, hunger won. I drifted toward a small pastry kiosk near the terminal entrance, scanning the crowd for suspicious faces. Then I bought a croissant and coffee, scarfing them down quickly at a standing table. The warmth spread through my limbs, fueling me.
The minutes ticked by. I hovered near the correct bay, the overhead sign confirming the bus to Vienna. More travelers arrived, forming a loose queue—students with backpacks, an older couple fussing over their luggage, a businesswoman scrolling on her phone. I tried to calm my pounding heart. If they wanted to ambush me, they would, right?
At 10:25, the bus rolled in, headlights glinting. The driver hopped out, started loading bags underneath. I approached with the others, ticket in hand. Each second, I expected a hand on my shoulder, a gun barrel at my back, John’s voice in my ear. But no. I stowed my pack in the overhead bin inside, keeping the flash drive on me. Then I claimed a seat halfway down the aisle, next to the window. The seat behind me remained empty for now.
The driver checked tickets, took his seat. The bus engine revved. With a hiss of doors and the beep of a departure chime, we pulled away from Farnheim. My chest seized with quiet triumph—and dread. If Ghost had watchers, maybe they’d be waiting in Vienna. I forced my eyes to the passing scenery, farmland giving way to rolling hills. The route was direct; we’d arrive around noon, giving me just enough time to meet my handler at Westbahnhof’s mezzanine café.
Almost there.
True to schedule, the bus neared the city limits of Vienna just before midday. The outskirts sprawled in a tapestry of industrial zones, modern buildings, and historical architecture. Traffic thickened, and we crept along wide boulevards. My stomach fluttered, part nerves, part excitement. This is it. Survive this final step, find the café, hand over the flash drive… maybe get my life back.
We arrived at Westbahnhof—a grand station of steel and glass. The driver announced we’d disembark near the side entrance. Passengers filed off. I joined them, stepping onto a bustling sidewalk. Trolleys, trams, and cars wove around a roundabout. Streams of travellers lugged suitcases in and out of the station. The sound of many languages merged into a cacophony.
I swallowed, scanning for threats. This place was big, chaotic—ideal for losing a tail, but also prime ground for an ambush. Don’t dwell on it. I adjusted my pack, stepping inside. The station’s interior soared overhead, a throng of shops, ticket booths, corridors leading to various platforms. I followed signs for the mezzanine level, weaving through crowds.
At the top of a flight of escalators, I found a row of cafes. People queued for coffee and sandwiches. My phone remained off, so I had only my handler’s text to go on: the café, midday. I checked my watch. 12:05. Perfect timing.
Nerves flared. Which café? There were three. I drifted toward the second one, a modern chain with bright signage and minimal seating. My eyes darted from table to table. Nothing. The next was more old-fashioned, with a display of pastries in the window. My breath caught—a figure sat alone at a corner table, a half-empty coffee in front of them, scanning the crowd. A dark jacket, glasses, short-cropped hair. They looked up, eyes briefly meeting mine.
I recognized them. The face from a single photo my contact had once shown. This was my handler’s local ally. Finally.
Heart hammering, I slid over, seating myself across from them. They gave a small nod, voice low and calm. “You made it.”
“Barely,” I whispered, scanning the café for eavesdroppers. No one seemed to pay us any mind.
They gestured to the seat. “You have it?”
I exhaled, rummaging in my jacket. Fingers shaking, I withdrew the flash drive, the small piece of plastic and metal that had nearly cost me my life a dozen times over. Sliding it beneath the table, I set it in their palm. The ally’s expression flickered with relief, maybe even respect. They tucked it into a secure pocket.
“Ghost won’t be pleased,” I murmured.
The man—my contact’s local ally—leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table. In the glow of the café’s soft lighting, I noticed details I’d overlooked: the slight streaks of gray at his temples, the barely perceptible scar across his right eyebrow, the crisp economy of his movements. His eyes weren’t anxious or hurried like I’d expected from a field liaison; they were composed, like someone used to far more intense situations.
He closed his hand around the flash drive, sliding it into his jacket pocket. Then, instead of tucking the thumb drive away with quiet relief, he leveled a pointed look at me—part assessing, part amused.
“You’ve done a decent job,” he said, his British accent sharper than I’d realized. “Better than most recruits who get handed something explosive like this. Kept it close, didn’t you?”
I froze, the hair on my neck prickling. Something about the way he spoke—low, almost conspiratorial—set my teeth on edge. “I—yes,” I managed. “I had to. Or they’d have taken it.”
He gave a soft chuckle, more a huff of breath than a real laugh, and finally extended his hand. “Name’s Price. Captain Price, if you prefer the formality. But we’re well beyond that, aren’t we?”
I blinked. The name rang a bell—some rumoured Special Forces operator, part of the same clandestine world in which Ghost thrived. If half the stories were true, Price was as formidable as they came. But why was he here, working with my supposed handler?
My heart thundered as I recalled the tangled intel on the flash drive: mention of black ops, secret paramilitary deals, and Ghost’s name woven through every piece. Could Price be working against Ghost, or for him?
“And you… you’re my contact’s colleague?” I asked carefully, glancing around the bustling café. No one seemed to be paying us any attention, but I couldn’t shake the dread crawling up my spine.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he examined me again, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know,” he said softly, “you’ve done a hell of a job staying one step ahead. All the paranoia, all the close calls—John, the freight train, the near border checks. Clever stuff.” He nodded once, as though granting respect. “Kept that drive safer than most professionals might.”
I swallowed. “Wasn’t easy.”
He gave an almost imperceptible nod, then gestured to the coffee cup in front of him—still half-filled with some dark roast. “Take a seat,” he said, a quiet command laced beneath the politeness. “No rush now. You’ve delivered the goods.”
Despite my lingering sense of danger, I obeyed, lowering myself into the chair opposite him. My legs felt unsteady. The relief of completing the handoff now tangled with alarm. Where is my handler? Why is Price here alone?
Something flickered across Price’s face—amusement, or maybe pity. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice: “I imagine you’re knackered. Running cross-country, bus to bus, train to train. Not knowing who to trust.”
“You could say that,” I answered, my voice taut.
“You’ve got spirit, I’ll grant you that,” he murmured. “Ghost respects it, too.”
My chest constricted. “Ghost… respects me?”
Price’s smirk deepened. “Aye. He’s the one who recommended we let you run the package. Part test, part necessity. You see…” He patted the pocket containing the drive. “It’s not just intel on our enemies. It’s proof of certain…arrangements. Our arrangements.”
I went cold. “Arrangements you’re… a part of?”
Price nodded slowly. “Guilty as charged. Truth be told, you were never handing this over to your ‘contact’ in Vienna. You’ve been delivering it right into our hands all along.”
Silence stretched between us. The station’s background chatter seemed to recede, replaced by the pounding of my heartbeat. I remembered every close call—John’s ambush, the freight car, the frantic escape. All orchestrated? My throat ran dry.
“You used me,” I managed, voice quivering with anger. “This whole time, you fed me false instructions—made me risk my life just to transport your data?”
Price’s gaze flickered, but he didn’t deny it. “Needed someone who could go to ground, stay off the radar. If Ghost himself tried ferrying it, half the agencies in the world would be on him in an instant. We needed a wildcard. An unknown.” He shrugged, as though it were all so logical. “And you were perfect.”
My mind spun, hurt and fury warring with a numb sense of betrayal. “John was part of it, too?”
“John had his role,” Price admitted. “A bit rougher than intended, but effective in pushing you off your original path. Made certain you’d reach Vienna on our terms—our timetable.”
A tremor shot through my limbs. Suddenly, everything clicked: the near-deadly encounters, the bus seat fiasco, the freight yard in the middle of nowhere. “You… you manipulated every step.”
Price’s voice softened—almost apologetic. “For what it’s worth, we didn’t plan on putting you that close to a bullet. But you adapted well, better than expected. My superiors will be pleased to know you’ve got the instincts to survive.”
I couldn’t breathe. Each new revelation hammered me down. “And the flash drive? That intel… It was never about incriminating Ghost. It was—what?”
Price’s smirk vanished. “We need it to secure our next operation. Allies. Weapons. A new phase. We need to ensure no one stands in the way.” His gaze flicked to my clenched fists. “Don’t look so shocked. You’re alive. You did your job. Good on you.”
Dizziness swept over me, rage and disbelief boiling. I risked everything… for Ghost. The same Ghost who’d haunted every scrap of intel, who’d turned John into a puppet. And Price is with him?
Slowly, Price stood, tucking his cap lower. He reached into his jacket—don’t shoot, don’t shoot—but pulled out only a small business card. He slid it across the table toward me.
“You’ve proven you can handle yourself. If you want out—truly out—take this. A safe contact. The moment you ring, I will know you’re ready to be brought fully into the fold, or left alone.” His eyes glinted. “Choice is yours, lass. After all, you more than earned it.”
My pulse thundered. Every instinct screamed not to trust him, to toss the card away. But what else could I do? The network behind Price—behind Ghost—was vast. If I disappeared without their blessing, would I be hunted forever?
Price finished his coffee in a single gulp. “Well done,” he said quietly, just loud enough for me to hear. “Now, I recommend you find a place to rest. We’ll be in touch.”
Without another word, he turned and melted into the busy station crowd. I sat there, motionless, heart pounding in my ears. The flash drive, the chase, the near-death scrapes… All of it had been for them. I felt sick, outraged—yet strangely hollow. The game was over, but I wasn’t sure who had won.
Only one certainty remained: I was free of the flash drive, but Ghost’s shadow still hung over me. And now Captain Price had offered a twisted lifeline—join them, or vanish for good. My hand curled around the card he’d left, knuckles white.
I took a trembling breath, forcing myself to stand. The noise of Westbahnhof station surged back in, echoing with announcements and footsteps. People brushed past, oblivious to the war raging in my mind. For now, I had no choice but to walk away, as though I were just another traveller.
But deep down, I knew my time in the shadows was far from finished—because once Ghost had you in his sights, there was no slipping free without leaving some part of yourself behind. And whether I liked it or not, Captain Price’s quiet smirk told me: They weren’t done with me yet.
Chapter 7
Chapter Text
I stand there for a long time, staring at the spot where Captain Price disappeared into the crowd. My muscles feel locked in place, my mind torn between anger, shock, and a strange hollowness I’ve never felt before. Gradually, the rattle of suitcases on tile and the hum of conversation reassert themselves, reminding me I’m still in the middle of Westbahnhof station, surrounded by people who have no idea they’re brushing past a woman who just got played by two of the most dangerous operators on the planet.
My hand trembles as I look down at the business card he left behind—a simple white rectangle with a single phone number printed on it in stark black. Nothing else. No name, no logo, just digits. It feels heavier than the flash drive ever did, like it might burn a hole in my pocket.
I need to move. I can’t just stand here like a target. My legs feel like they’re made of lead, but I force them to carry me through the throng of travelers, weaving between couples pulling suitcases and families shuffling kids by the hand. Snatches of different languages blur into a haze: German announcements over the PA, English instructions from a tour guide, something Slavic from a trio of backpackers. I slip by them all, head down, hood up, trying not to let my face show the war going on inside my mind.
Outside, the early afternoon light washes over the station’s façade. Trams and buses crisscross the plaza, horns honking in the crush of Vienna’s midday traffic. It’s busy enough that I manage to vanish into the currents of pedestrians without drawing a second glance. The weight of my pack is still there—light now that the flash drive is gone, but heavier with the knowledge that Price's network, and Price in particular, have reeled me in.
My throat is raw. I haven’t had real rest or a meal that stayed in my stomach without churning in what feels like forever. A small part of me whispers: Find a hotel. Lock the door. Sleep. But that same survival instinct that kept me alive these past days won’t let me relax. Price said they’ll be in touch—do I want to be found sleeping in some low-rent room if they come knocking?
A gust of cool wind scuffs the ends of my hair, reminding me I’m sweaty, filthy, and still wearing the same jacket that’s seen me through storm and mud. I cross the plaza quickly, heading toward a row of taxis. One driver sees me approach with tired eyes.
“Hallo?” he says, leaning out his window. “Where to?”
It takes me a second to conjure an answer. My mind scrambles. I can’t trust big, obvious hotels. I also can’t wander aimlessly in the city, not with Price's watchers possibly around. That card in my pocket feels like a burning brand, telling me there’s no outrunning them anymore. And yet…
I swallow hard. “Just…just drive,” I manage, fishing a handful of euros out of my pocket. “I’ll let you know when to stop.”
The driver, clearly unimpressed, shrugs and pulls away from the curb. As soon as we’re rolling, I sink into the seat, pressing my forehead against the cool window. Vienna’s architecture flashes by in elegant facades: old-world buildings, wrought-iron balconies, bright cafés with outdoor seating. Groups of tourists snap photos while locals navigate the streets with practiced ease.
I clamp my eyes shut. You did your job, Price told me. But the sense of accomplishment I should feel at surviving is swallowed by the knowledge that I’ve been a pawn all along. The phone number in my pocket might be a direct line to…what, exactly? An invitation to the same clandestine world that tried to kill me?
I recall every moment I nearly died: John pressing his weapon to my side on the bus, the freight yard worker shining a flashlight just inches away from my hiding spot, the border dogs barking while I held my breath in terror. And for what? So they could get their package delivered.
The taxi slows at a red light near a broad boulevard, flanked by a wide stone walkway and a manicured park. The driver half-turns. “You want to stop here?” he asks in accented English.
I glance out the window. The park is green and open, a few benches scattered beneath chestnut trees. It’s the kind of place you’d go to breathe fresh air or read a book in the sun. My instincts protest being in the open, but my body craves a moment’s pause.
“Yeah,” I say. “Here’s fine.”
I thrust some bills at him, enough to cover the short ride and a tip. He nods and thanks me, barely concealing his relief that his strange passenger is leaving so quickly. The car pulls away with a low rumble, merging back into the traffic.
I cross the street and slip into the park. A cluster of tourists stands near a statue taking selfies, while a couple of older men feed pigeons on a nearby bench. The place feels safe—quiet enough, but not so isolated I’d be easily cornered. I pick a spot under a large chestnut tree, where the shadow pools around me, and collapse onto an iron bench.
My entire body trembles once I’m seated, as though now that I’m not actively running, the weight of everything threatens to crush me. I take a few deep breaths, focusing on the hush of leaves overhead. The phone number. What if I call it? The idea makes my stomach churn. Would I get Price on the line? Or Ghost himself?
And if I don’t call, what then? Will they track me down anyway? They clearly have the reach and resources to pull off elaborate manipulations, orchestrate half a dozen near-death experiences. The more I think about it, the more my anger ferments—how dare they toy with my life like it’s just a piece on a board?
A pair of pigeons pecks the ground near my feet. I ignore them, leaning forward and burying my face in my hands. The memory of Price’s voice echoes: Choice is yours, lass. You earned it. What choice? It’s either play along with their next game or spend my life looking over my shoulder.
Minutes pass. My breathing steadies, though my mind is no calmer. I dig into my pocket, retrieving the card. It’s unassuming, just black digits on white. No international code, so presumably it’s a local line. I wonder if it’s already rung once, maybe while I wasn’t paying attention. You’d have heard it, I remind myself.
Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, the old survival logic stirs: Don’t make the call in public. If they’re using special software, they could zero in on me. Or maybe they already can.
I decide to find a more controlled environment, at least. Somewhere to gather my thoughts—maybe a hostel, something with enough traffic that I won’t be alone, but not so big that I stand out. Slowly, I rise from the bench, ignoring the ache in my side. One step at a time.
I wander out of the park, down a quieter side street lined with smaller shops. A battered sign reading “Zimmer Frei” catches my eye above a modest boarding house. Through the window, I glimpse a cramped lobby, a single desk with a tired-looking clerk. It’s nondescript enough that I might pass as just another budget traveller.
Inside, the floor squeaks under my boots. The clerk glances up, eyebrows raised, but doesn’t seem suspicious. I ask about a room for one night, pay in cash—what little I have left—and receive a key to a second-floor room. Just like that, I slip upstairs, each tread creaking with age.
The room is tiny, dominated by a single bed, a narrow wardrobe, and a small table with a chair. A sink stands in one corner, the mirror cracked at the edge. I lock the door behind me and lean my pack against the bed, sliding down until I’m seated on the thin mattress. My ribs protest, and my muscles scream for rest, but I can’t relax yet.
Only then do I pull out my phone, my battered old burner. My thumb hovers over the power button. The idea of calling that number sets my heart pounding all over again. I could also call my “handler,” the one who, for all I know now, was part of this con from the start. Would they admit it if I confronted them? Or is that line already shut down, another piece in Ghost’s elaborate puzzle?
My mouth feels dry. With a shaky breath, I switch the phone on. A faint beep. The screen flickers, then settles on the home screen. No messages, no missed calls. Typical for a phone that’s spent half its life off. I carefully punch in the number on Price’s card, the digits I memorized the moment I saw them, and then… I freeze.
A wave of nausea rolls through me as I think about Price’s confident smirk, the way he praised my “cleverness” while acknowledging they set me up from the start. Do I want to walk headfirst into another trap?
I press “Cancel,” letting the dialler window close. Not today. Not yet. Not until I’ve thought this through. Even if calling them is inevitable, I can’t rush in half-cocked.
Instead, I open the phone’s contact list—just the bare few numbers I have. My “handler” is still in there under some code name. The phone looms in my hand like a loaded gun. If I call the handler, do I risk Price or Ghost listening in? Possibly. My throat tightens. No. I’ll wait. Save my final calls for a time and place I control.
I toss the phone onto the pillow and slump forward, elbows on knees. My reflection in the cracked mirror stares back, eyes haunted. You got used, pure and simple. But in a bleak, twisted way, I survived. And if I can keep surviving, maybe—just maybe—I can turn this around.
What if I run? Just throw the phone away, ditch the card, vanish in some other country under an assumed identity? My meager funds say otherwise. And Ghost’s network has proven they can find me even if I’m careful. Look at how they pinned me down at that bus, or how John nearly ended me on that train.
I close my eyes, remembering John’s face. The casual cruelty, the satisfaction of having me cornered. Price said Ghost was impressed by how I dealt with it. The memory churns my gut, but a flicker of dark pride stirs. I did hold my own. I outmaneuvered them… somewhat.
A knock on the door startles me so fiercely that I half-jump. My heart slams into my ribs. A voice drifts in—female, maybe the clerk? “Hello? Alles okay?”
I realize I might have made a noise, or maybe she’s just being polite. “Yes, fine,” I call back, trying not to sound rattled. Footsteps retreat. I exhale, pressing a hand to my chest to calm the pounding heart. Paranoia’s not going away anytime soon.
Night draws closer through the window. I peel off my jacket, toe off my boots, and gingerly stretch out on the bed. The springs squeak. My eyes feel gritty with fatigue. Despite the swirl of my thoughts, my body insists on rest. Before I let sleep claim me, I reach over and flick off the light, plunging the room into shadows.
One last glance at the phone. Dark screen, no calls. The card sits on the bedside table, silent, an invitation or a threat. Perhaps both. In the darkness, I can’t help but wonder if this is how it always ends when you dance with shadows—given a false sense of freedom and a single lifeline that leads straight back to them.
Sleep comes in fits and starts, punctuated by half-waking nightmares of train brakes squealing and Captain Price’s voice telling me well done. But I cling to one truth: I’m still breathing, still free enough to choose my next step. For now.
Morning comes softly, with a pale grey light creeping around the edges of the thin curtains. I pry my eyes open, every muscle protesting as I swing my legs off the bed. My side twinges, but the pain feels a little less sharp than before, more of a deep bruise than a stabbing ache. I didn’t dream of John this time, or if I did, I’ve already pushed it away.
Washing up in the tiny sink, I avoid meeting my own eyes in the mirror. I’m not sure who I’ll see there—a fool or a survivor. Maybe both. My stomach grumbles, reminding me I should eat. There might be a bakery or café nearby. Something to set me up for another day of not knowing if Price's people will appear around the next corner.
I hesitate, looking at the phone again, then at Price’s card. Is today the day I face him? Or do I vanish? The swirl of indecision doesn’t fade, but I can’t stay paralyzed. Move, the voice in my head says. It saved me before; maybe it’ll save me again.
I pack up my meager belongings, slide into my jacket, and slip out of the room. The corridor is quiet, no sign of the clerk. I leave the key in the lock—no reason to linger—then step outside. The morning air is brisk and crisp on my cheeks, and the city hums with early activity. Delivery vans, cyclists heading to work, a handful of tourists consulting maps. No black SUVs or familiar faces.
Just for a moment, I let myself imagine a normal day: grabbing coffee, strolling the streets of Vienna without a care, visiting museums. The thought is so alien now it feels like a punch to the gut. Maybe someday, I think bitterly. But today, I have a choice to make.
Across the road, a small corner bakery catches my eye, the scent of fresh bread drifting out every time a customer opens the door. My stomach rumbles in earnest. Food first, then decisions.
I slip inside. It’s warm, the display full of pastries and rolls. I order a coffee and a simple sandwich, paying what’s left of my euros. With my tray, I retreat to a corner table, half-hidden behind a pillar. Old habits die hard, I guess.
The first bite of bread and ham tastes like heaven after days of scrounging. I nurse the coffee, letting it jolt some life into my veins. Outside the window, Vienna bustles. It’s easy to forget the city’s ancient walls and history, overshadowed by the modern rush of cars and commerce. I could slip into this swirl of normality… if it weren’t for the silent card in my jacket.
Eventually, I fish it out, laying it on the table next to my coffee cup. No frills, no name. Just numbers. My fingers hover over it. If I call, do I become Ghost’s operative? Some tool of Captain Price’s? If I don’t, do they come for me anyway? Which fate is worse?
I sigh, stuffing the card away before I spook the other patrons with my grim expression. Decision or not, I need more intel. If Ghost wants to recruit me or exploit me, maybe there’s a way to extract something from them. A guarantee of safety, or at least some currency to vanish for good.
The bell on the bakery door jingles, another customer entering. A surge of fear prickles my spine, but it’s just an elderly woman, checking the display. I exhale, finishing my coffee and sandwich. Time to move.
Back on the street, I angle toward a quiet side alley, a place to check my phone away from curious eyes. My reflection glides across a shop window: I look worn, hair in disarray, jacket stained with the remnants of my journey. But there’s a glint in my eyes that says I’m not beaten yet.
I stop at a graffitied wall near some dumpsters, the smell of old trash souring the air. Not ideal, but isolated enough. I flick the phone on. No new messages. No surprise. Did Price expect me to call so soon? Or is he deliberately giving me space, letting me stew?
My thumb hovers again over the keypad. The numbers from the card are etched in my memory. My heart thumps. Screw it. Maybe I can glean something from whoever picks up. Price. Ghost. Another operative. At least I’ll have some sense of how they plan to play me next.
I dial.
It rings once. Twice. Then a click—background static, a faint hiss like a secure line. My pulse jackhammers in my ears.
“Finally,” says a low, rumbling voice. It’s neither Price’s voice nor John's—someone else. The accent might be British with a hint of something else. “Was wondering when you’d ring.”
I swallow hard. “Where’s Price?”
A dry chuckle. “Busy. But he figured you’d call. Can’t say I blame you, after what you’ve been through.”
My pulse is a roar. “Then you know everything he told me. About… your arrangement.”
Another soft laugh. “Aye, we know. Don’t fret, love; you’re in good hands. This is just the next step. You want a face-to-face with Price, or would you rather speak to Ghost himself?”
A chill crawls up my spine. Ghost. The man behind the mask, the orchestrator of so many brutal operations. Do I want that? Is that even safe?
“Face-to-face with Price,” I force out, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “But on my terms.”
Another pause, then the man on the line hums thoughtfully. “On your terms, is it? Bold. We like that.”
I clench my free hand into a fist. “Name a place. I pick the time.”
“All right, love. There’s a café near the Belvedere Gardens—Kaffeehaüs Rosen. Quiet enough. Tomorrow morning, half-eight. You come alone. Price’ll do the same.”
I grit my teeth. “And if I see anyone else from your crew—”
A mirthless chuckle. “You won’t. But if it puts your mind at ease, sure. Just you and Price. That’s the deal.”
My heart thunders. “Fine. Tomorrow, 8:30.”
“Splendid,” he says, and I can almost see a predatory grin forming. “We’ll be waiting.”
The line goes dead, leaving me with my phone pressed to my ear. My stomach ties itself in knots. Tomorrow, Belvedere Gardens. A public spot, at least. If they want me dead, they could have done it already, but that’s small comfort.
I lean against the wall, breathing hard. My reflection in a puddle shows a woman on the edge—drawn, tired, but not broken. No, not yet. If they want to talk, I’ll talk. But I’m not about to be their puppet again. No more running, I decide. Either I get answers, or I find a way to turn the tables.
Shoving the phone in my pocket, I straighten my jacket. Tomorrow morning is my next showdown with Price, with Ghost’s operation as the silent threat looming behind him. I have one night to prepare, gather whatever scraps of advantage I can muster.
With a surge of adrenaline, I step back into the stream of Vienna’s streets. This time, I’m not stumbling half-dead toward a train or safehouse. This time, I’m choosing to face them head-on.
And one thing is certain: they won’t underestimate me again.
------------------
Dawn breaks over Vienna with a fragile hush. A light fog clings to the streets near the Belvedere Gardens, curling around the wrought-iron gates and the sculpted hedges beyond. It’s early—too early for most tourists—but you’re already here, waiting outside the agreed-upon café with your heart pounding against your ribs. The café’s sign, Kaffeehaüs Rosen, hangs above a tidy terrace, a few tables still stacked with chairs. A lone waiter fusses with the umbrellas, preparing for the day’s trickle of patrons.
The city is quiet enough that you can hear every step echo on the pavement, and every shadow in the fading dawn light seems like it might conceal someone from Ghost’s network. You’ve cased the area three times already, scanning for potential backup. If Captain Price brought an entourage, you can’t spot them. Which, of course, doesn’t mean they aren’t there.
You slip inside first, choosing a table by the window so you can watch the entrance. The interior is warm, smelling faintly of coffee and fresh pastries. Only one other customer lingers, reading a newspaper at the far end of the room, but you can’t afford to let your guard down. You order a coffee—mostly to keep the staff at bay—then hunker down, eyes flicking to the old-fashioned clock on the wall. Eight-twenty-five. Five minutes early.
At eight-thirty sharp, the door opens with a soft chime. Captain Price steps in, wearing a plain civilian jacket, a cap pulled low. Yet there’s no mistaking his posture—alert, balanced, as if he could slip into combat mode at a moment’s notice. His gaze roams the café, passes over you once, then settles back with a flicker of recognition. No smirk this time; just a firm set to his jaw.
He approaches your table, nods a greeting. “Morning,” he says quietly. His voice is gravelly, subdued.
You don’t bother with pleasantries. “You came alone?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Aye. Just me. Unless you’ve spotted a sniper I missed?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer, just eases into the chair opposite, his movements slow and deliberate. There’s no sign of a weapon, but you’re certain he’s carrying. You’re equally sure he knows you are, too.
Silence stretches. You study him, comparing the man in front of you to the one who orchestrated your entire hellish journey. He seems older in daylight—lines at the corners of his eyes, gray in his beard. Still, a formidable presence hangs around him, like a coiled spring waiting to be released.
“Fancy a coffee?” I ask, a perfunctory gesture of civility.
Price glances at my half-empty cup and shakes his head. “I’m good.” Then, leaning forward, he lowers his voice. “Took some nerve calling us yesterday.”
I bristle, recalling the smug phone operator who told me to meet here. “I didn’t see many other options. You and Ghost made sure of that.”
He exhales slowly. “Ghost,” he repeats, letting the name hover. “Look, I’m not going to apologize for how we handled things. We needed that package moved off the grid. And you—” he pauses, meeting your eyes, “—did the job better than half the professionals I know.”
The quiet praise sends a flash of conflicting emotions through me—anger, grudging pride, resentment. “I didn’t exactly volunteer, Captain.”
Price nods, a flicker of genuine regret softening his gaze. “No. You didn’t. But sometimes the lines we toe in this world aren’t neat. We needed deniability, unpredictability. You provided both.”
I hold his stare. “And now what? You gloat about how I’m stuck under Ghost’s thumb?”
He takes a moment to answer, drumming his fingers on the table. “Ghost doesn’t keep slaves,” he says at last. “He recruits allies. We all do. This line of work—Task Force 141—we rely on people who can think on their feet, go off-script. You proved you can.”
The words drop heavily between me. Task Force 141—the rumoured special-ops unit rumoured to be behind covert missions the public never hears about. I'd heard Ghost was involved with them, but seeing Price here, using the name so freely, is unsettling.
“Why me?” I manage.
A faint shrug. “Because you survived. Because you’re adaptable, and you’ve seen what it’s like to have the entire world at your throat. That kind of grit’s not easy to find. And, frankly, you’ve stumbled into knowledge about Ghost’s network that most outsiders never do.”
“So I’m a liability?” I say bitterly. “You’re offering me a spot on your task force or a bullet?”
His lips press into a thin line. “I’m giving you a choice. That card I handed you wasn’t just a courtesy. If you want out—truly out—we can make that happen. New life, a real chance to vanish. But if you want to use what you’ve learned, put your skills to something bigger…” He folds his hands on the table, letting the implication linger. “Then we need you in 141.”
Blood pounds in my ears. The entire café feels too small, the overhead lights too bright. “I don’t trust you. Any of you. After what you did—”
Price holds up a hand. “Understandable. But it’s the nature of the game, love. We’re fighting enemies that make the scum you saw look like amateurs. If Ghost employed unorthodox means to test you, that’s because he knows unorthodox is what we need. What’s coming… we can’t afford half-measures.” His eyes flicker with a seriousness that chills me more than any threat. “This world is hanging on by a thread some days. Task Force 141 exists to keep that thread from snapping.”
Silence once again. I shift in your seat, my leg bumping the table. Outside, I glimpse Belvedere’s sculpted gardens through the café window—tourists beginning to trickle in, snapping photos of the baroque palace facade. The peaceful scene clashes violently with the tension in your chest.
Finally, I break the hush. “If I say yes… what changes?”
Price’s gaze sharpens. “We train you, kit you up, set you on missions that matter. Real missions. You’ll work alongside Ghost, Soap, Gaz—other operators. The best in the business, no illusions. We’re not talking milk runs. We’re talking lines in the sand, black ops that never make the news.”
A lump catches in my throat. “And if I say no?”
He sighs. “We wipe your trail, give you enough resources to start fresh someplace far. But know this: if you want to vanish, we’ll expect your absolute silence. No contacting old friends, no revisiting your past. You’ll have to vanish completely.”
My heart throbs at the starkness of it. Either I entrench myself deeper in this clandestine world—or I bury every connection and live in the dark. Neither path feels safe or simple. But maybe that’s the point—this is the life they lead. The life I've already been dragged into.
Price stands, fishing a few euros from his pocket and dropping them on the table to cover my coffee. His face is unreadable. “I’ll give you some time. Figure out what you truly want. Tomorrow, midday. There’s a disused logistics depot near the Danube—Pier 27. If you’re in, be there. I’ll have transport waiting. If not…” He hesitates, then his features soften. “No hard feelings. We’ll help you fade away.”
He turns to go. Halfway to the door, he looks back. “And… for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about what you went through. If we had other options, we’d have taken ’em.”
Then he’s gone, leaving the lingering scent of strong cologne and gun oil in his wake. I stare at the vacant chair, mind reeling. Task Force 141. A myth made flesh. Ghost’s domain—and now Price’s. They want me in their ranks, just like that?
I stand unsteadily, ignoring the curious glance from the café’s lone waiter. Outside, the sun climbs over Vienna’s skyline, bright and lovely. I draw in a shaky breath. Tomorrow, midday. Another deadline. Another crossroads.
As I slip into the morning crowds, heart pounding, one thought blazes bright: Whatever I decide, there’s no going back.
Chapter 8
Chapter Text
I could hear the helicopter before I saw it, its rotor thump echoing against the abandoned containers and rusted machinery scattered around the old depot. The Danube glinted in the afternoon sunlight, the wind carrying a faint scent of river water. Every step I took across the broken concrete felt like a final goodbye to whatever life I’d had before—because once I climbed aboard, I knew there’d be no going back.
Sure enough, the black helo rose up from behind a corroded warehouse, engines roaring. Dust and grit whipped through the air, stinging my cheeks as I shielded my eyes. My heart kicked into high gear. I hadn’t truly let myself believe I would come. Part of me wondered if I’d still spin around, vanish into the nearest back-alley and forget this whole thing. But I didn’t. I stood there, letting that rotor wash hammer over me.
A figure leaned out from the side door, wearing black fatigues and a skull-patterned balaclava—impossible not to recognize. It was Ghost, the one man I’d dreaded more than any of them, yet ironically the one I’d now be working under if all this panned out. He didn’t wave or give any sign of greeting, just gave a curt beckon with his gloved hand. Almost as if he could barely be bothered.
I forced my legs to move, hoisting myself up onto the skids. Dust swirled my jacket, tangling my hair across my face. Ghost’s grip was firm but impersonal, helping me inside without a word. He slammed the door, shutting out the worst of the rotor noise. Almost immediately, the helicopter lurched upwards, engines whining in a climb over the rooftops.
“Nice to see you made it,” came a Scottish-accented voice from the other side of the cabin—John “Soap” MacTavish. He was strapped into a seat across from me, half-grinning in a way that felt halfway apologetic.
Ghost settled beside him, rifle across his chest, gaze flicking over me for barely a second before he turned his eyes to the window. No nod, no small talk—just that cold skull mask reminding me how lethal he was.
Soap cleared his throat, leaning forward so I could hear him above the pounding rotors. “Sorry about the bus business, lass,” he said, a sheepish tilt to his grin. “Pulling a gun on you wasn’t exactly my proudest moment. Orders are orders, you know?”
My chest tightened at the memory. “It’s a hell of a way to say hello,” I shot back, though my voice trembled slightly. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
He grimaced, running a hand over his buzzed hair. “Aye, can’t blame you for hating me after that. Just hope we can leave it behind us.”
I let out a breath, glancing sideways. Ghost said nothing—hadn’t so much as acknowledged me beyond hauling me inside. His eyes remained fixed on the far corner of the helicopter cabin or maybe the city shrinking below. Tense silence radiated from him, like I wasn’t even worth a nod.
I tried not to let it dig under my skin. “We’ll see,” I told Soap, keeping my tone neutral. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“Aye, you are,” Soap said, managing a relieved smile. “Means you’re braver than most. Or crazier. Not sure which.”
That earned him the barest flicker of a glance from Ghost, like a silent rebuke, but the masked operator said nothing.
The helicopter banked left, the cityscape swapping out for farmland and winding roads. Adrenaline still buzzed in my veins, a physical reminder that I was leaving everything familiar behind—and that these people, specifically Ghost, had once hunted me. Now I was supposedly on their side. The dissonance knotted my gut.
“So,” I ventured after a minute, turning toward Ghost. “Price said I’d be training with you all. That’s… it?”
His gaze shifted to me, just for an instant. Then he exhaled softly, as if inconvenienced. “You’ll get your mission briefings soon,” he said, voice low, clipped. “Until then, keep your eyes open and your mouth shut.”
My jaw tensed. I wanted to snap back about how I’d been forced into all this, but one look at that chilling skull mask snuffed out the urge. Whatever I was feeling—fear, anger, curiosity—Ghost plainly had no interest in hearing it.
Soap cut in, offering a half-smile. “What he means is, once we’re settled at the safehouse, Price’ll walk you through the next steps. Ghost here’s just not the chatty type.”
“Right,” I muttered, trying not to let Ghost’s cold shoulder rankle me further. Instead, I glanced at Soap. “And you? Still about to test me with more guns to my head?”
He chuckled, though his tone was sincere. “Nah. You’ve proved yourself enough, I reckon.” Then he lowered his voice. “Honestly, lass, I’m glad you’re here. Means you’re tougher than we thought.”
I wasn’t sure if that was comfort or a backhanded compliment. Either way, the helicopter rumbled onward, rotors hammering overhead. My eyes flicked to Ghost again, searching his body language for any flicker of acceptance. There was none—just a rigid posture, arms folded, mask angled away. Like I was an intruder on his flight rather than a new recruit.
Fine. If he wanted to be distant, I could handle that. Better than forced camaraderie, anyway. I settled back in the seat, tension never leaving my muscles. Outside, the horizon stretched wide, fields and hills rolling beneath the aircraft.
“It’s a long flight?” I ventured, directing the question to neither of them in particular.
Soap shrugged. “Not too long. We’re meeting with Price in another AO, then shipping out.” He paused, eyeing me carefully. “You do realize this is a serious step, right? Once you’re with us, there’s no half-in, half-out.”
“I know,” I said quietly. My stomach twisted at the memory of Price giving me the choice: vanish into obscurity or dive deeper into Task Force 141. I’d chosen. Now I had to live with it.
Ghost shifted, giving Soap a brief, pointed look. “Enough,” he muttered, as if even this small talk was too much.
Soap cleared his throat and busied himself checking gear. I swallowed a lump in my throat and stared at the floor. In that moment, I felt the weight of Ghost’s presence more acutely than any words could convey. I’d been around soldiers, mercenaries, all manner of dangerous types—but something about Ghost was icier, more indifferent. Like my existence was a mild inconvenience he had to tolerate because Price insisted I was worth it.
Well, if he was going to be cold, I could be distant too. I set my jaw, forcing my heartbeat to slow. However bumpy this ride got, I refused to flinch. They’d orchestrated half my nightmares already, and I’d survived. I could survive Ghost’s frosty demeanor as well.
Soap fiddled with a strap, then offered me a headset. “Might help with the noise,” he said, subdued. I accepted, fitting the cups over my ears. Ghost had his own, angled just enough to presumably monitor our conversation but give no input.
The rotor noise dulled a bit once I had the headset on, replaced by a faint buzz of static. I risked a glance at Ghost—still statue-like. I looked away, tension coiling in my gut. Fine. Let him brood.
Gazing out the window, I realized I felt something unexpected: a flicker of resolve. If Ghost wanted me to prove myself, I would. If I had to endure his silent disapproval, so be it. I wasn’t here for his praise; I was here because Price said there was a bigger fight coming, a world that needed defenders as ruthless as the threats it faced.
My reflection stared back from the chopper’s window—worn, a bit haunted, but alive. Alive and ready to see where this path leads.
Over the intercom, Soap’s voice came through, slightly tinny. “You doing okay, lass?”
I kept my gaze on the passing fields. “Yeah,” I said softly. “Just… getting used to it.”
“Good.” A pause. “We’ll make a proper 141 operator out of you yet.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Ghost shift a fraction, as if listening, but he still didn’t speak. In the dull hum of the helicopter cabin, I steeled myself for whatever lay ahead—training, missions, more tests. If Ghost wanted distant and cold, I’d meet him there. Because I sure as hell wasn’t running again.
The helicopter soared higher, leaving Vienna and my old life behind. Soap tried a faint smile my way, and I nodded, acknowledging our uneasy truce. Ghost didn’t move, arms crossed over his gear, mask staring emptily at the horizon.
------------------
The helicopter’s touchdown was abrupt and jarring, the skids scraping against a rocky landing pad behind what looked like an aging farmhouse. I gripped the overhead handhold, fighting to keep from rattling into Soap’s lap. Ghost barely flinched—like an inert statue strapped to his seat, unbothered by the sudden bump.
When the rotors finally wound down enough to let us talk without shouting, Soap unclicked his harness and hopped onto the dusty ground. He glanced back at me and offered a lopsided smile as if to say, Welcome to your new home, then grabbed a couple of rucksacks from the rear cargo space. Ghost was already sliding the helicopter door open, stepping out without a word. A hot wind whipped through, carrying the smell of wild grass and old wood.
I followed, trying not to let my nerves show. We’d landed behind the farmhouse, which sat on a swath of arid land ringed by mountains in the distance. A scattering of barns, half-collapsed sheds, and a few battered vehicles made it clear this place was only masquerading as rural property. No sign of civilization beyond the horizon. Perfect for a covert hideout.
A figure emerged from the farmhouse’s back door—Price, wearing the same plain jacket I’d seen him in before, though now he also sported a brimmed hat to shield his face from the sun. He paused at the threshold, arms crossed, observing us. Or rather, observing me. The battered helicopter and the swirling dust didn’t seem to faze him.
Ghost strode past me, rifle barrel pointing down, every movement precise but dispassionate. He offered Price a curt nod and kept walking, disappearing around the side of the farmhouse. No small talk, no greeting. I wasn’t sure if he was off to secure the perimeter or just keen to avoid me. Possibly both.
Soap gave Price a quick salute—casual but respectful—before setting the rucksacks on the ground. “Found our lass here wandering around the old depot,” he said in an exaggerated tone, as if we’d just bumped into each other randomly. “Figured we’d bring her along.”
I rolled my eyes at him, and Price’s mouth quirked in the barest hint of amusement. “Glad to see you made your choice,” he said, addressing me directly. “I wasn’t entirely sure which way you’d jump.”
A ghost of a laugh escaped me—nerves, mostly. “Neither was I.” I took a breath, scanning the yard and the silent, dusty farmland around us. “So, this is it? Secret training ground?”
“Temporary,” Price corrected. “We’ll rotate out soon enough. But it’s remote, and we can run you through some basics here without prying eyes.”
“Basics,” I echoed, stomach twisting. “Meaning I’m about to get tossed in the deep end?”
He offered a faint shrug, stepping aside so I could pass into the farmhouse. “You’ve already proven you can swim. This is just to see how well you handle real structure—firearms protocols, infiltration techniques, team comms. Might not be as dramatic as everything that led you here, but it’ll fill the gaps.”
Inside, the farmhouse was cool and dim, the windows covered with heavy curtains that let in only ribbons of light. From the outside, it had looked rustic and neglected; in here, it was all reinforced walls, heavy doors, and a labyrinth of corridors leading to who-knew-where. Soap trailed behind, still lugging the gear.
Price led me into what must’ve once been a living room, now converted into a command space. A big wooden table squatted in the center, spread with topographic maps, half an armory’s worth of rifles leaning against one wall. A battered couch was shoved into a corner, maybe for crash space. It smelled faintly of coffee, gun oil, and dust.
Ghost stood near a side table stacked with crates, flipping through a sheaf of documents. He didn’t look up as we entered. I braced myself for a frosty greeting, but he didn’t speak.
Price cleared his throat. “We’ll get you quartered first, then do a rundown of standard procedures. Soap, show her to that spare room upstairs, yeah?”
“Aye, Cap,” Soap said. He tilted his head at me. “Come on, lass. Best get you sorted before Ghost tosses you into target drills.”
I snuck a quick look at Ghost, half-hoping for any sign of engagement. Nothing—just a stony mask in the shape of a skull, eyes scanning the files. Fine, then. I let Soap guide me out of the makeshift command room, down a narrow hallway, and up a flight of creaking stairs. The boards groaned underfoot, dust swirling in the sunbeams that broke through cracked windows.
“So,” Soap said once we were out of earshot, “don’t mind Ghost. He’s… well, you’ve seen him.” He paused, grimacing. “He’s not one for small talk or, y’know, feelings. Don’t take it personal.”
“I won’t,” I said, trying to sound firm. “Just… I guess I expected something else.”
Soap let out a short laugh. “Hah. What, you wanted a hug and a Hallmark card from the big scary operator in a skull mask?”
I rolled my eyes, but a tiny smile twitched at my lips. “Not exactly. It’d just be nice to know if he hates me or if he’s just like that with everyone.”
“He’s like that with everyone,” Soap assured me. “You’ll see him lighten up only if bullets start flying, and even then, it’s not exactly sunshine. But trust me, if Ghost’s in your corner, that’s worth more than a thousand chatterboxes who’ll bail at the first sign of trouble.”
I sucked in a breath, nodding slowly. The recollection of how meticulously Ghost had orchestrated my entire ordeal still stung, but maybe it was easier to lump it in with his unwavering sense of mission. If he was that cold to everyone, maybe it was better than him singling me out.
Soap pushed open a door at the end of the hall. It led into a small bedroom—bare mattress, a single lamp, and a metal footlocker. One window overlooked the barren fields. Not exactly cozy, but I’d slept in far worse places recently.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, dropping the rucksack. “We’re short on pillows, so…” He shrugged apologetically. “I’ll see if I can scrounge an extra.”
“It’s fine,” I replied, stepping inside. The floor squeaked as I set my bag down. “I’ve gone without a bed or a pillow for days. This is an improvement.”
“Aye, I remember,” he said, eyes darkening with regret for a moment. Then he seemed to shake it off, giving me a friendly clap on the shoulder—gentler than I expected. “Rest if you need. Captain’ll want you in the training area out back soon. Don’t let Ghost catch you snoozing, though—he’ll have you running drills ‘til midnight for that.”
I managed a wry nod. “Right. Thanks, Soap.”
“Anytime, lass.” He flashed a grin and headed back downstairs, boots thumping on the rickety steps.
I stood in the middle of the room, soaking in the quiet. My reflection in the dusty mirror over the dresser looked exhausted, hair tangled from the helicopter ride, eyes rimmed with fatigue. But there was a new tension in my posture, too—like my body recognized I was on the cusp of something. An actual place in Task Force 141, or so Price said.
Dropping onto the mattress, I ran a hand over my face. Everything about this situation was unreal: Ghost, with that frosty detachment; Soap, half-apologizing for the bus incident; Price, calmly telling me I was about to become a black-ops operative. Yet this was the path I’d chosen rather than vanish off the grid. There had to be a reason. Some shred of hope that I could do more than just survive. Maybe even do some good.
A soft knock on the open doorframe made me jolt. I looked up to see Ghost standing there, arms folded. My heart kicked in surprise—I hadn’t heard him approach. He was that quiet. Even now, he didn’t step in or fully meet my eyes; just hovered at the threshold like he was revaluating whether to speak at all.
After a long moment, he said, “We start in thirty minutes. Outside. Don’t be late.” His voice was low, flat.
I nodded. “Understood.”
He gave a curt dip of his head, turned to go, then hesitated. It was barely perceptible—a tiny pause in his step. I held my breath, waiting, but if he was about to say something else, he changed his mind. He left without another word, footsteps silent on the old floorboards.
Once he was gone, I exhaled shakily. At least he’d come to tell me in person. Maybe that was a small sign that I wasn’t a complete outcast here. Of course, he might’ve just wanted to ensure I didn’t screw up the schedule. Either way, I’d better not be late.
I cast one more glance around the sparse room, then got up to check the footlocker. Inside, I found a few sets of fatigues—probably courtesy of Price or Soap—and some basic gear. Enough to start with, I assumed. At the bottom, a pair of boots that looked roughly my size. Everything reeked of that gun-oil-and-dust smell that clings to every safehouse. A new uniform for a new life.
Rubbing the tension from my neck, I made a decision: I’ll prove to Ghost and the rest of them that I’m not just some random stray who got cornered. I survived their twisted test once before. I could do it again, but this time, on my own terms. If Ghost wanted cold professionalism, I’d match him. If the entire 141 needed me to fight as fiercely as I ran, then fine—let them see what I could do.
I dressed in the fatigues, laced up the boots, and took one last calming breath. Thirty minutes, Ghost had said. Outside. I could handle that. I shoved a few personal items into the footlocker, grabbed a spare hair tie to manage the tangled mess I called hair, and headed out.
Downstairs, the farmhouse was silent but for faint voices from somewhere outside—Price’s measured cadence, Soap’s lighter tone, maybe. I squared my shoulders and stepped through the back door into the bright sun. A dusty yard stretched out, ringed by wooden fences in dire need of repair, with a makeshift shooting range set up at one side. A couple of target silhouettes bobbed in the breeze, bullet holes pockmarking their surfaces.
Ghost stood by a stack of crates, arms still folded, mask giving me nothing. He nodded once when I approached, then jerked his head toward the shooting range. “We’ll start with marksmanship,” he said, voice clipped. “Hope your aim’s better than your timing.”
I blinked—I’m not late. But maybe he was just being prickly. I swallowed back a retort. “Yes, sir.”
A flicker crossed his gaze, like he might’ve found the “sir” unnecessary or irritating. But he said nothing. Soap ambled over, looking far more relaxed, an armful of rifles clutched against his chest.
“Right then,” Soap said, “basics first. We see what you’ve got in broad daylight, with no pressure. Then Ghost’ll figure out how far you can be pushed.”
“I can handle pressure,” I muttered, bristling a little. No need to remind me how they’d tested me before.
Ghost’s stance shifted, though he didn’t look at me directly. “We’ll see,” was all he said.
And so the day began—my first official training session with Task Force 141. I couldn’t say whether Ghost’s presence made me more determined or more uneasy. Maybe both. Either way, I grabbed a rifle from Soap, set my jaw, and readied myself to prove I wasn’t just some broken pawn they’d salvaged from a twisted mission. I was here to stay, whether Ghost approved or not.
As I lined up my sights on the target, bracing against the midday glare, I felt the weight of Ghost’s stare on my back. Cold. Assessing. Fine. Let him watch. Let him keep his distance. I’d show them all I could do more than run—I could stand my ground in this world of shadows.
Then I squeezed the trigger.
I squeeze the trigger, and the rifle kicks against my shoulder. The first shot rips through the still air, slamming into the target with a dull whump. A neat hole appears near the center of the silhouette—close to the bull’s-eye, but not perfect. My pulse thumps in my ears, adrenaline spiking despite the relative calm of this makeshift shooting range.
Soap, standing a little behind me, whistles softly. “Not bad, lass. You sure you’ve never done any formal training?”
I lower the rifle, resisting the urge to rub my shoulder. “All the shooting I’ve done was out of necessity,” I admit, recalling all the times I’d scrambled for my life, bullets zipping around me. “That tends to force a quick learning curve.”
He chuckles. “Aye, that it does.” He points to the side, indicating I should shift to another position. “Try prone next,” he instructs. “Different angles, different stances. You never know which one’ll keep you alive.”
I nod, dropping to my belly on the dry ground, the rifle cradled against me. Dust clouds swirl around my elbows as I settle. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Ghost, arms folded, mask unreadable. He hasn’t said much beyond barked instructions or clipped assessments. I exhale, aligning my sights on the battered silhouette. Focus on the shot, I remind myself, ignoring his presence.
The second round punches through the target’s lower torso. Not a perfect hit, but decent enough. Before I can reset, Ghost’s low voice cuts through the warm air: “Higher.” He says it like an order, flat and distant.
I adjust, breath steady, and let off another shot. It whacks the silhouette right about the heart. I can’t read Ghost’s expression—there isn’t one to read behind that skull pattern—but I sense a faint nod, like he’s acknowledging the improvement. Then he slips away without a word, disappearing behind the truck that holds extra gear.
So that’s how it’s going to be, I think, annoyance swirling in my gut. I push both aside and keep firing. One after another, the bullets slam home. Each time, I refine my stance, adjusting the angle of my elbows, the tension in my shoulder. Soap occasionally murmurs pointers—“Watch your breathing,” “Shift left foot back,” “Take an extra second if you need it.” He’s easygoing, never too pushy. If anything, it contrasts sharply with Ghost’s silent, chilly oversight.
When my magazine finally clicks empty, I prop myself up, dust caking my forearms. Soap checks the target with a small pair of binoculars. “Spread’s decent,” he says. “Couple strays. But if that were a live hostile, you’d be in pretty good shape.”
“Great,” I mutter, pushing to my feet. The sun beats down on us, sweat trickling along my temple. “So, who’s next—Ghost gonna give me a personal lecture on posture?” My voice edges into a sarcastic bite.
Soap’s mouth quirks in a half-smile. “He’s not the lecturing type. More the ‘get it done or get out’ type.” He hands me a bottle of water from a wooden crate. “Drink. We’ve got more drills after this.”
I gulp the lukewarm water, my mind racing. This is day one of official training, and I already feel the tension pooling in my muscles. But there’s a sort of grim satisfaction too—I’m doing it on my terms now, not because they forced me to run. I glance around for Ghost and catch sight of him in the distance, talking quietly with Price near the farmhouse door. He’s turned partially away, arms loose at his sides, posture relaxed yet purposeful. I can’t hear a word of what they’re saying, but every so often, Price nods, as if in agreement. Then Ghost peels off, striding along the fence line with that effortless quiet.
Soap snaps his fingers gently in front of my face. “Focus, lass. You can brood over Ghost’s mood swings later.” He jerks his head toward a set of metal barriers. “We’ll run you through movement drills—firing on the go, quick reloads. That’s the real test of an operator in the field.”
I suppress a sigh and follow him, letting the slight adrenaline buzz keep me alert. As we approach the barriers, I notice the ground’s been marked with chalk lines or scuffed footprints, probably from earlier practice. The contraption of barriers, crates, and old car doors forms a mini-obstacle course.
Soap gestures with a grin. “Think of it like a game—move from cover to cover, pop off shots, reload under pressure. Just do it faster than you think you can.”
“Because in a real fight, everything’s going to be chaos,” I say, finishing his thought. “Got it.”
He winks. “See? You’re already learning the lingo. Let’s see how your feet keep up.”
Time to Move
We jump right into it. I sprint from the start line, rifle up, scanning for the makeshift targets scattered behind crates or pinned to crates. Soap calls out scenarios: “Threat left! Cover right!” Over the rattle of my own footsteps, I can hear my breath rasping, feel my heart pounding. I drop behind a rusted car door, popping out to tag a cardboard shape in the distance. Then I pivot, reloading on the move.
The dryness of the air bakes my lungs. Each shot echoes through the yard, dust pluming around me whenever I slide into cover. My accuracy’s rough at first—I flinch, misjudge, fumble my magazine. But I force myself to adapt, to keep going. The tension in my shoulders loosens each time I land a shot in the target’s torso, each time I remember to tuck my rifle tight.
Soap’s voice is constant background noise: “Move, move, move!” “Faster reload!” “Check your six!” I hear it, obey it, let it guide my mind through the swirl of sweat and concentration.
After a handful of runs, I’m panting, arms trembling from the rifle’s repeated recoil. I slump against the last crate, chest heaving. The final cardboard target has three neat holes across its chest. Soap steps up, wiping sweat from his brow, a broad grin on his face.
“Well done, lass,” he says, sincerity lacing his words. “You catch on quick.”
I try to nod, but mostly I’m trying to suck air. “You… better not say ‘not bad for a newbie,’” I manage between breaths.
He snorts. “Nah, I’d say you’re borderline scary for someone who claims no formal training.” Then he glances past me, toward the farmhouse, and his grin fades. “Look alive.”
I follow his gaze. Ghost stands maybe ten yards away, watching. Again, I have no idea how long he’s been there. For all I know, he saw me trip over my own boots a minute ago. He approaches, that skull mask revealing nothing.
Soap turns to him, all casual. “She’s done well, Ghost. Natural reflexes, good aim. We can refine the rest.”
Ghost’s eyes shift to me for a split second, flicking down at the muzzle of my rifle, then up to meet mine. “Plenty of room for improvement,” he says, voice flat. “But the fundamentals aren’t useless.”
I almost retort that I don’t remember asking for a compliment, but I bite it back. That’s probably the closest thing to praise I’ll get from him. Instead, I just nod, hooking my rifle’s sling over my shoulder. “Thanks,” I say curtly.
He doesn’t respond, just tilts his head in a silent sign for me to follow. With a quiet sigh, I trail behind him and Soap toward the farmhouse again. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty yard, and my legs ache from half a day of crouching and sprinting.
Price is waiting by the door, arms folded. “Good session?” he asks, scanning our expressions.
Soap answers first, a glimmer of pride in his voice. “She’s solid, Cap. Needs more practice under pressure, but we can work on that.”
Price looks at me, eyes weighing. “How do you feel?”
Wiping sweat from my brow, I try to keep my tone steady. “Tired. But it beats running for my life with no plan.”
A corner of Price’s mouth lifts—like an almost-smile. “Glad to hear it.” His focus shifts to Ghost, who offers the slightest shrug. Price seems to interpret that as acceptance. Then he gestures to the door. “Let’s debrief inside. I’ll give you a sense of what to expect next.”
I follow them through the threshold, stepping once more into the cooler interior. The small command center is dim in the late-afternoon light, a single lamp glowing over the big wooden table. My mouth feels parched, the last of my water gone. I spot a half-filled jug near the maps, so I fill a chipped mug. The water’s lukewarm but a relief on my throat.
Ghost stands off to one side, not bothering to remove his mask. Soap leans against the table, arms crossed lightly. Price clears a space on the tabletop, brushing aside a few documents. He taps the surface, indicating for me to step closer.
“All right,” he begins, voice low but purposeful. “You’ve had your initial run—shooting, moving. Next, we expand your skillset. We’ll cover infiltration basics, stealth kills, and situational awareness in close-quarters battle. You’ve had a taste of chaos before, but now we refine that into proper technique. Understood?”
My stomach flips at the phrase stealth kills. But I nod. “Yes.”
Price angles his head toward Ghost. “He’ll oversee the infiltration drills tomorrow morning. Expect him to be thorough.”
I can’t help but dart a quick glance at Ghost’s unwavering mask. Thorough, in his case, probably means punishing. Still, I swallow my nerves. “Ready when you are,” I say.
Soap snickers under his breath. “Careful, lass—Ghost can take that as a challenge.”
Ghost’s gaze shifts to me, cold and neutral. “We’ll see if your readiness holds up under real pressure.”
“Anyway,” Price interjects, corralling the conversation, “we’ll run a night-sim eventually, but for now, you’ve done enough. Get some rest, eat something. Tomorrow will be more intense.”
I exhale, exhaustion tugging at my limbs. “Understood,” I repeat, quieter. The relief at finishing the day’s drills mingles with a knot of apprehension about what “more intense” might entail.
Price dismisses us with a firm nod. Soap heads off, presumably to store the rifles and gear. Ghost remains, silent, sorting through the documents scattered on the table. I linger a moment, unsure whether I should slip away or wait for some parting instruction. Finally, I turn to go, stepping into the hallway.
“Good work today,” Price says behind me, soft enough that I almost miss it.
I pause, glancing back. Ghost doesn’t even look up—he’s fully absorbed in the files or maybe just ignoring me. But Price meets my eyes, a hint of approval in his expression. I give him a small nod, then head upstairs to the spare room.
Inside, I collapse onto the thin mattress, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My body’s sore, my mind buzzing from everything that’s happened. Days ago, I was running from Ghost’s lethal shadow; now I’m taking orders from him, training with him. And somehow, it almost feels… right. Or at least, less wrong than being a perpetual fugitive.
Kicking off my boots, I stretch out and stare at the ceiling. Through the small window, the late sunlight filters in, painting the floor in stripes of gold. My pulse begins to slow. Despite Ghost’s icy demeanor—and the lingering resentment I have for what they put me through—I can’t deny a quiet sense of accomplishment. I wanted to prove I wasn’t just a pawn or a victim, and I’m doing that.
I can’t help wondering what tomorrow’s infiltration drill will look like, how Ghost will push me. The thought scares me a little, but a spark of excitement flickers in my chest. If I can endure that, maybe I’ll earn a shred of real acknowledgment from him—or, at the very least, confirm to myself that I can handle the darkness these operators face every day.
My eyes drift shut, exhaustion taking hold. The scent of gun oil and dust clings to the sheets, to my fatigues. For the first time, I don’t mind. I’m here by choice, I remind myself. Let Ghost be distant and cold all he wants. I’ll fight on my own terms now.
Soon enough, I slip into a restless half-sleep, lulled by the hum of quiet activity downstairs. In my dreams, bullets zip overhead, masked figures beckon me forward, and a skull-faced ghost stands at the edges of my vision—silent, watchful, waiting for me to prove my worth.
I wake to pale light slicing through the cracked blinds, the dawn chorus a faint chirp in the distance. For a moment, I forget where I am—until I shift on the thin mattress and the ache in my muscles reminds me of yesterday’s drills. Then it all floods back: the farmhouse safehouse, Ghost’s silent scrutiny, and the knowledge that I signed up for this madness.
Pushing upright, I run a hand through my tangled hair. My watch reads a little past six. Early, but not as early as Ghost or Soap probably are. I tug on a fresh set of fatigues, grimacing at the soreness in my shoulders. I’ll get used to it, I tell myself.
Downstairs, the house is quiet except for faint clinks of pans from somewhere near the kitchen. The command room sits deserted in the dim morning light. I notice the table is now tidied up, maps stacked in neat piles. Ghost’s handiwork, probably—he seems like the type who leaves no clutter behind.
I slip outside to catch a breath of cool air. The yard still has that faintly dusty aroma, and the early sun casts long shadows across the makeshift range. A figure stands near one of the decaying fences—Soap, sipping what smells like strong coffee from a tin cup. When he spots me, he tips it in greeting.
“Mornin’, lass,” he calls. “You sleep all right?”
“Well enough,” I say, joining him by the fence. The sky stretches overhead, a pale wash of color. “What’s on the schedule today?”
“More drills, I’d wager. Ghost might drag you through infiltration basics, or maybe Price’ll step in. Hard to say.” He takes another swig, then cocks his head. “But, we’ve got visitors coming.”
“Visitors?” I echo, frowning. “That’s safe?”
Soap grins. “They’re family—Task Force 141. Gaz’ll be here, at least. Not sure if we’ll see anyone else, but the Cap mentioned bringing the rest of the team for an op coming up.”
A ripple of tension and curiosity runs through me. More operators, more eyes on me. Gaz—John “Kyle” Garrick, if I remember the scuttlebutt. Another top-tier soldier. I swallow, my nerves and excitement mingling in a way that’s become uncomfortably familiar.
Before I can ask more, Ghost appears from around the side of the farmhouse, moving like a silent shadow. He’s in full gear already—rifle slung across his chest, mask as impassive as ever. His gaze flicks between me and Soap, then he jerks his head toward the front yard. “They’ll land in ten,” he says, voice low.
So that’s that. Soap sets his tin cup on the fence post, claps me on the shoulder, and starts toward the farmhouse’s front. Ghost doesn’t wait—he’s already striding off without another glance. I steel myself and follow.
We gather in the sparse dirt patch that passes for a front yard. The sun’s climbing higher, washing the land in a crisp morning glow. Price stands with his arms folded, eyes on the sky. I settle off to the side, trying not to look too out of place. Soap offers me a half-smile, like he knows I’m on edge.
A distant hum grows into the thwap-thwap of helicopter rotors. Eventually, a sleek bird appears over the horizon, angling toward us. Dust whips in every direction as it descends, and I lift an arm to shield my face.
The moment the skids touch down, two figures hop out, ducking under the spinning blades. The pilot throttles down, letting the engine idle. One figure is lean, in standard fatigues and a ball cap, an M4 strapped across his chest—I recognize him from a few scattered references: Gaz. The other is also kitted up, though less heavily, scanning the perimeter with a practiced eye. Probably one of the lesser-known operators—maybe from the support side of 141.
Price steps forward, offering Gaz a handshake. They exchange a few words I can’t hear over the rotor wash. The second newcomer nods politely at Soap, who greets him with a grin and a quick pat on the back. Ghost stands slightly off to the side, giving them both a curt dip of his head in acknowledgment.
Finally, the blades wind down enough that the noise fades to a dull roar. Gaz tugs off his cap, wiping sweat from his brow. His gaze sweeps around, landing on me for a half-second. There’s curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he addresses Price. “Guess the family’s all here, yeah?”
Price’s mouth tightens in a small smile. “Close enough. Got an op we might need the full set for, but for now, you’ll do.” He gestures toward me. “We’ve got a new addition. She’s in training.”
Gaz’s brow quirks—he gives me a polite nod. “I’ve heard bits. Glad to have you, then.”
I nod back, pulse quickening at the easy acceptance in his tone. No cold shoulder like Ghost, no awkward joking like Soap. Just straightforward. “Thanks. Glad to be here.”
Price gestures for everyone to move inside. “We’ll debrief in the command room. Keep it tight.”
We file in, stomping dust from our boots. The operator who came with Gaz introduces himself—Mace, apparently. Quiet type, but friendly enough. The group packs into the living area, rifles clutched or slung, gear rattling. Suddenly, the farmhouse feels a bit crowded, a swirling energy of top-tier operators preparing for something big.
Ghost leans against the wall near the front window, keeping his distance as usual. Soap claims a spot at the table, exchanging light banter with Gaz about the flight. Price stands at the head of the table, waiting for silence.
After a moment, he gets it. The weight of his presence, plus the hush of Ghost’s watching eyes, is enough to quell side talk. Price’s gaze flicks to me once before he addresses them all.
“Welcome back to the fold,” he says to Gaz and Mace. “We’ve got a potential operation in the pipeline—details still developing. In the meantime, you two can help accelerate our new recruit’s orientation.” He nods in my direction. “She’s proven capable under duress, but formal structure’s another beast. Ghost and Soap started her on shooting and movement drills. Next is infiltration.”
Gaz folds his arms, smiling faintly. “Infiltration’s my specialty. Happy to oblige.”
Mace, quiet, just dips his head in agreement.
Price raps his knuckles on the table. “Good. Keep it local for now—rural surroundings give us room to test night ops, infiltration tactics, close quarters. We’ll get you all up to speed on the broader mission once I’ve confirmed the intel with HQ. Any questions?”
Soap half-raises a hand, glancing my way. “Should I keep running her through marksmanship this afternoon, or d’you want her in infiltration first?”
“Both,” Ghost interjects from the wall. His tone is cool, clipped. “She can handle it.”
I feel a flicker of annoyance at the fact that he talks about me like I’m not standing right here. But I clamp down on it, forcing my expression neutral. At least he’s acknowledging I can handle the pace.
Price nods. “You heard the man. Push her, but don’t break her.” He turns to me directly. “If you’ve any issue with the workload, speak up. We don’t want you out of the fight before you’re even in it.”
“I’ll manage,” I say, voice steady. I don’t miss the faint nod from Gaz, like he’s quietly approving of my determination.
Price dismisses us, and the team scatters—Gaz and Mace to drop their gear, Soap heading out back to prep more targets, Ghost lingering for a moment with Price. I catch Ghost’s murmur, something about “infil site,” but he’s so quiet I can’t parse the rest. Then they’re both gone, leaving me to stand there feeling like a stray dog that just got adopted into a pack of wolves.
Eventually, Gaz steps over, offering a slight grin. “Heard you gave Soap a run for his money on the bus. That’s one for the books.”
Heat prickles my cheeks. “Yeah, well… not exactly my proudest moment. I’m sure you know how they test people.”
Gaz’s smile is wry. “I do. Didn’t say it was fair, just that it’s how they make sure you don’t crack under pressure. Sounds like you passed.”
I exhale softly. “Hope so.” Then I glance around, the farmhouse feeling both crowded and oddly cozy. “So, infiltration?”
He nods. “I’ll walk you through the fundamentals. Movement in darkness, silent takedowns, using environment as cover. We’ll do a practice run tonight, maybe. Daylight recon, then we go in after sundown.”
“Sounds… intense.” I manage a small laugh. “But I guess that’s the job.”
Gaz shrugs, kindness in his eyes. “We’ve all been there, first day in the deep end. Trust me—it’s better to get it all up front, so you know what you’re getting into.”
I can’t argue with that. My body might protest, but my mind is oddly calm, like I’ve accepted this new reality. “Alright, Gaz. I’m in your hands.”
He pats my shoulder once, then heads off with a casual, “See you out back in an hour. Don’t be late.”
Alone again—briefly—I let out a slow breath. This is it, I remind myself. The entire 141, or most of it, is here. No more illusions about half-measures. I can almost feel Ghost’s cool stare even though he’s not in the room.
I decide to take a moment to refill my water and snag a quick bite from the supplies in the makeshift kitchen. If I’m going to survive an afternoon of drills and a night infiltration exercise, I’d better not be running on empty. The small pantry area has some canned goods and basic rations—better than nothing. As I rummage for something edible, I catch Soap’s distant laughter drifting in from outside, accompanied by Mace’s deeper chuckle. The rest of the team is gearing up in their own ways, forging a sense of camaraderie I’m still on the edge of.
It’s strange—comforting, even—to know I’m not alone, that there’s a real team behind this. Sure, Ghost may be as warm as an iceberg, but even so, I sense a shared purpose that pulls us all together. Not that I completely trust them yet; after all, they manipulated me before. But for now, it’s good enough.
Finishing a quick snack, I head out back. The sun is stronger now, casting sharp shadows. Soap is setting up additional targets while Mace sorts gear on a makeshift table. Gaz stands by the fence, scanning the horizon like a hawk. Ghost is nowhere to be seen. Maybe off scouting or prepping the infiltration course.
Focus on what’s next, I tell myself, squaring my shoulders. I approach Soap and Mace, offering a nod. They greet me warmly enough, already discussing how to arrange the drills. In a few minutes, we’ll be at it again—shooting, moving, refining every detail. Then nightfall will bring the real test: infiltration.
Somewhere in the house, Price is finalizing intel. Ghost is likely checking perimeter security. Gaz is about to show me the ropes on sneaking around in the dark. This is 141. Like it or not, I’m in it now, and so far, nobody seems eager to boot me out.
I inhale the dust-laden air. My life has never felt less certain—but also never so sharply defined. I belong to something bigger now, a covert world where lethal skill and ironclad resolve matter more than small talk or comfort. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly the place I need to be.
My heart thuds. Time to prove it.
Chapter 9
Chapter Text
By the time late afternoon slips into dusk, a nervous energy has taken hold of the farmhouse. The sun’s final rays stretch across the dusty yard, painting everything in gold before fading into a hushed twilight. I can’t help feeling like the world’s on pause—a soft moment before we dive headlong into whatever “infiltration” training 141 has up its sleeve.
I’m sitting on the back steps, lacing my boots tighter. Every muscle in my body aches from a full day of drills—shooting, sprinting, practicing transitions under Soap’s watchful (and sometimes amused) eye. Mace helped him run me through a mini-obstacle course—barrels, crates, corrugated metal walls, all set up like a labyrinth in the yard. My arms and legs feel like lead, but there’s an odd satisfaction in it. I survived. I’m learning.
I glance around. The farmhouse’s windows glow faintly. Inside, I can make out silhouettes milling about. Gaz said we’d begin the infiltration practice the moment darkness settles in, so I figure it’s almost time. A cold breeze stirs the air, carrying the scent of dry grass and dust. I inhale it, letting my nerves settle.
“Ready?”
The voice belongs to Gaz, stepping out from behind me. He’s in full kit—dark gear, a sidearm strapped to his thigh, rifle slung across his shoulder. He looks more serious than he did this afternoon, his easy smile replaced by a calm, professional focus.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, hauling myself upright. My limbs protest, but I force them to cooperate.
“Good. Grab your rig. We’re heading for the barn—bit off to the east. It’ll serve as tonight’s target.” He gestures to the small stack of equipment by the door: a chest rig of pouches, some NVGs (night-vision goggles), and a suppressed SMG. “You won’t go in alone, but you’ll lead. Ghost wants to see how you navigate under low light.”
The mention of Ghost makes my stomach twist. I haven’t seen him much since midday, only catching glimpses of his silhouette prowling the perimeter or standing in hushed conversation with Price. His silence has settled on everything like a taut wire. Maybe I should be grateful he’s not breathing down my neck constantly. Still, part of me wonders if he’s waiting for a chance to call me out as a liability.
I strap on the chest rig, checking that my spare mags are secure. Gaz hands me a pair of night-vision goggles. “These aren’t the fancy top-tier ones,” he warns, “but they’ll do for this exercise. Keep your peripheral awareness up.”
I nod, sliding them over my head but leaving them perched on my forehead until we need them. “And the SMG?”
“Short-range. Suppressor will help keep things quiet. If you can avoid firing, even better. We’re focusing on stealth kills—like Price said, infiltration is half about not engaging unless you must.”
My pulse skitters. Stealth kills. I’ve seen enough conflict in the past weeks to know lethal force isn’t a game. But this is training—so presumably, no actual hostiles. Maybe cardboard cutouts or electronic pop-ups. Still, I can’t pretend the concept doesn’t unnerve me.
Gaz must sense my tension. He sets a hand on my shoulder briefly. “No real bloodshed here. Just targets. But treat ’em like the real thing.”
I force a breath, nodding. “Got it.”
He leads me around the farmhouse, across the yard, where Soap and Mace wait beside a battered SUV. They’re in dark gear too, scanning the horizon. The sky has deepened to a muted violet. Far off, the mountains loom like silent giants. A single lantern flickers in one of the outbuildings, giving the yard an eerie glow.
“We’ll drive partway,” Soap explains, tapping the SUV’s hood, “then you and Gaz hoof it the rest. Me and Mace’ll monitor from the ridge—spot for you, gauge your approach.”
I arch a brow. “What about Ghost?”
“Already in position, I’d wager,” Mace says quietly. “He likes to set up before the rest of us. Watch from afar.”
Of course he does. Typical. My lips press tight, but I just nod.
We clamber into the SUV—Soap behind the wheel, me in the back with Gaz while Mace rides shotgun. The drive lasts only a few minutes, bumping over rough terrain until we reach a winding dirt track. Soap pulls over, kills the engine, and gestures out the window. “Barn’s about a click east. You’ll see it once your NVGs are on. Good luck.”
I step out, heart hammering in my chest. Gaz slips out on the other side, quietly shutting the door. The night swallows us immediately, the stars faintly visible in a moonless sky. The SUV’s headlights remain off to avoid giving us away.
Without another word, Soap turns the vehicle around and disappears into the darkness. I flick my goggles down, letting them power on with a faint electronic whine. The world around me glows in shades of green and black. Gaz stands a couple of paces away, giving me a thumbs-up when I nod to signal my readiness.
“All right,” he murmurs, voice low. “We approach slow. Barn has a few open windows, some side doors. Figures—ghost targets inside, or cardboard silhouettes. You identify, move in, neutralize if needed. Think of it like a real op, yeah?”
I swallow. “Understood.”
We move. Grass crunches softly beneath my boots. My heart thumps in my ears. The barn appears in the distance as a blocky structure, faint outlines of a fence around it. Gaz hangs back slightly, letting me take point. The night-vision flattens everything into ghostly shapes, but I force myself to remember the infiltration basics from earlier: move methodically, keep my profile low, minimize noise.
Wind rustles in the brush, adding to the illusion that anything could be lurking out there. My mind conjures Ghost’s presence, wondering if he’s perched somewhere with a scope, judging my every step. Focus. I push the thought away.
We circle around, kneeling at a small ditch that lines the barn’s perimeter. In the greenish glow, I see an open door on the barn’s far side, half-hanging on its hinges. Gaz taps my shoulder and points two fingers that way, indicating we should head around the fence to slip in quietly. I nod, raising my SMG, creeping forward.
Every rustle of fabric against my gear feels impossibly loud. The barn looms larger with each step, the side door gaping like a black maw. My pulse quickens. I slip inside, muzzle up, scanning the interior. It’s a cramped space piled with old crates and scattered straw bales. The air is thick with the musty smell of hay. Empty feed troughs line one wall.
I inch forward, hearing Gaz’s soft footfalls behind me. There’s a creak from somewhere overhead—likely the rafters. Could be a trap, or a target on a makeshift platform. My nerves spike. Stay calm. I raise my SMG, flick the safety off, and let my gaze sweep across the stacks of crates. Green silhouettes appear: cardboard cutouts of human figures propped in corners, some angled as if they might catch me off-guard.
I catch my breath and move in, applying the movements from day drills. Elbows in, muzzle up, quiet steps. The first target—a life-size cardboard man with a painted rifle—stands to my left behind a crate. I pause, line up a silent shot. Pffft. The suppressed round tears through its chest, leaving a hole. It bobs back, tethered by a rope. One down.
From behind me, Gaz’s low voice: “Good.” Then he taps my shoulder and points overhead, indicating we should check the rafters.
We creep deeper, stepping around straw bales. The boards overhead groan again. I raise my SMG, scanning upward. A glint—metal near the loft edge. Another cardboard silhouette, angled downward as though aiming at us. I shift left, just like the earlier movement drills. Another suppressed shot. Thwap. The target rocks. A strip of wood cracks, sending it clattering down, but I keep moving, ignoring the stifled echo.
My nerves stay taut, the barn’s darkness pressing in. Each corner feels like it might hold another silhouette. We find one near the back—a hidden dummy behind a broken tractor. Another near a ladder that leads to the loft. Each time, I line up my shot, exhale, and place the round. Green shapes flutter in my peripheral, illusions of the night-vision dancing.
Finally, after clearing the corners, we climb the short ladder to the loft. My pulse hammers. The boards creak ominously underfoot. If this were a real target environment, any misstep might bring a hail of return fire. But all I see is another row of boxes—and a final cardboard figure pinned to a post, “weapon” drawn. I take it out with a quick shot. Done.
Silence descends, broken only by my own ragged breathing. Gaz checks over the loft’s edge, scanning the ground floor. “Clear,” he mutters.
I lower my SMG, adrenaline ebbing. A faint wave of triumph flutters in my chest—I actually navigated this place without fumbling too badly. Then, a clatter from below startles me: footsteps crossing the threshold. Not Gaz, not me.
My breath hitches. Could it be a last target on a timer? I flick my muzzle down, scanning. Gaz tenses. Then we see him step into view—Ghost. He walks in with his typical silent grace, scanning the place with a quick sweep. No gear clatters, no glare from the NVGs. The skull mask glows green in my goggles, eerily detached from his face.
He spots us up in the loft and makes a quick hand signal: All clear? We both nod. Gaz heads down first, descending the ladder. I follow, heart still thudding. Ghost waits below, arms loosely at his sides, gaze flicking from the fallen silhouettes to my SMG.
“Saw you handle the rafters,” he says, voice low. “You didn’t freeze.”
My mouth twitches at the bare-bones acknowledgment. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t comment further, just nods at Gaz. “Report.”
Gaz responds, “She found and neutralized all targets. No missed shots.”
Ghost’s mask tilts my way. Silence. My nerves prickle—am I about to get some critique? Instead, he merely turns and motions for us to follow him outside. We step into the barnyard, the sky now fully dark. Stars glimmer faintly overhead, and our NVGs pick out the shapes of fence posts and old equipment scattered around.
Ghost leads us to a corner of the yard where a battered trunk sits open, revealing extra gear and a portable lamp. He flicks on a dim red flashlight, shining it at the trunk’s contents—various training devices, more dummy rifles. Then he turns that cold mask on me.
“You did well enough,” he says, his tone almost grudging. “Next time: faster. You let your angles drag.”
I open my mouth to protest, but catch myself. He’s giving me feedback. That’s something, right? “Understood. I’ll work on that.”
Ghost flicks the flashlight off, tucking it away. “We’ll repeat the run tomorrow night, more targets, less time. You’ll handle bigger space. Soap and Mace will mix in unknown factors.”
“Meaning,” Gaz clarifies with a faint grin, “we might move targets around or simulate hostiles that shoot back. Nothing lethal—training rounds, at worst—but you’ll have to keep your wits.”
I swallow the knot of apprehension. “Got it. Bring it on.”
Ghost nods once, then jerks his head toward the direction of the farmhouse. “Wrap up. Report back.” With that, he’s off—walking away without waiting for us. I let out a breath, a cocktail of relief and frustration coursing through me.
Gaz nudges my shoulder lightly. “See? He can say nice things when he tries.”
I give him a half-smile. “If that’s his version of nice.” But there’s a flicker of pride in me. I might not have wowed Ghost, but I didn’t fail either.
We gather our gear and head back through the darkness, the barn shrinking behind us. A hush falls over the night. My legs ache, and my mind buzzes with the memory of the infiltration run—poking corners, listening for footsteps, that final shot in the loft. Part of me wants a hot shower, a decent meal, and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. But I know tomorrow will bring more tests, more demands to push beyond comfort.
As we approach the farmhouse, I spot movement near the gate—Price, presumably waiting for an update. Lights glow through the windows, suggesting Soap and Mace are already inside, possibly laughing over my performance. I steel myself to face any critique, to accept that I’m the rookie in a den of seasoned operators. That’s just how it is, I remind myself.
When we finally step into the yard, Price is there, indeed, arms folded. “All good?”
Gaz gives a small nod. “She cleared the barn, no fuss. Ghost gave her a note to pick up speed, but otherwise—solid.”
Price’s gaze flicks to me. “You’ll pick it up. Infiltrations are often about the margins—seconds matter, angles matter.” His tone is calm but firm. “Get some rest. Tomorrow, we turn it up a notch.”
I resist the urge to groan. Turn it up a notch—the unspoken theme of this entire operation. Still, I muster a nod. “Yes, sir.”
Price gestures for Gaz to follow him inside, presumably for a deeper briefing. I’m left alone in the yard, the hush of night pressing in. A shape stirs near the farmhouse porch—Soap, leaning on the railing, probably taking in the evening air. He gives me a thumbs-up and a teasing grin. “Not dead, so that’s a win, aye?”
I roll my eyes at him but can’t hide a small smile. “Sure. I’ll count it as progress.”
He laughs softly. “That’s the spirit. Now, hurry up and recharge—tomorrow’s infiltration plus some day drills. We’ll see if you can still stand by sunset.”
“Hardy har,” I mutter, trudging past him, the day’s exertion settling heavy in my bones. But a spark of anticipation lingers. Yes, it’s brutal. Yes, Ghost is distant and borderline unwelcoming. But for the first time in a while, I feel a sense of belonging—like I’m on the verge of earning a place in something that matters.
Climbing the stairs to my spare room, I think back to the barn’s dim interior, the hush of the infiltration, the moment I nailed that last target. I can do this. Even if Ghost rarely offers more than a curt nod, even if tomorrow I might be battered half to death, I’m not running anymore.
I slip into the small bedroom, letting the fatigue in my limbs remind me I accomplished something real. Stripping out of my gear, I flop onto the thin mattress. Darkness outside the window. Somewhere downstairs, a murmur of voices—Price, Gaz, and maybe Mace or Soap. Ghost could be anywhere, likely planning the next ordeal.
Let him plan, I think, eyelids heavy. I’ll be ready. Then sleep claims me, carrying me into dreams where targets lurk in every corner, and a silent skull-masked figure watches from the shadows.
-------
The morning starts with a commotion that yanks me out of sleep like a splash of cold water. I jerk upright on the thin mattress, heart hammering. Outside my room, heavy boots thud across the hallway, voices overlapping—some urgent, some low but tense. Pale dawn light filters through the blinds.
I push off the blankets and yank on the nearest set of fatigues, adrenaline already humming in my veins. The ache from yesterday’s infiltration drills clings to every muscle, but there’s no time to complain. By the time I clatter down the crooked staircase, the chatter has quieted to a grim hush.
Price, Soap, Gaz, and Mace are gathered around the big wooden table in the command room, files and maps shoved aside to make space for a laptop that’s propped open. Ghost stands off to the side, arms crossed, mask unreadable. A slight tension rolls off him—like he’s already processed some bad news.
“All right,” Price says, spotting me enter. He gives a curt nod. “We’re stepping up the timetable.”
Soap glances my way and offers a subdued smile. “Busy morning, lass.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, voice still rough with sleep. I notice my rifle propped against a chair, as if waiting for me. Never a good sign this early.
Price exchanges a look with Ghost. For a flicker of a moment, it’s like they’re weighing how much to say in front of me—then Price just dives in. “We got word of a situation across the border—one of our field contacts went dark. Could be nothing, could be an ambush, we’re not sure. But HQ wants eyes on the ground fast.”
“That means us,” Gaz adds, tapping the laptop screen. It displays a grainy satellite image of a small village nestled among rolling hills. “Insertion likely by helo this afternoon, then a short recon op to see what’s happening.”
I frown, stomach clenching at the thought of going operational so soon. “I’m coming too?”
Soap raises an eyebrow. “It’s short notice, but best way to learn is in the field. Still, this is real—no cardboard cutouts. If you’re not ready—”
“I’m ready,” I blurt, though a jolt of nerves runs through me. I was expecting more days of training, not an actual mission. But I can’t let them see me hesitate.
Ghost finally speaks, low and clipped. “She’ll stay with me. We’ll handle the perimeter approach.” It’s almost like an afterthought, but there’s an undercurrent of finality. If I read it right, he’s taking responsibility for me—at least tactically.
Price inclines his head in agreement. “Then let’s get prepped. We’ll do a brief insertion, quiet recon, maybe a few hours on the ground. If we confirm it’s hostile, we exfil and wait for further orders. This is recon only—no heroics unless forced.”
Gaz snaps the laptop shut. “We’ll load up in two hours. Enough time to gear and plan the route.”
Mace taps a note on the map. “Weather’s forecast to be clear. Shouldn’t hamper us, but visibility might be an issue at sundown.”
“That’s fine,” Price says, then looks to me. “You up for it?”
My gut twists, but I make myself nod. “Absolutely.”
He gives a firm nod, dismissing us to prep. The group disperses—Soap, Gaz, and Mace gather gear from a pile of crates while Price lingers, scrolling through intel on the laptop. Ghost slips out silently, likely to do his own equipment check or finalize the flight path. The farmhouse hums with a sharper energy than before, each operator in their own practiced rhythm for mobilizing.
I retreat upstairs to gather what I’ll need: my chest rig, extra mags, basic medical kit. My mind buzzes with questions—Am I truly ready? Is this a test or just necessity? Either way, I can’t back out now. They’re trusting me enough to bring me along, and I won’t waste that chance. My movements become mechanical, checking each pouch, securing straps. The tension building in my chest is a strange mixture of fear and a grim kind of excitement.
Downstairs, I find the others finishing up. Soap hefts a pack onto the table, rummaging for rations. “Just a short op,” he mutters, half to himself. “Better pack a snack, though. Never know when short becomes long.”
Gaz glances over. “You’ll be with Ghost, yeah?” he asks me, tightening a strap on his vest. “He might not chat much, but do as he says. You’ll be fine.”
I exhale a tight laugh. “Got it.”
We load into the same battered SUV that took me out to the barn last night. The plan, as Price explains on the short drive, is for the team to stage at a small airstrip a few kilometers away, where a helicopter’s waiting. Then it’s a quick flight across the border to a vantage point near the village. The entire time, my pulse is stuck in overdrive.
When we reach the airstrip—a dirt field with a hastily erected wind sock—Ghost is already there, checking the bird with the pilot. He doesn’t look up when we pull in, just gives the fuselage a final once-over and steps away, waiting for us to unload.
Mace handles stowing gear. Gaz chats with the pilot. Soap slings his rifle and nudges me, pointing me toward the helo’s side door. “Come on then, lass. No time to daydream.”
I climb in, feeling Ghost’s gaze on me from the corner of my eye, though he stays mute. Price takes a seat across from me, pulling on a headset. The helicopter engine sputters to life, and a swirl of dust batters the field. Within minutes, we’re lifting off, the ground dropping away under us.
The flight is tense but quiet. Price discusses final details with the pilot, Mace and Gaz check their weapons, and Soap closes his eyes like he’s catching a power nap. Ghost sits near the open door, scanning the horizon beneath his mask. I keep my hands folded to hide the tremor in them, telling myself to stay calm.
Eventually, Price gives the sign: “Five minutes out.” My gut clenches. The terrain below changes from farmland to low rolling hills, scattered clusters of trees. The pilot dips the helo, searching for a discreet landing spot. Ghost motions me to the door, hooking a line to my vest for safety. I swallow hard, bracing for the moment we’ll jump out.
Then we’re skidding onto a rough patch of grass. The helicopter’s skids bounce, and the engine whines in protest. Ghost is first out, rifle ready, taking a few steps to secure the perimeter. Soap follows, then Mace and Gaz, each fanning out to form a cautious semicircle. I clamber after them, heart in my throat.
Price remains inside with the pilot, leaning out. “You’ve got three hours—tops,” he calls over the rotor noise. “We’ll be here for extraction if it’s safe. If not—radio me.”
Ghost gestures sharply, and we hustle away from the landing zone, crouching as the helo lifts off again in a storm of swirling debris. My eyes water, but I blink through it, adjusting my grip on my rifle. Now it’s just us—and the unknown situation near that village.
We break into two teams: Mace and Soap heading slightly north, me and Gaz with Ghost to the southeast. By the time the dust settles and the helicopter hum fades, the world feels eerily still, just the whisper of wind in the grass. My chest tightens with anticipation.
Ghost beckons us onward, voice muffled behind his mask but carrying clear command. “We scout from that ridge. Keep it tight, low profile.”
I nod, and Gaz gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. As we move, I sneak a glance at Ghost—tense, poised, utterly focused. Despite his cold demeanor, I sense a fierce competence that both comforts and intimidates me.
This isn’t training anymore, I remind myself, heart pounding in my ears. This is the real thing. If bullets start flying, cardboard silhouettes won’t be the ones shooting back. I grit my teeth, steadying my breathing, and follow Ghost’s lead. Soap had said the best way to learn is in the field. Now I’ll find out if I can measure up—or if the hidden dangers across that ridge will chew me up before I truly earn my place in Task Force 141.
We move in silence, skirts of grass hissing around our boots. The late afternoon sun glances off the hills in the distance, casting our shadows long across the ground. Ghost leads the way—he’s a dark shape, calm and deliberate, rifle angled low at his hip. Gaz falls in just behind, scanning our flanks. And me? I’m determined to keep it together, to be as ghostly as Ghost himself.
This is my first real mission with Task Force 141—a short recon, but still miles beyond any training scenario. My stomach knots remembering the helicopter ride in, Price’s warning to “radio if it gets hot.” Well, so far, it’s been calm. The village is just over that final rise, silent under the golden sky. No sign of danger. Not yet.
Ghost pauses by a crumbling stone wall that edges the ridge, raising a clenched fist to halt us. I copy the gesture, heart thumping. His masked face turns back, making sure we’ve stopped. Gaz gives him a small nod; I do the same, sweat already trickling under my collar from the tension.
With that, Ghost sidles up to the ledge, sliding into a prone position to peer over. Gaz settles beside him, binoculars out. I hover a couple of steps behind, scanning the rear for threats. The hush is palpable—just the wind, a few distant birds.
After a minute, Gaz murmurs, “Quiet village, yeah? Doesn’t look ransacked.”
Ghost’s voice is low, dispassionate. “We watch a bit longer. If no movement, we move in.”
My pulse quickens. I feel pinned between eagerness and nerves. My arms tingle from clutching my rifle so tight. Just stay steady, I remind myself.
Then something flickers out of the corner of my eye—movement near a collapsed fence. I snap to it, straining to see. My heart leaps, certain I’ve spotted a figure creeping behind us. Without thinking, I step forward, shifting to get a clearer angle—
—and my foot catches the edge of a loose stone. It dislodges with a scrape loud enough to turn heads, tumbling down the rocky slope in a cascade of clatter. The noise echoes in the still air, impossibly loud. I freeze, mortified.
Ghost snaps around so fast I almost flinch. He lifts a hand in a harsh, urgent signal: Stop. His posture radiates tension. Gaz straightens, scanning the perimeter for any sign we’ve been compromised.
For a few agonizing seconds, no one breathes. My heart hammers in my throat. If anyone down in that village or hidden near the ridge is listening, they’d have heard. The stone’s echo seems to hang in the air. God, what a stupid slip.
When nothing stirs, Ghost breathes out—long and slow—then swivels on me with a glare that feels like a knife. Even behind that skull mask, I can sense his anger.
“Bloody hell,” he hisses, voice taut. “Keep your head on. We’re out here so we don’t make noise, got it?”
I open my mouth, wanting to explain that I thought I saw something, but the words die as Ghost gets right in my face. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the fury in it prickles my skin.
“You move when I say,” he growls. “Not on some half-cocked twitch. You want to spook the entire area? This is how you do it.”
Heat floods my cheeks, a mix of shame and defiance. “I—sorry,” I manage. “I saw—”
Ghost slices a hand through the air, cutting me off. “Saw what? Next time, use your comms. Or signal Gaz. You don’t leap about like a rookie and knock rocks loose.”
His frustration crackles in the silence. Gaz hovers just behind, looking torn between stepping in and letting Ghost vent. But he stays quiet, maybe sensing this is Ghost’s domain.
I swallow, forcing my voice not to quiver. “Understood.”
Ghost stares at me a beat longer, like he’s deciding whether to hammer the point home further. “We can’t afford mistakes out here,” he mutters finally. “Get that in your head.”
I clench my jaw, nodding stiffly. “Right.”
He shifts away, glancing at Gaz. “We lose the element of surprise, we compromise the mission, and people die. Not just you. All of us.”
That last line hovers like a threat, or maybe a grim truth. My stomach twists. I know he’s right—this is no place for a slip.
Gaz clears his throat softly, trying to ease the tension. “We’ll keep scanning. If there’s no reaction, we might still be okay.” He pats my shoulder briefly, eyes kind, then turns back to the ledge.
Ghost exhales, knuckles whitening on his rifle. “Fine. Back to positions,” he orders, voice still tight.
I drop to a crouch near the wall, adrenaline spiking. My cheeks burn with embarrassment. One stupid rock, and Ghost nearly took my head off verbally. I force my breath steady, eyes locked on the slope, scanning for any sign of movement. I can’t screw up again.
For a few minutes, everything is painfully silent. My mouth is dry, my pulse in my ears. Ghost and Gaz keep watch. No sign of alarm from the village, no angry shouts or suspicious silhouettes. Maybe we got lucky.
Eventually, Ghost shifts his posture, still not looking at me. “No sign they heard. We go in slow.”
Gaz nods. “Aye. Let’s move.”
I push myself up, heart heavy, swallowing the sting of Ghost’s words. He’s right, I tell myself, trying to quell the mix of shame and anger. If I’d made that mistake in a firefight, we could be dead.
Ghost inclines his head to Gaz, then gestures me forward, but with a cautioning hand—like he’s watching me under a microscope. The message is clear: Do. Not. Mess. This. Up. Again.
I bite back a bitter retort and follow them along the ridge, trying to keep my footsteps weightless, my eyes on every loose rock and bit of debris. My nerves feel raw, but I can’t let it paralyze me. I’m here to prove I can do this, minor mistakes or not.
As we begin our descent toward the quiet village, the sun slips behind the distant hills. The sky burns red, shadows stretching long and ominous across the land. Ghost takes point again, Gaz scanning our flank, me dead in the middle. Every so often, I glimpse the skull mask flick a glance my way, no doubt ensuring I’m not about to blow our cover again.
One slip. One scathing reprimand. It’s small in the grand scheme, but it stings deeper than I expected. Still, I grit my teeth and push on, rifle clutched tight, determined to show Ghost—and myself—that I can handle the pressure.
No more mistakes, I vow silently. Not if it means a lecture like that.
And with that vow simmering in my chest, I focus every ounce of my attention on the path ahead, falling into step behind Ghost, letting the hush of the oncoming night swallow the tension that lingers in the air between us.
We descend the ridge in tense single file, the last of the sun staining the horizon in faded orange as dusk swallows the valley. The village lies below—a small cluster of stone houses and corrugated rooftops, windows dark or lit by the occasional flicker of lanterns. From a distance, it’s eerily still, no movement on the dusty streets. Could be abandoned. Could be lying in wait.
Ghost halts us with a raised hand at the base of the hill. I catch myself before stumbling, extra cautious after my earlier screw-up. We crouch among the tall grass, each of us scanning the silhouettes of structures ahead. The skull mask points in multiple directions with methodical precision, silently assigning our approach.
Gaz nods, then gestures for me to follow him along an overgrown path that curves around the village’s edge. Ghost stays behind momentarily, watching the flanks. I can feel his gaze burning into my back. My chest tightens every time I recall his clipped anger up on that ridge.
We slip into the outskirts—an old orchard, trees scraggly and half-dead. The air is warm, still carrying a bit of daytime heat. I stay close to Gaz, matching his slow, deliberate steps. Dry leaves and broken branches crunch under our boots, but we keep it as quiet as we can.
We pause behind a gnarled trunk. Gaz lifts his binoculars, scanning what looks like a narrow alley between two stone houses. I press my shoulder against the tree, rifle at the ready, eyes flicking over the rooftops. Shadows stretch across cracked walls, every window a dark hole that could hide a threat.
“Nothing so far,” Gaz whispers, lowering the binos. “Still no sign of life.”
My pulse thuds in my ears. “Creepy,” I manage, voice equally soft.
He offers a faint grimace. “Could be a trap. Or maybe the locals cleared out. Hard to say.”
A shape emerges from the orchard behind us—Ghost, coming up silently. It’s almost unnerving how he moves without a sound. He gestures for us to push forward. With a curt nod, Gaz signals me onward. We creep past the final row of twisted trees into the first narrow street.
A battered sign in a language I barely recognize dangles crookedly from a post, half-fallen from rusted nails. The houses here are packed tight, walls chipped and flaked. My breath catches when I see a door ajar—no lights inside. Our footsteps echo, too loud in the dead silence.
Suddenly, Ghost holds up a fist. We freeze, rifles raised. He presses himself against a wall, mask turned toward a second-story window. I follow his line of sight—there, a flicker of motion behind tattered curtains. My heart jumps into my throat. We’re not alone.
He makes a series of quick hand signals: Possible contact upstairs. Gaz and I nod, taking positions on either side of the narrow street, giving us a crossfire if needed. Time slows. I steady my breath, finger hovering near the trigger, recalling every movement drill.
Nothing happens for a long beat. No gunfire, no shout. My shoulders start to ache from holding the rifle up. Finally, Ghost inches forward, pressing a gloved hand lightly to the window’s ledge. He tilts his head, listening. Not a sound. Then he waves us on, as if whatever he saw or thought he saw isn’t a threat—or is already gone.
We pass beneath that window, every sense on high alert. I can’t help but glance up, half-expecting a muzzle flash or a pair of eyes glinting in the gloom. But it’s just empty glass, the curtains still. My nerves strain from the tension.
The path opens into a small square—cobbles cracked, an old fountain in the center. No lights here, no voices. It feels like a ghost town. Gaz checks corners, while I sweep my rifle across the low rooftops. Ghost remains near a broken archway, scanning another alley. I swallow dryness from my throat. If something is going down, it’s hidden well.
We converge near the fountain. Ghost motions us into a huddle, his voice low but urgent. “We split up. Quick sweeps of these houses,” he orders, pointing to a row on the east side. “Gaz, take the left. I’ll take the right. You—” He nods at me, eyes cold through the mask. “With me. Keep it tight this time.”
I blink, a knot forming in my gut. He wants me close, probably to ensure I don’t pull another rookie move. Fine. I give a short, tense nod. Gaz peels away, heading for a cluster of two-story dwellings. Ghost gestures me behind him, then sets off toward a battered house with shuttered windows.
We move in a crouched run, footsteps echoing in the silent square. The door stands slightly ajar, its hinges broken. Ghost edges it open with the barrel of his rifle, scanning the interior with his flashlight in a tight beam. The hallway beyond is dark, strewn with debris and broken furniture.
“Stick close,” he mutters. Then he slips inside, disappearing into the shadows. I grit my teeth, swallow the anxiety, and follow, muzzle raised.
Inside, the air is stale, reeking of dust and something metallic—blood? Maybe just rust. My heart thrums. Ghost sweeps his flashlight across the floor. No bodies, no footprints in the film of dust. I inch forward, scanning corners. The adrenaline crackles in my veins, every sense heightened by the knowledge that Ghost is right behind me, judging my every movement.
We clear the first room—an old living area with overturned chairs, no sign of recent activity. Ghost signals me to the next doorway. I push it open, rifle tight against my shoulder, flashlight flicking across bare walls. Empty bedroom. A broken bedframe, a scattered pile of clothes. No threat.
We continue like that, methodically sweeping each room. The tension in my chest never lessens. What if something leaps out? What if I make another slip? I can practically feel Ghost’s silent disapproval waiting to erupt again.
At last, we climb a narrow staircase to the second floor. The boards groan under our boots. An odd smell wafts down—mold, or rotting something. My stomach clenches. Ghost halts me at the top landing, covering the hallway while I open the first door on the left.
I step into a cramped bedroom with a single window—curtains half torn off. My flashlight pans the walls. A battered dresser stands in the corner, drawers yanked out. A thick layer of dust coats everything. My gaze snags on the closet door—slightly ajar. My heart lurches.
Carefully, I edge forward, rifle at the ready. With a trembling hand, I nudge the closet door open. Empty, aside from some moth-eaten clothes. I exhale in relief, stepping back.
A floorboard creaks behind me, and I spin, nearly pointing my weapon at Ghost, who’s now standing in the doorway, eyes boring into me through that damned mask. I freeze, mortified at almost sweeping him with my muzzle.
He lifts a finger to his lips—quiet—then holds up his flashlight, shining it behind me. The window’s reflection in the dresser mirror reveals a faint shape outside, drifting across the courtyard. My pulse spikes. So we are not alone after all.
He flicks the flashlight off, steps back into the hall, beckoning me out. We return to the hallway, rifles lowered but ready. From the window at the far end, I see a figure skulking near the fountain, barely visible in the twilight. That must be Gaz, I think—but the posture doesn’t match. This figure is bulkier, and seems to be dragging something.
Ghost sets a hand on my shoulder, pressing me against the wall. He leans to peer through the dusty glass. A soft hiss escapes him, the only sign of alarm. Then he keys his comm, voice barely above a whisper: “Gaz, confirm your location.”
A crackle. “…Southeast alley, checking two-story corner house. Why?”
Ghost’s eyes narrow. “We have a contact in the square. Stand by.”
He shifts to me, silent instructions in his stance: We’re moving. I clench my jaw and follow as he glides down the stairs, stepping around broken debris. We exit back onto the street, hugging the wall. The figure is still out there, near the fountain’s shadow. My heartbeat is a drum solo in my ears.
Ghost gestures for me to circle left while he takes right—pin them if needed. I nod, creeping along the perimeter. The broken cobblestones threaten to trip me at every step, but I keep my footing. No more mistakes. Please, no more mistakes.
I get close enough to see the figure more clearly in the gloom. They wear ragged clothing, a hood over their head, stumbling like they’re exhausted or wounded. In their hand—some sort of tool or rod. They don’t appear to be armed with a firearm, but it’s hard to tell in the murk.
I glance across the square to where Ghost should be. Can’t see him. He’s out there, though. The tension in my chest ratchets up. If this person is an enemy, do I shout? Fire? My hands tremble on the rifle, a thousand possibilities swirling.
Then the figure hears something—my scuff on the stones, maybe. They whip around, wide-eyed. We lock gazes across the empty space. I see fear, confusion. My throat tightens. They raise their arms, stammering something in a language I don’t speak.
Ghost materializes from behind a pillar, rifle leveled. The person yelps, stumbling back. I move forward instinctively, but Ghost’s voice slices through the air: “Stay.” A single hissed command. I freeze.
The figure drops their crude rod, raising both hands. Ghost closes in, still silent, muzzle aimed. A moment later, the tension breaks—Gaz emerges from a side alley, hearing the commotion. We converge on the fountain, rifles trained. The figure pleads in broken words, voice quivering. Possibly a villager, left behind.
Ghost’s shoulders relax a fraction as he lowers his weapon, just a bit. He motions for me and Gaz to watch the surroundings. I pivot, scanning the rooftops, street corners, anything that might be a threat. Gaz quickly checks the figure, patting them down for weapons. Nothing lethal—just a hand-carved staff. They keep babbling in that unknown tongue, gesturing wildly at the houses.
Ghost gestures for me to stay put, then tries to communicate with the person, short words, some universal gestures for “safe?” or “danger?” The person shakes their head, pointing to the far side of the village, miming something like a burst of gunfire. My heart sinks. Could be hostiles after all.
Finally, Ghost steps back, shoulders tense. He glances at me, and I see no anger in his posture now—just a grave acceptance. He flicks on his comm. “Price, we’ve got a civilian survivor. Possible hostiles in the west sector. Hard to say how many.”
A brief static reply. “…Acknowledged. Get them to safety if you can. Keep eyes open.”
Ghost nods to Gaz, who carefully leads the villager toward a safer corner, half-collapsed behind rubble. I step forward to assist, but Ghost turns, gaze locking me in place. “Cover them,” he says, voice cold but calm. “And keep your eyes on your footing.”
A quiet sting of embarrassment hits me again at the reference to my earlier slip. But I just nod, swallowing the retort. It’s not worth it right now.
As Gaz ushers the villager away, Ghost stands near me, scanning the silent buildings. For a moment, we stand in uneasy proximity, the only sound the villager’s anxious murmuring across the rubble. My heart still thunders.
Finally, Ghost murmurs, “Could’ve been worse.”
I glance at him, unsure if he’s referring to the villager or my near mistakes. He doesn’t clarify, just taps his comm again, likely calling for Mace and Soap. I let out a breath, shoulders sagging with relief that we haven’t walked into a bloodbath yet.
But the mission isn’t over, a quiet voice inside me reminds. Ghost gestures for me to stay alert, pivoting to watch the western approach. My chest tightens—fear and determination swirling. I push thoughts of my slip-up aside, focusing on the possibility of real danger. If there are hostiles, they might be here any second.
I steel myself, rifle raised. Ghost’s presence at my flank is both comforting and daunting. I can’t afford another misstep in front of him—or in the face of whatever might be lurking in the west sector.
Closing my eyes for a half-second, I gather my resolve. No more mistakes, I tell myself again. If something’s waiting out there, I’ll be ready. And if Ghost thinks I’m one stumble away from dooming the mission, I intend to prove him wrong.
The wind tugs at my collar, carrying the stale scent of dust and something faintly acrid—like the dying embers of a long-dead fire. My nerves flutter, but I steady my rifle, eyes locked on the western edge of the village where the villager claimed trouble might be lurking. Ghost stands a few feet away, barely a silhouette in the twilight. The skull pattern on his mask reflects a bit of moonlight—an eerie reminder of how easily he blends into the shadows.
Gaz returns, footsteps purposeful but quiet. He signals that the villager is tucked away behind a partially collapsed wall—a safe spot, as safe as anywhere can be in this place. We exchange a quick glance, and I try to convey my readiness—no more slips, no more noise. Gaz must sense the resolve in my eyes because he gives a small nod, motioning me closer.
“Soap and Mace are inbound,” he whispers, jerking a thumb at the comm unit on his vest. “They’ll sweep from the north side, link up in the center. We’ll recon the west sector, see if our friend’s intel is solid.”
A curt nod from me, heartbeat still running high. A day ago, I was running infiltration drills. Now, I’m chest-deep in a potential combat zone, with Ghost’s distant disapproval hanging over me like a thundercloud.
Ghost’s voice is low, cutting through the hush: “Move out. We keep it silent.”
We form a loose formation—Ghost up front, me in the middle, Gaz behind. The tension in my limbs flares as we pick our way through debris, avoiding broken glass and twisted metal half-buried in the dirt. The houses here look more battered, windows boarded or smashed. A light breeze whistles between the gaps in the walls, giving the whole block a haunted feel.
I catch glimpses of my reflection in shattered windowpanes, face pale under the faint moon. Stay calm, I remind myself. You can do this. Every step is carefully placed, every sense straining for noise or movement.
A sound breaks the silence—a dull thud from somewhere ahead, maybe in one of the houses. Instantly, Ghost raises a clenched fist, and we freeze. My pulse ramps up. Gaz shifts behind me, covering our six. Ghost edges toward the nearest doorway, a dark, gaping rectangle with no door in sight. He steps inside, rifle leveled.
I follow, muzzle sweeping each corner. The interior is gutted—sagging furniture, a broken table, a pile of rubble that might’ve been a wall. A rancid smell hits me. Ghost’s flashlight flicks on, slicing through the gloom in a narrow beam. We pass what might have been a kitchen, everything coated in dust and grime. No sign of life.
Then a shuffle behind the crumbling remains of a wooden partition. My lungs seize. Ghost locks onto the sound, flicking the flashlight off. He gestures for me to flank left. I swallow hard and nod, stepping carefully around debris. The faintest crunch under my boot makes my gut twist—not again. But no one leaps out.
On the other side of the partition is a small back room, half caved in. I see rubble piled near a corner. The shuffle repeats—a scuff of shoes or maybe an animal. I raise my rifle, body taut, heart throbbing in my ears. Ghost signals that he’ll approach first, and I’m to cover from the side.
In a swift move, he sweeps in, light flicking on. A gasp echoes—a human shape crouched in the corner, hand clutching a makeshift blade. It’s another civilian, eyes wide with terror. The blade trembles in their grasp, their clothes dusty and torn. Ghost lifts his rifle but doesn’t fire. The civilian’s knuckles go white on the blade’s handle, but they don’t lunge.
I keep my finger off the trigger, heart pounding. Another frightened local or… something else? The person stammers in the same language as before, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on their face. Ghost steps forward carefully, voice low but insistent. He’s trying to calm them, the same universal gestures we saw earlier.
At length, the blade clatters to the floor, and the civilian slumps against the wall, sobbing in relief or despair. I exhale, tension washing through my veins. Ghost radios Gaz, who remains on the front side of the house to secure it, letting him know we found another survivor.
We move the civilian out, making sure they’re not injured. They nod shakily, babbling something about “bad men” and pointing west. I share a look with Ghost, who’s still stoic and grim. So the rumor of hostiles in that direction might be real after all.
Outside, Gaz waits near the shattered doorway. The civilian flinches at the sight of his rifle, but he offers a calming wave, guiding them to the back of the building. Ghost rakes a cold stare over the area, then inclines his head for me to follow him onward. We slip down the street, the tension thicker than ever.
Three houses later, we pass a narrow alley blocked by crates and an overturned cart. The hair on my neck prickles—something about the shadows feels off. But Ghost presses forward, scanning rooftops. He motions me to peek around the cart. Don’t screw up, I tell myself.
I crouch, rifle close, inching around the splintered wood. My flashlight is off—I rely on the moonlight and the faint glow from overhead. The alley extends past the obstruction, opening into a small courtyard. My breath catches—two figures huddle there, rifles slung, their posture sharp with alertness. Not civilians. They wear mismatched gear, faces partially masked. One of them shifts, gesturing with a hand. Armed hostiles, my mind screams.
My heart jumps into my throat. We’ve found them. I signal Ghost—two hostiles, courtyard. He steps up, eyes narrowing at my sign language. Then he glances around the cart, confirming. We can’t just barrel in. They haven’t seen us yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
Ghost edges back, leaning toward me. In a voice barely above a breath, he says, “We flank. Try to disarm quietly if we can. You up for it?” His tone is all business, but behind it I sense a question—Are you going to freeze or cause a scene again?
My adrenaline surges. “Yes,” I rasp, steeling my nerves.
He nods once, signals for Gaz on comm: Hostiles sighted, courtyard, preparing to engage. Then he focuses on me. “I’ll circle left. You take the right. On my mark.” Another glance—like he’s assessing my composure. I give a tight nod, ignoring the fear pounding in my skull.
We split, Ghost melting into the shadows along the alley’s left side. I move right, hugging a battered stone wall. Every sense is on high alert—the faint crunch of my boots, the hum of my pulse in my ears, the smell of dust. Don’t make a noise. Don’t trip. The memory of that rock slipping from under me earlier makes my stomach clench.
I reach the corner and peer around. The two hostiles haven’t moved. One rummages in a small crate, the other stands guard, scanning aimlessly. They’re maybe ten meters away, rifles drooping at their sides. Now or never.
A silent shape across the courtyard signals me—it’s Ghost, raising a hand in the gloom. I exhale, forcing my finger to hold position off the trigger. At the faintest wave, we surge forward.
Everything happens in heartbeats. I close the distance, rifle angled up. The guard whirls, eyes widening—too slow. I’m on him, muzzle pressing to his chest. “Don’t move,” I hiss. My voice shakes, but I try to keep it steady.
Ghost pounces on the second one, flipping their weapon aside in a crisp, practiced move. The man gasps, arms flailing. In a flash, Ghost slams him to the ground, knee pressing into his back. The man’s muffled cry echoes in the courtyard.
My target stares down my barrel, hands lifting in surrender. I can see the tremor in his arms, the whites of his eyes. My mind flickers with the training: If he reaches for a weapon, you pull the trigger. But he stays still, mouth open in shock.
I wait, heart hammering so loud it’s a wonder he can’t hear it. Ghost wrests the other man’s rifle free, then yanks him upright, shoving him against a wall. “Weapons on the ground,” Ghost snaps at them both, voice a harsh whisper.
The guard glances at me—fear and hostility warring in his eyes—then slowly sets his gun down. Blood rushes in my ears, each second stretched taut. Ghost rips the second man’s sidearm from a holster, tossing it away. They both start stammering in harsh tones, some language I don’t know. Possibly demanding we let them go.
Ghost shoots me a sideways look, waiting to see if I’ll lock this down or falter. I grit my teeth and do what I’m supposed to do: I step forward, sweeping the guard’s limbs for hidden weapons. My nerves jangle at the closeness, but I manage to stay calm. He curses under his breath, but doesn’t resist. Another pistol falls from an inside pocket. I kick it aside.
When it’s done, Ghost jerks his chin at me. “Watch them,” he mutters, already pressing a hand to his comm. “Gaz—two hostiles in custody, courtyard.”
I keep the rifle trained on the pair, who stand trembling in the gloom. My pulse refuses to slow. Everything feels surreal: the still night air, the dusty courtyard, the looming shape of Ghost, who only an hour ago was ripping me a new one for a minor slip. Now here we are, capturing armed men who could’ve shot us if we hadn’t moved fast.
Ghost finishes his quick comm exchange and steps back over, cold mask angled at the prisoners. “We get intel if we can,” he says, voice grim. “Then we hand them to Soap and Mace. Let HQ decide what’s next.”
He turns to me, and for once, there’s no outward condemnation in his gaze—just a clipped sort of approval. “Good job,” he says, so low I almost miss it. “No noise this time.”
Relief prickles through me, though I try not to show it. “Thanks,” I manage, forcing my voice to remain even.
He nods curtly, then shifts focus to the captives. The tension in the courtyard remains thick—whatever these two were planning, we shut it down. But the mission’s not over. We still don’t know how many more might be lurking in these empty streets.
Within minutes, Gaz appears at the alley entrance, rifle up, scanning for danger. Behind him, Soap and Mace shuffle in, having looped around from the north. Together, they corral the prisoners, tying their hands with plastic cuffs from Mace’s belt. The men spit curses, but a firm nudge from Soap’s rifle butt quiets them.
As the team forms up, Ghost beckons me aside briefly, speaking under his breath. “You handled yourself. That’s how it’s done—no extra noise, no hesitation.”
I nod, chest loosening. “I—appreciate it,” I say, uncertain if I should say more.
He stares a moment, mask unreadable. Then he simply turns away, calling out to Price on comm. “Targets secure. Two hostiles in custody, no casualties. Requesting further instructions.”
A crackle of static, then Price’s calm reply. “Good work. Hold position. We’ll coordinate exfil. Keep an eye out for more hostiles.”
Soap passes me on his way to the prisoners, shooting me an amused grin. “Look at you, lass. First real takedown.”
I can’t help a small, shaky smile in return. My heart’s still racing, but it feels like a victory—one I almost messed up with a stray rock a few hours ago. Now, though, I’ve proven, at least for tonight, that I can keep up.
No illusions. I know I have a long road ahead, and Ghost’s confidence in me might be a precarious thing. But for now, that stony mask gave me a flicker of acknowledgment. I’ll take it.
We hunker down, a ring of 141 around the shackled hostiles, while the village remains hushed. Moonlight spills over the broken walls. And, for once, the silence doesn’t feel like a condemnation—it feels like the calm after doing something right.
Chapter 10
Chapter Text
We wait in that broken courtyard longer than feels comfortable, the moon high and cold. Mace and Soap keep close watch on our two prisoners, who huddle against a crumbling wall, wrists secured with plastic cuffs. Gaz is by the alley, eyes scanning for any movement in the dark. Ghost, ever the silent shadow, stands a few steps from me, rifle slung but ready to snap up in an instant.
Price’s voice crackles over the comm from wherever he’s stationed:
“Stand by for exfil details. Hostiles may still be in the area—don’t let your guard down.”
A soft breeze stirs dust across the cobblestones. My pulse remains elevated from the tense takedown. The two captives glare and mutter at each other, no real threat now, but the mood is still razor-edged. No one’s relaxing yet.
Suddenly, a flash from above—a muzzle spark on a nearby rooftop. My heart seizes as a single shot echoes off the stone walls. Instinct kicks in: Sniper! I spin, scanning the rooftops in the pale moonlight.
Gaz stands across the courtyard, half-turned, about to call out something to Soap. He’s fully exposed. My stomach flips. I see the faint glint of a scope in the gloom—another shot is coming, aimed right at Gaz.
Before I can think, I lunge forward, sprinting across the courtyard. “Gaz, down!” I shout, voice raw with urgency. He whips around, eyes wide. In one movement, I crash into him, driving him sideways behind a half-toppled cart. The muzzle flash sears the night again, a bullet whining past so close it rips a chunk of stone from the ground.
We land hard on the debris-littered cobbles, Gaz letting out a startled grunt. Pain jabs my shoulder from the impact, but adrenaline floods my system. Another shot cracks overhead, missing by inches as we press ourselves behind the cart.
Chaos erupts. Ghost, Soap, and Mace whirl, rifles up, returning fire at the rooftop. Sparks fly as bullets ping off broken masonry. Gaz breathes hard under me, eyes round with shock, but alive.
“Bloody hell,” he chokes, regaining his bearings. “You okay?”
I nod, though my shoulder screams, probably bruised. “Better me than you,” I mutter, dragging him fully behind cover. A tense hush, more gunfire from Ghost’s direction. Then a strangled cry from the roof, followed by a dull thud. The sniper must’ve been neutralized.
Gaz and I exchange a shaky look as we stand. Relief floods through me, but my entire body trembles with adrenaline. I let out a ragged breath. Could’ve been a disaster.
A figure storms toward us—Ghost, that stark skull mask glinting, posture radiating fury. “What the hell was that?” he barks, voice low but lethal.
I freeze, not expecting such immediate anger. “I—he was open,” I stammer, heart still pounding. “That sniper was about to—”
Ghost cuts me off, jabbing a finger in my face. “You leave your position, charge a damn open courtyard, and make yourself a target? Are you mad?” His voice isn’t loud, but it crackles with raw frustration.
My cheeks blaze with heat, half from indignation, half from shame. “He’d have been shot if I didn’t—”
“You call it out,” Ghost snarls. “You move tactically. You don’t sprint into a sniper’s crosshairs!”
Gaz, catching his breath, tries to step in. “Ghost, she saved my life—”
“Shut it,” Ghost snaps, eyes flicking to Gaz. “I know she did. And she might’ve got herself killed in the process.” He whips back to me, mask inches from my face. “This isn’t hero hour. One stray bullet and you’d be down, or worse, we’d be dragging two casualties. Understood?”
I flinch at the icy edge in his tone. Anger churns in my gut—I just saved Gaz! But logic tugs at me, reminding me that a single bullet could’ve ended it. My mouth sets in a tight line. “Understood,” I manage, voice unsteady.
Ghost steps back, exhaling harshly. “Gaz, you alright?”
Gaz nods stiffly, wiping dust off his vest. “Yeah. She knocked me clear. Another second and—” He stops, lips pressed together.
Ghost gives him a look, then glances at me again, frustration still seething. “You had a vantage, you could’ve yelled for cover and kept behind your own. Instead, you played the bullet shield. That’s not how a team operates.”
I swallow hard, guilt and defiance warring in my chest. “I… did what I thought was necessary,” I say, glancing at the place where the bullet smashed stone. Less than a foot from Gaz’s head…
Ghost tenses, likely about to unleash another tirade, but Mace and Soap arrive, guns raised, scanning for more threats. Soap sees me hunched over Gaz, sees Ghost’s livid posture, and his expression goes from alarmed to realizing a scolding is happening. “Everyone good?” Soap asks carefully.
Gaz nods, stepping away from me. “Sniper took a shot. She intervened. We’re both unhurt.”
Soap glances between us, picking up on Ghost’s anger. “Damn close one, huh?” He attempts a wry grin.
Ghost turns, half addressing Soap, half addressing me. “Close because we had an uncoordinated reaction. Next time, we maintain discipline. She nearly got herself shot.”
A flush of humiliation crawls up my neck. I want to defend myself—if I’d paused, Gaz would be lying in a pool of blood right now. But the logic in Ghost’s words is undeniable. I could’ve signaled, shot the sniper, or done a dozen other things less reckless.
Soap rests a hand lightly on my shoulder, an awkward attempt at comfort. “Hey, thanks for stepping in, lass. Ghost’s just—y’know, wants you alive.”
Ghost grunts, shifting his rifle. “We have a sniper body to confirm,” he mutters, turning to Mace. “Let’s check the rooftop.” Then he fixes me with one last withering stare. “Next time, think. Don’t just throw yourself in front of bullets.”
I nod, teeth clenched. “Yes, sir,” I force out.
With that, Ghost pivots and heads off, Mace and Soap following him toward a partially intact ladder at the side of a building. Gaz exhales, turning to me with a pained half-smile. “He’s not wrong, you know,” he says softly, eyes flicking to the bullet gouge in the stone. “But I owe you, big time.”
A lump forms in my throat—relief, fear, anger, all tangled. “You’d do the same for me,” I say, voice hoarse. I replay the moment in my mind: the muzzle flash, Gaz standing exposed, my feet moving before my brain could catch up. I can’t honestly say I’d do it differently.
He gives a wry nod. “Maybe. But next time, I’ll try not to stand out in the open like an idiot, yeah?”
A shaky laugh escapes me. “Deal.”
We wait in tense quiet while Ghost and the others confirm the sniper’s position. My limbs still tremble with leftover adrenaline. In the gloom, the courtyard looks even more battered—a place that nearly became a fatal ambush. I saved Gaz, I remind myself, clinging to that despite Ghost’s outrage.
Eventually, the rest return, Ghost stalking ahead, mask unreadable as usual. “Sniper’s alone, no sign of backup,” he says curtly. “We’re secure for now.”
Soap chimes in, noticing I’m still rattled. “Hey, good on you, lass. Reckless, but good instincts.” He must see Ghost’s glare out of the corner of his eye because he shrugs, adding, “Let’s just call it a near-perfect combination next time, yeah?”
I manage a thin smile. Gaz squeezes my shoulder in thanks. Ghost, though, says nothing further—just barks out an order: “Regroup with Price, keep these hostiles contained.” Then he strides off, leaving me standing there with the sting of his anger and the throb of my near disaster.
I blow out a breath, letting the tension slough off in waves. My shoulder throbs from tackling Gaz, my ear still rings from the bullet’s near miss, but I’m alive—and so is he. Ghost can chew me out all he wants for stepping out of line. In the end, I did what I had to do.
Still, the echo of his words—Don’t just throw yourself in front of bullets—lingers like a lead weight. I swallow down the mix of pride and shame, forcing my legs to move, following Gaz out of the courtyard. I’ll figure out the balance eventually, I tell myself. And if Ghost isn’t impressed, at least Gaz is breathing.
We leave that courtyard behind like a battlefield left smoldering in our wake—no corpses (thankfully) but plenty of tension crackling in the air. Soap and Mace march the two captured hostiles back toward the makeshift holding spot by the collapsed wall, rifles trained on them. Gaz falls into step with me, our shoulders brushing briefly in the confined alley. My heart still pounds, echoes of the gunshot ringing in my head.
Ghost stalks ahead, posture taut, mask catching the moonlight. Even from a few steps behind, I feel the chill radiating off him—the anger he showed me just minutes ago still simmering beneath that skull design. If he notices Gaz and I exchanging glances, he doesn’t let it show.
We converge near the center of the village, where Price stands with one of the frightened civilians we found earlier. The man clutches a ragged blanket around his shoulders, eyes darting fearfully between us and the distant rooftops. The other villager is nowhere to be seen—maybe still cowering wherever Gaz left them. Some scraps of conversation float in the night air, Price calmly reassuring the man. At the sight of our returning group, Price shifts focus.
“Report,” he says tersely, scanning us. His gaze lingers on Gaz—like he’s checking for injuries.
Ghost answers first. “One sniper, neutralized.” He jerks a thumb toward me. “She tackled Gaz to save him from a bullet. Then nearly took one herself.”
The statement stings, but I force my expression neutral. Price eyes me, brow knitting. “Everyone all right?”
Gaz nods. “We’re good, Cap. No injuries—just some bruises.”
An exhale of relief from Price, though it’s short-lived. He gestures to the trembling civilian. “Locals say a small band of armed men—‘bad men’—showed up a few nights ago, took food, scared off most residents. We’ve seen two or three, plus that sniper, and the two you captured. That might be all. Or there could be more we haven’t flushed out.”
Mace and Soap haul the cuffed hostiles closer. One hisses a string of curses we can’t decipher. Soap gives them a nudge to keep them quiet.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask quietly, trying to ignore the sensation of Ghost’s glare on the back of my neck.
Price surveys the prisoners, the cowering local, the battered village. “We hold position until exfil,” he decides. “HQ wants these folks in for questioning. No sense pushing further if we’ve cleared the main threats.”
A faint sense of relief eases my shoulders. No more sneaking down dark alleys or bullet-shield heroics, I hope.
Soap volunteers to take first watch with Mace, corralling the hostiles in a half-collapsed barn. Gaz is off to check on the other villager. That leaves Ghost and me standing near Price, dust swirling at our feet in the cold moonlight. The tension between us feels impossible to ignore.
Price casts me a long, measured look, then addresses Ghost. “She did save Gaz,” he says in a low tone, not quite a defense but close.
“Almost got shot,” Ghost snaps back, crossing his arms. “Both times.”
“Still here, though.” The corners of Price’s mouth tighten. “She’ll learn to balance quick thinking with caution. That’s what training is for.”
Ghost grunts, gaze flicking my way. “If it doesn’t kill her first.”
I bristle, a protest on my tongue—but Price lifts a hand, silencing both of us. “End of story for now. We have a mission to finish.” He jerks his chin at the barn. “Go help secure the perimeter. Exfil in under an hour.”
Ghost moves off without another word, heading down a side path to circle the village. Price’s gaze settles on me, softer but still firm. “You good?”
I take a steadying breath. “Yeah. Just… sorry for the drama.”
He shakes his head. “You did well—kept a teammate alive. Ghost knows it, too, beneath his bluster. Just don’t forget: no mission is worth dying for, or letting your team die.” A brief pause. “Understood?”
“Understood,” I mumble, the guilt still gnawing at me. But Price offers me a faint nod of confidence, leaving me standing there to digest the collision of relief, pride, and shame.
Perimeter Duty
I go about my assigned task, circling the blocks where broken walls and abandoned carts provide sporadic cover. Shadows stretch over crumbled thresholds, and every creak or rustle sparks my adrenaline anew. At least the gunfire has stopped. The eerie hush of the night weighs on me, reminding me we’re not out of this yet.
Eventually, I spot Ghost by the orchard we passed earlier. He’s standing near a half-fallen fence, scanning the treeline. For a second, I hesitate, wondering if I should keep my distance. But we’re on the same side, after all. And I do need to report in.
I approach quietly, boots crunching dry leaves. Ghost doesn’t look at me, but his mask tilts slightly—he knows I’m here. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Moonlight drenches the orchard in silver, highlighting the tension in his stance.
“You need something?” he says finally, voice subdued.
I swallow. “Price told me to help secure the perimeter.” A beat of silence, then I force myself to continue, “Look, about earlier—tackling Gaz—”
Ghost’s shoulders tense. He keeps gazing outward, like he’s not sure if he wants to hear my explanation or snap at me again. I gather my courage. “I know it was reckless. But if I’d hesitated even a second, Gaz would—”
“I know,” Ghost cuts in, sighing. He finally turns, mask catching the moonlight. “And you did save him. But you nearly got yourself killed, you realize that, yeah?”
There’s no real anger in his tone now, just exasperation. I exhale, relief washing through me. “I do. Sorry if I messed up your op plan.”
He shakes his head. “The op’s fine. My team’s still breathing.” A flicker of something passes his eyes. “Just don’t do it again. Not that way.”
I nod, the weight in my chest easing. “Understood.”
He gives a curt acknowledgment, turning back to the orchard. We stand side by side a moment, letting the night breeze swirl around us. The orchard feels strange—post-battle quiet, no gunshots. I realize this is the calm I’ve been craving all evening.
“How long until exfil?” I ask softly, more to break the silence than anything.
“Soon,” he replies, equally hushed. “Pilot’s en route.”
I shift my grip on the rifle. “So, are we… done here? Aside from watch duty?”
He’s silent for a moment, scanning the shadows. Then he huffs a short breath, almost a ghost of a laugh. “We’ll see. Missions rarely end neatly.”
Another hush falls, but this time it’s less hostile, more like a wary truce. My nerves still buzz from the near-disaster. But I’m also proud—I did protect Gaz. And despite Ghost’s scolding, he seems to accept it was necessary.
Footsteps approach—Soap, likely. He appears from behind a leaning tree, rifle across his chest. “Bird’s five minutes out. We’re grouping in the square.” He glances between me and Ghost, reading the atmosphere. “All good here?”
Ghost nods once, stepping away. “Yep.” He heads off without further comment, leaving me and Soap in the orchard’s dim glow.
Soap arches an eyebrow. “Well, that’s the Ghost version of ‘cheers for saving my pal, now don’t do it again,’ I guess.”
A short laugh escapes me, tension unraveling. “Yeah, something like that.”
He gestures for us to head back, and we fall into step, crossing the ruined fence line. As we near the barn, I spot Gaz helping Mace secure the prisoners for transport—likely blindfolding them or hooking them together so they can’t bolt. Price stands on watch, the rescued villagers huddled nearby. The wind carries faint whispers, the night otherwise still.
A moment later, the faint thwack-thwack of a helicopter’s rotor enters my hearing, distant but growing. My heart lifts at the sound: exfil, a ride out of this battered village and back to relative safety. Another mission done—my first real taste of 141 life, complicated by mistakes and heroics.
We gather in the open, forming a ring around the prisoners and the civilians. Dust gusts as the helicopter descends, stirring up a mini sandstorm. I squint, turning my face away. Through the haze, I see Ghost slip into place at the perimeter, eyes scanning for any last-second threat.
When the skids touch down, Price barks orders: “Civilians first, then the hostiles. Mace, Soap—cover. Gaz, get our rook aboard.” He nods at me. “You can ride near the door, keep an eye out.”
I nod, adrenaline still simmering. Ghost remains on the fringe, scanning rooftops until everyone is loaded. At last, it’s just him and me left on the ground. He glances over, mask unreadable in the swirling dust. For a second, I think he might say something else about earlier. But he doesn’t, just motions me aboard.
I climb in, rifle across my lap, taking a seat by the open door. Ghost piles in after me, taking the seat across the cabin. Mace taps the pilot’s shoulder, and the helicopter roars skyward, the village shrinking below. Relief settles in my chest—we’re done here, for now.
As the altitude climbs, I let my head lean back against the cabin wall. Gaz and Soap are both alive, the civilians too. The mission succeeded, more or less. Even Ghost, for all his stern fury, seems to accept my presence. That’s enough for one day.
He catches me looking over, then turns away to stare out at the dark horizon. I can almost imagine him replaying every detail—my slip on the ridge, my reckless dash to save Gaz. Tomorrow, he’ll probably tear into me again during debrief.
But for now, his silence isn’t quite so damning. It feels like grudging acknowledgment: I messed up, but I also did something right. He’ll keep me alive with his harsh lessons, and I’ll keep proving I’m worth it.
The helicopter thumps through turbulent air, carrying us toward home base—or wherever 141 calls home. My limbs ache, my mind buzzes. In a few hours, we’ll be debriefed, new tasks assigned, more training doled out. It’s a brutal life, but it’s the one I chose.
Outside, the night sky glitters with stars. I rest my rifle across my knees, letting the hum of the rotors lull me into a fatigued calm. In the corner, Ghost’s mask glows faintly under the instrument lights. Maybe we’re not friends; maybe we never will be. But we’re on the same side, and that’s enough.
No illusions, I remind myself again. I’ll keep making mistakes, and he’ll keep calling me on them. But maybe that’s how I’ll learn to survive in this covert world—balancing caution with heart, braving bullets for my teammates and trusting Ghost to cover the rest.
And if he snarls at me afterward, so be it. I can live with that—as long as everyone makes it out alive.
We touch down at an improvised landing zone just beyond what passes for the 141’s current base of operations—a run-down airstrip bordered by a few ramshackle buildings. The helicopter’s rotors whirl overhead in a deafening roar, sending dust and pebbles clattering across the ground. I shield my eyes, rifle in hand, limbs running on autopilot after the tense night.
Price hops out first, offering a quick hand to help the terrified civilians disembark—still trembling from everything they witnessed. Mace and Soap pull the cuffed hostiles down, barking clipped orders for them to keep moving. Gaz leans out of the cabin behind me, one hand resting on the small of his back as if the near-miss bullet earlier left a phantom ache.
And Ghost? Ghost just melts into the darkness, side-stepping dust clouds and scanning the perimeter with that perpetual vigilance. His skull mask catches the faint glow of distant floodlights, giving him an otherworldly, silent vibe. If he’s still furious with me, it’s buried under mission focus—for now.
I slide off the skids, forcing my legs to steady beneath me. My shoulder throbs from the impact with Gaz, but I grit my teeth and jog after the others toward a dim building that serves as a makeshift control center. Beyond it, a row of battered hangars crouches in the gloom, half their doors missing. No one stands outside to greet us—this isn’t exactly a comfortable base, more of a staging area.
Inside, the tension still sizzles. The cramped interior is lit by a single overhead bulb and the glow of a couple of battered laptops on a fold-out table. Price directs Soap and Mace to lock up the prisoners in a back room for temporary holding. The rescued civilians cluster together, confused and anxious. Gaz gently ushers them to a corner with some chairs, murmuring calming words in that easy, reassuring tone of his.
Ghost lingers by the door, arms folded, mask angled away. We’re all coated in sweat and dust, adrenaline still pumping. Price rakes a weary hand through his hair, turning to me.
“Get yourself looked at,” he says, flicking a glance at my shoulder. “You took a beating tonight.”
I blink, realizing my left arm is stiff, a dull ache radiating into my collarbone. “I’m—”
“Do it,” Price cuts in, not unkindly. “We’ll debrief in half an hour once the pilot’s re-fueled. Go.”
I nod, managing a hoarse “Yes, sir,” before slinging my rifle and heading toward a side room that apparently doubles as a medical station. It’s just a dingy little space with a few cots and a stack of dusty supplies. One of our small allied team’s medics is already there—he barely glances up as I slip in.
“Another one?” he mutters, sorting through gauze. “Take a seat.”
I shrug off my gear, biting back a groan as I rotate my shoulder. My entire arm pulses. The medic casts a quick, impassive eye over me, then prods at the bruised spot. “Tender but not broken,” he declares. “Likely a sprain or deep bruise from an impact. I’ll wrap it, you keep it easy for a day or two. If that’s even possible in this madhouse.”
A rueful snort escapes me. “Thanks.” Easy days don’t seem to exist in the 141, especially not when Ghost’s around to push me harder.
Once he’s done wrapping a tight bandage, I gather my rifle and gear again. My body protests every movement, but the dull support helps. One mission done, I think, heading back to the main room. One more bullet I avoided—barely.
When I return, the place hums with quiet activity. Mace and Soap stand near the prisoners, ensuring they’re securely cuffed and not about to do anything foolish. Gaz continues to reassure the civilians, offering them water and some ration packs. Ghost is nowhere in sight—maybe stepping out to re-check the perimeter. Or maybe he’s deliberately avoiding me.
Price, noticing me, gestures me over. “Debrief in ten,” he says low. “Get some water.”
I comply, guzzling from a battered canteen set on the table. My reflection in a small window reveals smudges of dirt across my cheeks, shadows under my eyes. The day was long; the night was longer.
A few minutes pass, and Ghost returns, stepping inside with that eerie quiet. He exchanges a brief nod with Price, then meets my gaze for a split second before shifting away. My stomach flips—he’s not done being upset, is he?
-----------------------
We gather around the makeshift table, the overhead bulb casting harsh light on our exhausted faces. Soap’s helmet dangles from his fingertips, hair plastered to his forehead. Mace folds his arms, posture rigid. Gaz stands behind me, stretching his back with a wince. Ghost looms at the edge of the group, silent as stone.
Price starts off, voice calm but authoritative. “All right, we made it out with minimal fuss. Sniper down, two hostiles in custody, plus a handful of frightened civilians. Good work overall. HQ will collect the prisoners for intel, and the locals will get safe passage out of the combat zone.”
He glances around, letting that sink in. “Now, specifics. Soap—how’s the barn holdout?”
Soap snorts. “They’re secure, but mouthy. Probably merc types, hired guns. Not the best discipline.” He shoots me a faint grin, as if recalling how we nabbed them earlier.
Price nods, turning to Mace. “Perimeter?”
“Clear,” Mace says tersely. “No further sign of movement.”
Finally, Price’s gaze shifts to me. “Your angle?”
I brace myself. “All clear from our end. The infiltration went smooth until the sniper,” I manage, voice steady. “We neutralized that threat. No casualties.”
Ghost shifts at the corner of my vision, arms still folded. Price nods slowly, then flicks his gaze to him. “Any concerns?”
A rigid silence. Ghost exhales, and I sense him choosing words carefully. “We had a near-disaster,” he says flatly, though not as heated as before. “Gaz almost caught a bullet. She saved him—risky move. Could’ve turned lethal. We’ll address it.”
Price’s mouth tightens. “Yes, we will. But for the record, no one died. That’s a win in my book.”
Ghost grunts but doesn’t argue further. The tension is almost tangible, pressing in on my chest. I stare at my boots, half-relieved that the worst scolding is behind me. The memory of that sniper’s muzzle flash still blazes in my mind.
--------------
Price rubs a hand over his jaw, glancing at the battered laptops. “HQ wants us to regroup at the forward safehouse for further orders—no extended stay here. The helo can take the prisoners and civilians shortly. Then we move out in vehicles back to the main road. Rendezvous with 141’s secondary transport. Understood?”
We echo a series of “yes, sir” and head bobs. Everyone is drained, but the mission’s not truly over until we’re out of this region. We break to finalize gear checks. Soap and Mace handle transferring the captives to the helicopter crew. Gaz helps the civilians board, coaxing them gently. That leaves me standing awkwardly near the table, triple-checking my rifle and vest, unsure whether to keep my distance from Ghost or attempt some reconciliation.
Eventually, Ghost moves my way, and my pulse spikes. He’s the one choosing to speak, so I figure it’s important. His voice is low, words clipped. “Shoulder holding up?”
I nod stiffly. “Med says it’s just bruised. I’ll manage.”
An uneasy beat passes. He squares his shoulders, letting out a measured breath. “Look, I’m not out to tear you down. You did keep Gaz breathing. Just… there’s a reason we drill comms and positioning, so we don’t lose two operators saving one.”
I swallow, nodding. “I know.” Then, quieter, “I didn’t want to see him die.”
He gives a short, almost imperceptible nod. “Neither did I.”
Silence hangs. For a second, I see something in his eyes—understanding, maybe. Or acceptance. “Next time, call it out, let me or someone else lay covering fire. You move together. Got it?”
“Got it,” I affirm. My voice holds more steadiness than I feel.
He steps back, arms folding again, the mask returning to its stoic vantage. “Good. Let’s get out of this place.”
I follow him out into the night. The helicopter is already lifting off with the prisoners and civilians, the engine roar fading. A handful of battered vehicles wait by the hangars for us. Soap and Mace walk side by side, comparing notes on the hostiles’ gear. Gaz waves me over to one of the trucks—“You can ride with me and Ghost,” he says, half-smiling.
We pile in—Gaz driving, Ghost in the passenger seat, me in the back. The engine coughs to life, headlights stabbing through the darkness. Another mission concluded, if not seamlessly. I can’t help but replay every moment: the infiltration, the slip on the ridge, the frantic dash to save Gaz. Ghost’s blistering anger is still fresh in my memory, but so is the faint edge of respect he might be letting show now.
As the trucks rumble out onto the dirt road, leaving the battered village behind, my shoulder throbs, my body sags with exhaustion. But my mind thrums with a weird sense of belonging—like I survived a rite of passage. Ghost’s words ring in my ears: Next time, do it better.
Because there will be a next time— of that I’m certain. The 141’s mission never seems to end, and I’ve thrown myself into it, bruises and all. And maybe—just maybe—Ghost is starting to see me as more than a walking mistake, even if he’ll never fully show it.
The convoy picks up speed, dust swirling in the headlights. I lean against the window, letting the night air cut across my face, letting the tension unravel from my muscles. Gaz chats quietly with Ghost up front, and though I can’t hear every word, I sense less hostility in the undertone. This is how the 141 rolls—intense ops, friction among the team, but a bond forged in surviving together.
I close my eyes briefly, listening to the hum of the engine. When we reach the safehouse, there’ll be another debrief, more training, more close calls waiting. But for the moment, I let my exhaustion and small victories carry me forward. Another day alive, another mission complete. And tomorrow—whatever happens, I’ll face it with them.
Chapter 11
Chapter Text
The convoy rattled down a rugged dirt road, every bump and jolt reverberating through the truck’s frame. Seated in the backseat, I gritted my teeth, each rough patch sending a dull ache through my sore shoulder. Gaz sat up front, one hand on the wheel and the other tapping idly against the dashboard in a rhythm that seemed to echo his easy-going personality. Occasionally, he hummed some tune under his breath, breaking the silence with an odd sort of comfort.
Ghost occupied the passenger seat, his broad shoulders rigid as he scanned the darkened terrain ahead. His presence was as commanding as ever, the black mask making him seem more like a shadow given form than a man. He hadn’t spoken since we left the extraction point, and his silence felt heavier than the rain-soaked gear weighing down my body.
As the truck crawled through a shallow stream, the tires sending up glimmering sprays in the moonlight, I let my gaze drift out the window. The quiet hum of the engine, the rustling of trees, and the distant chirping of insects all blurred together. Exhaustion tugged at my edges, but my mind refused to quiet. It was too full of the mission: the split-second decision to save Gaz, the sniper’s crack, the chaotic rush of adrenaline—and Ghost’s biting words.
"Safehouse’s about five clicks out," Gaz said, breaking the silence. He glanced into the rearview mirror, his warm brown eyes meeting mine for a brief second. "You holding up back there?"
I nodded, though my body protested every slight movement. "Yeah. Shoulder’s sore, but I’ll manage."
His lips twitched into a faint smile before returning to the road. "Good. We’ll be able to patch you up better once we’re there."
Ghost remained silent, his head turning slightly as if he were listening for something only he could hear. Even his smallest movements carried a weight of authority that made my stomach twist. The earlier reprimand still echoed in my mind. While part of me wanted to push back, I couldn’t deny the truth in his words. My decision to intervene could have easily gone south.
The ride stretched on, the truck jostling over uneven terrain as the dirt road narrowed, flanked by dense thickets of trees. When we finally reached the safehouse, the first streaks of dawn were stretching across the sky, painting it in soft hues of pink and gold. The villa itself was a shadow of its former glory—a crumbling structure hidden among overgrown foliage, its stucco walls cracked and streaked with grime. It was far from welcoming, but it would suffice.
The trucks rolled to a halt in the overgrown courtyard. Engines hummed to a stop, and the air stilled, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Price was the first to disembark, his commanding presence radiating even in the predawn light.
"Gaz, check the perimeter. Soap, you’re with me. Everyone else, secure the main room," he barked, his tone brisk and authoritative.
I climbed out of the truck, wincing as my stiff muscles protested. The damp air clung to my skin, mixing with the grime and sweat of the long mission. Ghost moved past me without a glance, his strides purposeful as he made his way to the villa’s entrance. I fell into step with the others, the heavy pack on my shoulders digging into the bruise that had formed during the mission.
Inside, the villa was a picture of neglect. The central room was dimly lit, its furniture sparse and battered. A faint smell of mildew hung in the air, mingling with the scent of damp earth. The walls bore faded remnants of once-bright paint, now peeling in patches. Despite its state of disrepair, it was a defensible location—remote, inconspicuous, and off the grid.
Soap clapped his hands, his broad grin cutting through the tension. "Well, it’s not a five-star hotel, but it’ll do, aye? Let’s get this place sorted so we don’t feel like we’re squattin’ in a crypt."
"Don’t get your hopes up," Gaz called from the doorway. "This place is one gust of wind away from collapsing."
"Adds character," Soap quipped, already moving to help Price spread out maps and intel across a battered table in the center of the room.
Ghost and Mace set about reinforcing the windows, using scraps of wood and old furniture to secure potential entry points. The rest of the team scattered to their respective tasks, moving with the kind of efficiency that spoke to years of experience. I busied myself organizing supplies in the corner, focusing on anything that kept my hands occupied and my mind from wandering.
Occasionally, I felt Ghost’s gaze flicker toward me. He was subtle about it, but the weight of his scrutiny was unmistakable. His earlier words rang in my ears, each syllable cutting as sharp as the edge of a blade. I couldn’t decide if his glances were assessing, judging, or something else entirely. Either way, they set my nerves on edge.
------------
It wasn’t until later that I found myself alone in the villa’s small, dimly lit kitchen. I was rummaging through a crate of supplies, hoping against hope to find coffee or something equally caffeinated, when the sound of boots scuffing against the floor made me stiffen. Turning, I saw Ghost leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Thought you’d be with Price," I said, my voice carefully neutral.
"He’s got it covered," Ghost replied, his tone as cold and even as always. His gaze remained fixed on me, the intensity of it sharp enough to cut. "Wanted to have a word."
I straightened, trying to appear less defensive than I felt. "About the mission?"
"About you," he said plainly, stepping further into the room. His presence felt larger than life in the confined space, his shadow stretching across the floor. "You’ve been with us enough to know better. Saving Gaz was brave, but it was reckless."
"I’ve heard that already," I replied, my tone sharper than I intended.
Ghost didn’t flinch. Instead, he took another step closer, his voice dropping lower. "And you’ll keep hearing it until you get it through your head. What you did out there wasn’t just a risk to yourself—it was a risk to the team."
The words stung, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. "I wasn’t about to stand there and do nothing while Gaz got taken out."
"That’s not the point," Ghost snapped, his tone harsher now. "The point is you made a choice without thinking it through. You hesitate, or you act without considering the consequences, and people get hurt—or worse."
His words hit like a punch to the gut, but I bit back the urge to argue. As much as I hated to admit it, he wasn’t wrong. My actions had been impulsive, and while they had worked out this time, I couldn’t deny the danger I’d put myself—and the team—in.
"I get it," I said quietly, my voice tight. "I made a mistake. It won’t happen again."
Ghost studied me in silence, his eyes narrowing as if he were searching for any sign of insincerity. Finally, he exhaled, the sound more a soft huff than a sigh.
"You’ve got potential," he said, his tone slightly softer. "But potential doesn’t mean a damn thing if you don’t learn to control it."
I nodded, my throat tight with a mix of frustration and resolve. "I’ll do better."
"You’d better," he replied, his voice low and steady. With that, he turned and left the room, leaving me standing alone with the weight of his words pressing heavily on my shoulders.
------------
By the time the sun rose, the villa was alive with activity. Price had split the team into smaller groups, each with a specific task for the day. Breakfast was a quick and quiet affair—ration packs and lukewarm coffee—but it was enough to shake off the lingering fog of sleep.
Ghost, true to form, remained distant throughout the briefing, his instructions clipped and to the point. I was assigned to a patrol with Soap and Gaz, while the others focused on recon and securing intel drops. Despite my lingering frustration with Ghost, I couldn’t shake a growing determination to prove myself.
Soap nudged me as we headed toward the vehicles, his grin as easy as ever. "Don’t take Ghost too personally," he said, his accent curling around the words. "He’s got high standards, sure, but it’s just his way of sayin’ he gives a damn."
I managed a faint smile. "I’ll keep that in mind."
Gaz chuckled from the driver’s side. "You’re holding up better than I did my first week. Thought he’d chew me out every time I breathed wrong."
"Does he ever not hate anyone?" I asked, half-joking.
"That’s the thing," Gaz replied, his grin wry. "If he’s giving you grief, it means he sees something in you. The ones he doesn’t care about? He ignores."
Soap clapped a hand on my shoulder as I climbed into the back of the truck. "You’re doin’ fine, lass. Just keep your head down, and we’ll make a proper operator out of you yet."
-------------
The safe house had settled into a strange rhythm. The place was more fortress than refuge—old stone walls, creaking floorboards, and a biting draft that seeped into every corner. We were miles from civilization, buried in the quiet, save for the occasional hum of distant traffic. It was a waiting game now, and I hated it.
The others kept themselves busy. Soap and Gaz rotated between planning sessions and maintenance drills. Price stayed locked in his usual state of vigilance, coordinating intel and barking orders that always seemed one step ahead. Meanwhile, I was handed the grunt work—cleaning weapons, running checks on gear, and keeping an eye on the perimeter. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept me moving, kept me from thinking too much.
Ghost, though, was different. He was always there but never present. A shadow, moving through the villa with a silence that made me second-guess his every step. He didn’t speak to me unless necessary, and when he did, it was clipped and sharp, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. I could feel his eyes on me sometimes, assessing, weighing, but I never had the nerve to meet his gaze for long. It was like standing under a spotlight that burned straight through you.
By the third day, the tension was starting to wear me down. I hadn’t made any serious mistakes, but I knew I wasn’t blending in seamlessly. I was the outsider, the newcomer, and Ghost made sure I felt it every second. It wasn’t cruel—it was calculated. Purposeful.
I was in the armory, sorting magazines into their proper pouches, when I felt the air shift. Before I even turned around, I knew who it was. Ghost stood in the doorway, broad and immovable, his mask concealing everything but the intensity in his eyes.
“On your feet,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, each word delivered with the weight of an order.
I stood immediately, shoulders squaring. He stepped into the room, his movements deliberate and slow, like a predator sizing up its prey.
“You’re not bad,” he started, his tone giving nothing away. “Your instincts are coming along, but you’re sloppy. And sloppy gets people killed.”
I swallowed hard, nodding once. “Understood.”
He stared at me for a beat, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t just understand. You fix it.”
“Yes, sir.”
He folded his arms, the gesture making him seem even more imposing. “You’ll train with me. One-on-one. We’ll start tomorrow.”
My heart thudded against my ribs, but I kept my face neutral. “What kind of training?”
“Combat,” he said simply. “Close quarters. Weapons. Drills. Whatever it takes to get you ready.”
The weight of his words settled over me like a storm cloud. This wasn’t just training—it was a test. He wanted to see what I was made of. Or maybe he wanted to break me. Either way, I didn’t have the luxury of backing down.
“What time?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
“Dawn,” he replied without hesitation. “West side of the compound. Bring everything.”
With that, he turned and strode out, his boots silent on the worn wood floor. He didn’t wait for confirmation—he didn’t need it.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of anticipation and dread. Every time I tried to focus on a task, my mind dragged me back to the looming challenge. Training with Ghost wasn’t just a chance to prove myself—it was survival. If I failed, I wouldn’t just disappoint him. I’d lose whatever fragile footing I’d gained in this team.
That night, sleep was a distant memory. I lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling and replaying every interaction I’d had with Ghost since the mission began. His voice echoed in my head, sharp and unforgiving. Sloppy gets people killed.
When dawn finally broke, I was already dressed, my gear strapped on and my boots laced tight. The chill outside hit like a slap, but it was refreshing, grounding me in the moment. The air smelled of damp earth, the villa still shrouded in the pale gray of early morning. My breath puffed out in front of me as I walked to the west side of the compound, every step heavier than the last.
Ghost was already there, standing in the open space with his arms crossed, his posture relaxed but commanding. His mask made him unreadable, but the set of his shoulders told me he wasn’t in the mood for patience.
“You’re late,” he said, though I knew I wasn’t.
I didn’t argue. “Won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.” He stepped forward, tilting his head slightly. “This isn’t a classroom. There’s no safe word. You screw up, and you feel it. Understood?”
“Understood.”
He watched me for a long moment, then nodded toward the center of the space. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then. And don’t waste my time.”
With that, the real work began.
My boots crunched softly as I approached the center of the space, Ghost already waiting like a sentinel in the dim light. He didn’t move when I stopped a few feet away; his broad frame and imposing mask made him seem more like a statue than a man.
His silence weighed heavier than any words he could have spoken. Even the way he stood, arms crossed and head tilted slightly, conveyed everything I needed to know: he wasn’t here to coddle or encourage me. He was here to push, to break, to see if I could hold my ground.
“You look tense,” he said, his voice low, gravelly, and indifferent. The kind of voice that didn’t expect excuses, only results.
“I’m fine,” I replied, though my throat felt tight. My fingers flexed involuntarily, the ache of nerves settling into my muscles.
He let the silence stretch, his head tilting slightly. “Fine doesn’t cut it. Fine gets people dead. Let’s find out what you really are.”
Without warning, he threw something at me—a small training knife. Instinct kicked in, and I caught it awkwardly, the handle slipping slightly before I secured my grip. His eyes flicked to the weapon in my hand, then back to me, his posture calm but predatory.
“Defend yourself.”
The words were ice, sending a chill down my spine. I barely had time to process before he lunged, a blur of motion. His own blade—blunted but still threatening—sliced through the air as he closed the gap between us. I stumbled back, my heart hammering as I raised the knife, the weight unfamiliar in my grip. He didn’t hesitate, pressing forward with deliberate, calculated strikes.
The first blow glanced off my hastily raised arm, sending a sharp sting through the muscle. I pivoted awkwardly, trying to find space to breathe, but he was relentless. Each swing of his arm was precise, every step calculated to box me in. It was like fighting a storm—impossible to predict, unstoppable in its force.
“You’re too slow,” he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Move your feet!”
I tried. My boots skidded on the dirt as I sidestepped, narrowly avoiding a jab aimed at my ribs. The knife in my hand felt foreign, its weight dragging my movements. My breaths came quick and shallow, panic creeping in with every step. He feinted left, then slammed his shoulder into me, knocking me off balance. I hit the ground hard, the knife flying from my grip.
“Pathetic,” he said, his tone cold as he loomed over me. “You think anyone out there’s gonna give you a second chance?”
I scrambled to my feet, the sting of his words cutting deeper than the scrape on my elbow. My pulse roared in my ears, and I grabbed the knife from the ground, gripping it tighter this time. My jaw clenched. If he wanted a fight, I’d give him one.
He came at me again, faster this time, his blade a blur. But now I was watching—not just reacting, but studying the way he moved. I saw the faint shift in his shoulders before he struck, the tightening of his grip when he changed direction. When he swung at my side, I parried, the clash of metal vibrating up my arm.
“Better,” he muttered, circling me. “But you’re still hesitating. That’ll get you killed.”
I adjusted my stance, my muscles burning with effort. He moved again, this time testing me with quick jabs that forced me to retreat. My boots slid in the dirt, but I held my ground, focusing on keeping my balance. When he lunged, I sidestepped, narrowly avoiding his blade. My heart surged with a flicker of pride—until he spun and hooked my ankle, sending me sprawling once more.
Pain flared in my shoulder as I hit the ground. I rolled instinctively, scrambling to my feet, but his boot was already on the knife I’d dropped. He kicked it away, and it skittered out of reach. I froze, chest heaving as I stared up at him. He towered over me, the skull pattern on his mask catching the pale light, making him look more specter than man.
“This isn’t a game,” he said, his voice low and deadly. “When you’re out there, no one’s gonna stop because you tripped. No one’s gonna wait for you to catch your breath. You don’t get a reset.”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “I know.”
“Do you?” His eyes bore into mine, unrelenting. “Because right now, all I see is someone afraid to make a move. You hesitate, you die. Your teammates die. Is that what you want?”
The weight of his words crushed the air from my lungs. I shook my head, swallowing back the sting of humiliation. “No.”
“Then prove it,” he growled, stepping back. He gestured to the knife he’d kicked aside. “Pick it up. Again.”
My muscles screamed in protest as I bent to grab the knife, my fingers tightening around the handle. I straightened, meeting his gaze head-on this time. The fear was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but something else had taken root—determination.
He nodded once, almost imperceptibly. “Now we start for real.”
And so we did. For hours, he tore into every weakness I had, exposing each flaw with brutal precision. His critiques were sharp and merciless, but I could feel myself adapting, learning. By the time we stopped, the sun was high, and my body was drenched in sweat, every inch of me aching. But for the first time, I felt like I’d earned my place—if only just barely.
The sun blazed high overhead, casting sharp shadows across the training ground. My muscles screamed in protest with every move, my breath coming in ragged bursts. Ghost was relentless, and though I’d adjusted to the punishing pace of his strikes, it felt like I was barely keeping my head above water. His critiques cut sharper than the training knife in his hand, each word exposing flaws I hadn’t even known I had.
“You’re too predictable,” he growled, sidestepping my latest lunge with maddening ease. “Think. Anticipate.”
I gritted my teeth, ignoring the sting of sweat in my eyes. I was tired—bone-deep exhaustion threatened to buckle my knees—but I refused to give in. Ghost circled like a predator, his movements smooth and controlled. There was no hesitation in him, no doubt. He moved like someone who knew exactly how to dismantle anyone foolish enough to stand in his way.
But I wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction.
I feinted left, and for the briefest moment, I saw his stance shift in response. It was a subtle tell, barely perceptible, but it was there. Before he could correct, I lunged to the right, aiming low with the training knife. My blade didn’t make contact, but it forced him to step back, his boot scuffing the dirt. For the first time, I felt a surge of something close to triumph. I pressed forward, ignoring the protests of my muscles, driving him into a defensive rhythm.
“Better,” he said, but his voice held no praise—only cold analysis.
I didn’t let it distract me. Every move, every strike, I pushed harder, faster. Ghost’s counters became sharper, more forceful, but I was starting to see them coming. I pivoted, catching his blade with mine and driving it wide. His eyes flicked to mine, sharp and calculating, but I didn’t falter.
A sudden burst of adrenaline surged through me, a clarity cutting through the exhaustion. I dropped low, twisting my body to sweep his legs. It wasn’t perfect—he staggered rather than fell, but it was enough to break his rhythm. I surged forward, closing the gap, and before I knew it, I’d maneuvered us to the ground. My knee pressed into his chest, my knife poised at his throat.
I froze.
The realization of the moment hit me like a freight train. I’d pinned Ghost—Ghost. His mask was inches from my face, his eyes staring up at me, cold and unreadable. My breath caught, my hand trembling slightly as I registered the position we were in. My weight pressed down on him, the training knife firm against the fabric of his shirt.
I hesitated. For the briefest moment, I didn’t know what to do.
That was all the opening he needed.
In a blur of motion, Ghost twisted beneath me, his strength catching me off guard. My grip on the knife slipped as he grabbed my wrist, forcing my arm away. Before I could recover, he’d flipped us, pinning me to the ground with a precision that left no room for escape. His forearm pressed against my throat, just enough to restrict my breathing without cutting it off entirely. The cold steel of his own knife hovered inches from my side.
“Don’t hesitate,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. His weight bore down on me, his eyes drilling into mine with an intensity that made my chest tighten. “That’s the difference between winning and losing. Between surviving and—”
“Dying,” I finished for him, my voice strained but steady.
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t release me. “Exactly.”
The weight of his words sank in, but so did the position we were in. My pulse thundered in my ears, a mix of adrenaline and something I couldn’t quite name. His grip on my wrist was firm but not cruel, his body radiating heat where it pressed against mine. The world narrowed to the space between us, the sound of my breathing and his low, steady exhale.
“Are you going to let me up, or do you plan to make a point of this?” I asked, my voice edged with forced confidence.
, though my heart thundered in my chest. His weight on me, the sharp intensity in his eyes—it made the air between us feel electric, crackling with something unspoken.
For a moment, Ghost didn’t answer. His mask betrayed nothing, but his eyes sparked with something I couldn’t place—a glimmer of amusement, maybe. Then, to my utter surprise, his lips curved into the faintest smirk beneath his mask, his voice low and teasing.
“Making a point’s the whole exercise, ain't it?” he murmured, his tone carrying just a hint of playfulness. “Unless you’d prefer me to skip to the next lesson, eh?”
The unexpected shift in his demeanour caught me off guard. My brain fumbled for a response, but he didn’t give me the chance to find one. His weight shifted slightly, his presence still overwhelming as his grip on my wrist eased, yet held me firmly pinned.
“Quick on your feet,” he said, his voice softer, the teasing edge sharper now, “but not so quick to think past your first move. You think one good strike makes you untouchable?”
“I don’t—” I started, but his grip on my wrist tightened ever so slightly, silencing me.
“Here’s a free lesson for you,” he said, leaning in just enough that his words were meant for my ears alone. “You let me up, you lose. Doesn’t matter how well you think you’ve done before that. Lose your focus for even a second…” He pressed his forearm against me again, firm but not crushing. “And it’s over.”
He let the weight of those words hang between us. Then, just as suddenly as his teasing had started, his expression shifted. The spark in his eyes dimmed, replaced by the cold, calculating gaze I was used to. Whatever momentary levity he’d allowed vanished, leaving only the stoic professionalism that made him so intimidating.
Without another word, he released me and stood, his movements swift and deliberate. He offered his hand, but it wasn’t an act of camaraderie—it was efficient, practical. I hesitated, searching his eyes for any lingering warmth, but they were blank, his jaw set tight.
“Get up,” he ordered, his tone clipped. “We’re not done.”
Swallowing my frustration and confusion, I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet. My legs were shaky, my body battered from hours of drills, but I didn’t dare show weakness. Not now. I brushed the dirt from my pants, gripping the training knife in my hand tightly as if it might anchor me to the moment.
Ghost had already moved a few paces away, pacing back and forth like a predator assessing its prey. His shoulders were squared, his movements calculated, but there was a coiled tension in him—a barely restrained energy that radiated control. He gestured for me to take my stance again.
“Come on, then,” he said, voice steady and firm. “Don’t get soft just because you managed to catch me off guard once. Let’s see what you’ve really got.”
I exhaled sharply, willing my body to obey despite its protests. Every muscle ached, but his words had stoked the fire of my determination. This time, I wasn’t going to hesitate. I stepped forward, knife poised, ready to close the gap and make my move.
But before I could even feint, Ghost pivoted sharply, his elbow cutting through the air with brutal precision—except it connected squarely with my face.
Pain exploded through my nose and cheekbone like a flashbang detonating in my skull. Stars burst in my vision, and I staggered backward, clutching my face as the world tilted. The knife clattered to the ground as my hands instinctively flew up to assess the damage.
“Bloody hell!” I gasped, the words muffled behind my palms. My eyes watered uncontrollably, the sting radiating through my sinuses and forehead.
Ghost froze mid-turn, the tension in his body going rigid as he realized what had happened. His gaze darted to me, then to his elbow, and for a split second, his eyes betrayed something rare: surprise.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, closing the gap between us in a few quick strides. “Hold still.”
I winced as he gently but firmly pulled my hands away from my face to assess the damage. His gloved fingers tilted my chin upward, his golden-brown eyes narrowing as they scanned for blood or signs of a break. The pressure he applied was careful but firm, his cold demeanor replaced with a rare flicker of concern.
“You’ll live,” he said, his voice gruff but quieter than usual. “Nose ain’t broken, just took a nasty hit. Gonna bruise like hell, though.”
“Great,” I muttered, blinking through the sting and trying to shake off the dizziness. “That’s exactly what I needed—fashion advice from my trainer.”
His lips quirked slightly beneath the mask, a ghost of amusement, but it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. He released my chin and stepped back, crossing his arms as if to create distance between us again. Whatever crack in his armor had appeared was sealed tight once more.
“Wasn’t intentional,” he said, his tone returning to its usual clipped precision. “But you weren’t paying attention. Too focused on the knife, not enough on your surroundings. You should’ve seen that coming.”
I stared at him, incredulous. “I should’ve seen that coming? You turned into me like a wrecking ball! What was I supposed to do, read your mind?”
“Adapt,” he said bluntly, his gaze locking onto mine. “You don’t get second chances in the field. You hesitate, you get hurt—or worse.”
I opened my mouth to argue but clamped it shut, biting back the words. He wasn’t wrong, but the sting of his bluntness paired with the literal sting in my face left me fuming. Still, I forced myself to nod, swallowing my frustration like bitter medicine.
“Fine,” I said, bending to pick up the training knife again. “Let’s go.”
For a moment, Ghost’s eyes lingered on me, studying my resolve. Then he nodded once and stepped back into position, his movements fluid and controlled.
“Reset,” he ordered, his voice cold and professional again. “And keep your eyes open this time.”
Chapter 12
Chapter Text
I adjusted my grip on the training knife, the weight of Ghost’s latest lesson settling heavily on my shoulders. Every muscle in my body screamed for a break, but his unwavering stare told me there was no such thing. Not here. Not now.
“You going to stand there staring at me, or are we going to finish this?” I asked, my voice edged with forced nonchalance. I refused to let him see the frustration still simmering beneath the surface.
Ghost tilted his head slightly, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his eyes. “You got a death wish, or just that stubborn?” His tone was as dry as the desert, but I caught the faintest teasing lilt underneath it.
“Maybe both,” I shot back, rolling my shoulders to loosen the tension. “Or maybe I just enjoy proving you wrong.”
His stance shifted, relaxed but predatory, and his reply came with a soft, almost condescending chuckle. “Big words for someone who’s been on the ground more times than she’s landed a hit.”
I bristled but forced myself to stay calm. He wanted a reaction, and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. “Maybe you’re just too predictable,” I countered, raising the knife in a ready position. “I’ve almost had you twice now.”
“‘Almost’ doesn’t count,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “In a fight, that hesitation gets you killed.”
I met his gaze head-on, refusing to back down. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just afraid I’ll figure you out.”
Something in his posture stiffened, a flicker of tension running through him. But then he shifted closer, circling me slowly like a wolf sizing up its prey. “You think you’ve got me figured out?” he asked, his voice smooth, almost mocking. “Go on, then. Show me.”
The challenge was clear, and it lit a fire in me. I moved first, stepping into his space with a feint to his left before shifting my weight to his right. My knife came up in a sharp arc, aimed for his midsection, but he sidestepped it with infuriating ease. His hand shot out, catching my wrist and twisting it just enough to make me drop the blade—again.
“Predictable,” he muttered, his tone dripping with disdain.
“Smug,” I bit back, wrenching my arm free and lunging for the knife. I rolled away from him, scooping it up before he could press his advantage.
He chuckled, low and quiet, the sound unnervingly confident. “Smug’s what you call it when I’m right.”
I gritted my teeth, the tension between us thick enough to cut with the blade in my hand. He was toying with me, pushing me, and it was working. I could feel the heat rising in my chest, but I forced myself to channel it into focus.
“You talk a lot for someone who hasn’t ended this yet,” I said, moving to circle him.
“Keeping you sharp,” he replied easily, his gaze tracking my every move. “You’re good when you’re not thinking too hard. Problem is, you let your head get in the way.”
“Maybe I just don’t want to hurt you,” I said, my words dripping with sarcasm.
That earned me another faint chuckle, but this time there was a hard edge to it. “You should be worried about keeping yourself alive, not about me.”
I lunged again, this time feinting twice before going low. The knife’s flat edge came within a hair of grazing his side before he twisted out of reach. His hand shot out, grabbing my forearm and yanking me off balance. I stumbled forward, and before I could recover, he’d twisted me around and pinned my arm behind my back.
The pressure on my shoulder was firm but not painful, and his breath was warm against my ear as he leaned in slightly. “You’ve got fight, I’ll give you that,” he murmured, his voice low and close. “But you’re still sloppy.”
The heat from his proximity sent an unexpected jolt through me, and I froze, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy of the moment. His grip didn’t falter, and his tone turned colder. “Hesitate again, and you’re done.”
“Noted,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt.
He released me abruptly, stepping back as if nothing had happened. I turned to face him, the tension between us crackling in the air like static electricity. His expression was unreadable behind the mask, but his eyes held a glint of something I couldn’t quite place—challenge, maybe? Or something else entirely?
“Pick it up,” he said, gesturing to the knife I’d dropped again. His voice was calm, but there was an undertone of authority that left no room for argument.
I bent to retrieve the blade, gripping it tightly as I straightened. My pride was bruised, but my determination burned hotter than ever. If he wanted to push me, I’d push right back.
“Ready when you are,” I said, lifting the knife and meeting his gaze with unflinching resolve.
His head tilted slightly, as if assessing me, and the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Good. Let’s see if you’ve learned anything.”
Ghost didn’t give me a second to recover. As soon as the words left his mouth, he closed the distance between us in one sharp, fluid movement. I barely got my guard up before his arm swept toward me, aiming to knock the knife from my grip again.
Not this time.
I shifted my stance, bracing myself as I blocked his strike with the flat of the blade. The impact jolted up my arm, but I held firm. He grunted softly, his eyes narrowing with faint approval—or maybe it was just frustration. It was impossible to tell with him.
“Better,” he said, his voice clipped as he stepped back to assess me. But he didn’t give me long to bask in the small victory. He was on me again in seconds, his strikes faster, more aggressive.
Each move forced me to react on instinct, no time to think or overanalyze. He came at me with relentless precision, testing every weakness I had, pushing me to keep up. My muscles burned, my breath came in quick gasps, but I refused to falter.
His foot swept out suddenly, aiming for my legs. I jumped back just in time, but the motion sent me stumbling. He capitalized on it instantly, lunging forward to grab my wrist. I twisted out of his grip, pivoting on my heel to bring the knife in a wide arc toward his side.
He caught my wrist mid-swing, his fingers like a vice around my arm. “Sloppy again,” he muttered, his voice low. But there was a spark in his eyes now, something sharper than amusement. A challenge.
I wrenched free, the motion taking more effort than I’d like to admit, and lunged again. This time, I faked right and spun left, managing to land a flat jab against his ribs with the training knife. He didn’t flinch, but his head tilted slightly as if to acknowledge the hit.
“Finally,” he said, his tone dry. “Was starting to think I’d wasted my time.”
“Wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” I shot back, stepping away to reset my stance.
He didn’t reply, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—satisfaction, maybe? It was gone before I could pin it down, replaced by the cold focus that seemed to define him.
The next round was even harder. He moved faster, his strikes sharper, more precise. It felt less like training and more like an outright fight. Every step forced me to think two moves ahead, to anticipate where he’d go and how to counter it. My body screamed for a break, but I pushed through, fueled by sheer stubbornness and the burning need to prove myself.
I saw an opening—a split-second gap in his stance—and lunged for it. My knife swung low, aiming for his side again. But he was faster. He twisted out of the way, grabbing my arm and pulling me forward with enough force to throw me off balance.
I stumbled into him, my shoulder colliding with his chest. His free hand came up to grab my other wrist, trapping me. For a moment, we were locked together, both of us breathing hard, tension thick in the air.
His voice was low, barely above a whisper. “You’re still hesitating.”
“I’m trying,” I snapped, frustration lacing my words.
“Trying’s not enough,” he countered, his grip tightening slightly before he released me and stepped back. “Out there, you don’t get second chances.”
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm. “Maybe if you stopped holding back, I’d actually learn something.”
That earned me a sharp look. “You think I’m holding back?”
“I think you’ve been treating me like I’m made of glass,” I shot back, adrenaline fueling my words. “If you want me to get better, stop pulling your punches.”
For a moment, I thought he might actually laugh, but the sound never came. Instead, he stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over me. “You want the real thing?” he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “Careful what you wish for.”
Before I could respond, he attacked. This time, there was no holding back. His movements were a blur of precision and force, each strike calculated to push me to my limit. I barely managed to keep up, my knife swinging wildly as I tried to counter him.
My heart thundered in my chest, sweat dripping down my face. Every time I thought I’d found an opening, he was already two steps ahead, blocking or countering with brutal efficiency. It was like trying to fight a ghost—impossible to pin down, always just out of reach.
And yet… I held my ground. Barely. Each exchange lasted a little longer, each block a little sharper. I could feel myself improving, adapting to his rhythm. But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.
Finally, he disarmed me with a quick twist of his wrist, the knife clattering to the ground. His hand shot out, grabbing the front of my shirt and yanking me forward. I stumbled, coming face-to-face with him.
“Still think I’m going easy on you?” he asked, his voice cold but not without a hint of something else. Amusement, maybe?
I met his gaze, my breath coming in ragged bursts. “Not anymore,” I managed, trying to ignore the way my pulse raced—though whether it was from exertion or his proximity, I couldn’t say.
For a long moment, he just stared at me, his grip firm but not painful. Then, as if deciding he’d made his point, he released me and stepped back. “Good,” he said simply, his tone unreadable. “We’re done for now.”
I nodded, too exhausted to say anything else. As he turned away, I bent to pick up the training knife, my mind racing. Whatever had just happened between us, it felt like more than just training. But Ghost, as always, was impossible to read.
I straightened, gripping the knife tightly as I watched him walk away, his posture as steady and controlled as ever. Whatever he thought of my performance, he wasn’t about to let me know. Not yet.
The next morning, I woke to the dull ache of overworked muscles and the memory of yesterday’s brutal session with Ghost. My limbs protested as I swung my legs off the cot, and a hiss escaped my lips when my shoulder twinged sharply. I rolled it out as best I could, muttering curses under my breath. Whatever Ghost’s intentions had been, he’d pushed me further than I thought possible—and I hated to admit it, but I had learned something.
The barracks were quiet. It seemed the rest of the team was already up and about, or perhaps they’d been given a more generous reprieve after yesterday’s drills. I glanced at my watch. 6:05 a.m. A bit later than usual, but no one had come banging on the door, so I figured I was safe.
After pulling on my boots and shrugging into my jacket, I made my way to the mess hall. The smell of coffee and eggs greeted me, along with the sound of low murmurs and clinking utensils. Soap spotted me first, lifting his mug in greeting from across the room.
“Morning, lass,” he called, his grin already too cheerful for this hour. “Thought you might’ve slept the whole day away after yesterday’s dance with the grim reaper.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at my lips. “If I’d known breakfast would still be hot, maybe I would’ve stayed in bed longer.”
“Careful,” he teased, leaning back in his chair. “Ghost might take that as a challenge and run you ragged again.”
I didn’t reply, though the thought of another one-on-one session with him made my stomach twist. It wasn’t just the physicality of it; it was the way Ghost seemed to peel back every layer, seeing things I wasn’t even sure I wanted to acknowledge about myself. He had a knack for finding my weaknesses and shoving them in my face, but there were moments—brief, fleeting moments—where he seemed almost impressed. Not that he’d ever admit it.
Grabbing a plate, I filled it with scrambled eggs and toast, then made my way to Soap’s table. As I sat down, Price and Gaz entered the mess, deep in conversation. They nodded in greeting, and I returned it with a small wave. Gaz joined Soap and me, while Price took a seat at a table near the corner, flipping open a folder filled with mission reports.
“Survived Ghost’s boot camp, then?” Gaz asked, his tone light but curious.
“Barely,” I muttered around a bite of toast. “Think he’s got a vendetta against me.”
“Nah,” Soap said with a wink. “He’s like that with everyone. If he’s rough, it means he thinks you’ve got potential.”
“Or he’s trying to kill me,” I quipped.
Gaz chuckled, shaking his head. “He pushes because he knows you can take it. Same thing happened to me when I joined. Felt like he was breathing down my neck 24/7, but it paid off.”
“Does he ever let up?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Not really,” Soap said, grinning. “But if you manage to get a nod of approval out of him, it’s worth more than gold.”
The conversation shifted as we ate, the team swapping lighthearted banter about past missions and training. But my mind kept drifting back to Ghost. I’d half-expected him to make some scathing comment about yesterday’s session—or worse, ignore me entirely—but so far, there’d been no sign of him.
Until he walked into the mess hall.
The room seemed to shift, a subtle but noticeable change in the atmosphere. Ghost moved like a shadow, quiet and deliberate, his presence commanding without effort. He grabbed a mug of coffee, then leaned against the counter, scanning the room with that unreadable gaze of his.
I caught his eyes for a split second before looking away, my stomach tightening. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his attention lingering, like he was still evaluating me even now.
Soap, ever the observant one, nudged me with his elbow. “Looks like the big man’s keeping an eye on you,” he said, his tone teasing.
“Fantastic,” I muttered, keeping my focus on my plate. “Exactly what I wanted.”
Gaz smirked but didn’t comment, his eyes flicking between Ghost and me like he was piecing something together.
Eventually, Ghost moved to a table near Price, his focus shifting to whatever briefing or report the captain had spread out in front of him. I let out a quiet breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my shoulders loosening slightly.
——
Later that afternoon, as I was running through some weapons drills on the range, Ghost appeared again. He stood off to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, watching me with that same cold intensity. I tried to ignore him, focusing on my aim and timing, but his presence was impossible to shake.
When I finally lowered my weapon, my shoulders tight with tension, he stepped closer.
“Better,” he said, his tone flat. “But you’re overthinking. The more you hesitate, the slower you are.”
I bit back the urge to snap at him. Instead, I nodded and reloaded, trying to apply his advice as I went through another round of drills. This time, my movements felt smoother, more natural. When I finished, I glanced at him, hoping for a flicker of approval.
“Not bad,” he said, which—coming from Ghost—might as well have been high praise.
“Thanks,” I muttered, my grip tightening on the weapon.
He studied me for a moment longer before stepping back. “Same time tomorrow,” he said. “Don’t be late.”
And just like that, he was gone, leaving me standing there with a mix of frustration, exhaustion, and an odd sense of accomplishment. Whatever his methods, Ghost had a way of getting under my skin—and, annoyingly, pushing me to be better.
Chapter 13
Chapter Text
The next morning, the air inside the safehouse felt lighter, almost languid, a stark contrast to the days of drills and combat exercises. The mission briefings were postponed, and for the first time since I arrived, the team seemed at ease. It was a rare thing—downtime. A day to reset, recharge, and try to forget the weight of the world we were carrying on our backs.
The mess hall was already lively when I arrived, the scent of fresh coffee and something frying on the stovetop filling the space. Soap was at the counter, flipping pancakes with a flair that seemed more suited to a cooking show than a safehouse. Gaz sat at the table, hunched over a mug of coffee, scrolling lazily through something on his tablet. Price leaned against the far wall, reading a well-worn book, his expression uncharacteristically serene. Ghost, as always, was a quiet presence in the corner, his mask a reminder of the ever-present edge to our reality.
“Ah, look who finally decided to join the living!” Soap called out as I entered, waving the spatula like a baton. “C’mere, lass. I’ve made a proper Scottish breakfast just for you.”
I raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Pancakes are Scottish now?”
“They are when I make ’em,” he replied with a wink, sliding a golden stack onto a plate and shoving it into my hands. “Sit down, eat up. You’ll need energy for later.”
“Later?” I asked, taking a seat next to Gaz and cautiously cutting into the pancakes. They were surprisingly good, fluffy and sweet with just the right amount of syrup. “What’s happening later?”
Soap grinned, leaning over the table with an exaggerated air of conspiracy. “Let’s just say, it’s not all drills and combat in Task Force 141. Sometimes, we unwind.”
Price chuckled softly from his corner, not looking up from his book. “Unwind” was probably Soap’s version of chaos, I thought, but I didn’t press the issue. Gaz, however, was clearly in on whatever Soap was planning, as his lips twitched in a suppressed grin.
The morning passed lazily, a strange but welcome shift in pace. Soap insisted on teaching me and Gaz a bizarre card game that involved more shouting and laughter than strategy, and even Price joined in for a round or two before retreating to his usual stoic solitude. Ghost, predictably, kept his distance, though I occasionally caught him observing us from the periphery, arms crossed like he was trying not to judge our antics too harshly.
As the sun dipped low in the sky, the atmosphere in the safehouse shifted again. Soap disappeared briefly, returning with a triumphant flourish and a case of something that made my stomach churn before I even saw the label.
“Whisky,” he announced, setting the bottles down on the table with a grin so wide it practically split his face. “The good stuff. Well, not the best stuff, but good enough for government work.”
Gaz laughed, shaking his head. “Here we go.”
Soap ignored him, turning to me with a gleam in his eye. “C’mon, lass. You’ve been here long enough—it’s time you learned the fine art of letting loose.”
“I don’t know,” I hedged, glancing toward Ghost, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and silent as ever. His gaze flicked to the table, then back to me, unreadable as always.
“Oh, don’t look at him,” Soap said, waving a hand dismissively in Ghost’s direction. “He’s about as much fun as a wet blanket when it comes to this sort of thing. Gaz and I will show you how it’s done.”
“I’m not sure I’m much of a drinker,” I admitted, but Soap wasn’t having it.
“That’s the point!” he exclaimed, already pouring a generous measure into a glass and sliding it across the table to me. “Tonight’s about bonding. About trust. About figuring out who can hold their liquor and who’s gonna end up passed out on the floor.”
“Guessing that’ll be you,” Gaz muttered with a smirk, earning a laugh from Price, who was watching the scene unfold with a bemused expression.
Soap shot Gaz a mock glare before turning back to me. “Just one, yeah? You’ve earned it after putting up with Ghost’s drills all week.”
I hesitated, my hand hovering over the glass. The liquid inside gleamed amber in the dim light, its sharp scent wafting up to meet me. I wasn’t entirely convinced that this was a good idea, but there was something infectious about Soap’s enthusiasm, something disarming in the way the rest of the team seemed to relax around him.
“What the hell,” I said finally, lifting the glass. “One.”
Soap whooped, raising his own glass in a toast. “To the newest member of the team!”
We clinked glasses, and I braced myself as I took a tentative sip. The whisky burned going down, but the warmth it left in its wake wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Soap and Gaz cheered me on, their laughter filling the room as I coughed and sputtered slightly, my throat not quite used to the intensity.
“You’ll get used to it,” Gaz said, grinning as he took a swig of his own drink.
I wasn’t so sure about that as the whisky burned its way down my throat, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. But the warmth that followed wasn’t entirely unwelcome. I took another cautious sip, and then another, until the burn became less noticeable and more of a steady hum in my chest. The laughter around the table was infectious, and for the first time in weeks, I felt the tight knot of tension in my shoulders begin to loosen.
Soap, naturally, noticed my growing ease and seized the opportunity. “That’s it, lass! You’ve got the hang of it now,” he crowed, topping off my glass before I could protest. “No stopping now. We’ve got to build that tolerance of yours if you’re going to survive in this lot.”
“Survive you, more like,” I muttered, earning a round of laughter from the others. Even Price chuckled, though he hid it behind his book.
Time blurred after that. The amber liquid in my glass seemed to refill itself as Soap, Gaz, and even Price shared stories that ranged from absurd to outright unbelievable. I lost track of how many times I laughed until my ribs ached or how often my cheeks flushed—not just from the alcohol but from the camaraderie I was starting to feel.
And then it hit me. Not all at once, but in waves—a lightness in my head, a warmth in my chest that spread to my limbs. My thoughts felt slower, softer around the edges. I blinked down at my glass, realizing belatedly that I’d let Soap get the better of me.
“Lightweight,” Gaz teased, nudging my arm.
“Am not,” I shot back, though the slight slur in my voice betrayed me.
Soap leaned closer, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Careful now. The whisky’s got teeth, lass. But it’s good to see you letting loose for once. Makes you almost… human.”
I rolled my eyes, laughing despite myself. “Oh, so you’re the authority on humanity now?”
“Compared to Ghost, aye,” Soap quipped, jerking his thumb toward the corner where Ghost still stood, his presence as stoic and unyielding as ever.
Something bold—no, reckless—flared in me, probably fueled by the whisky humming in my veins. I set my glass down with a soft clink and reached for the bottle on the table.
“What are you doing?” Gaz asked, a note of amusement and caution in his voice.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I poured another measure of whisky into a fresh glass, stood up, and walked toward Ghost.
The room seemed to quiet slightly, or maybe it was just in my head. Either way, I felt the weight of their gazes on me as I approached the man who had been a fortress of cold indifference since the day I joined the team.
Ghost’s eyes shifted to me as I stopped in front of him, the glint behind his mask unreadable. “Something you need?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly.
I held out the glass to him, my expression bold despite the slight wobble in my legs. “Figured you could use a drink.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. The tension between us crackled like a live wire, the room around us falling away as his gaze bore into mine. Then, to my surprise, he reached out and took the glass, his gloved fingers brushing against mine briefly.
“I don’t drink while on duty,” he said, his tone measured but not entirely dismissive.
“Good thing this is downtime, then,” I shot back, my lips curving into a small, defiant smile.
His head tilted slightly, as if considering me. “You’re bold tonight,” he murmured, his voice laced with a hint of amusement. “Must be the whisky.”
“Or maybe I’m just not scared of you anymore,” I countered, the words slipping out before I could second-guess them.
The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly, and I couldn’t tell if it was a smirk or something else behind the mask. “Not scared, huh?” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Dangerous mindset for someone still green.”
“Dangerous mindsets seem to be your specialty,” I quipped, surprising even myself with the comeback.
He chuckled, a low sound that sent a shiver down my spine. “Careful, rookie. That tongue of yours might get you in trouble.”
“Only if you can catch me,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
His grip on the glass tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might actually crack a smile beneath the mask. Instead, he lifted the glass slightly, a silent acknowledgment of my daring before setting it down on the table beside him without taking a sip.
“Nice try,” he said, the teasing edge in his voice fading as his usual cold demeanor returned. “But I’m not the one who needs a lesson in restraint.”
The sudden shift in his tone was like a bucket of ice water, and the whisky in my system did little to temper the sting of his words. I stood there for a beat too long, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.
“Guess I’ll save it for someone who appreciates it,” I said lightly, though my voice wasn’t as steady as I’d hoped.
As I turned to walk back to the table, I caught Soap and Gaz exchanging glances, their smirks barely hidden. Price, ever the observer, didn’t comment, but his raised eyebrow spoke volumes.
I sat down, avoiding their teasing looks as I reached for my glass, trying to ignore the way Ghost’s presence still seemed to loom over me from across the room.
“Well,” Soap said, breaking the silence with a grin. “I think that went well.”
I shot him a glare, but even I couldn’t suppress the small, embarrassed laugh that bubbled up. It seemed no matter how much distance Ghost put between himself and the team, the tension—and whatever else lingered beneath the surface—wasn’t going anywhere.
The room eased back into the steady rhythm of lighthearted banter, the kind that only came when soldiers managed to steal moments of peace amid chaos. Soap poured another round for himself and Gaz, nudging the bottle toward me. I hesitated, the earlier burn of whisky still fresh in my throat, but his mischievous grin was impossible to resist.
“C’mon, lass,” he coaxed, pouring a small measure into my glass without waiting for a response. “You’re already in it; might as well enjoy it.”
I shook my head with a smirk but took the glass anyway. The amber liquid swirled in the dim light, and I sipped it slowly, hoping to stave off the inevitable fuzziness creeping into my head. Across the room, Ghost remained where he was, silent and watchful. His body leaned casually against the wall, but there was a tension in the set of his shoulders, a quiet intensity that made it impossible to forget his presence.
Soap, ever the life of the party, clapped his hands suddenly, pulling everyone’s attention back to him. “Right, this is gettin’ too serious for my liking. We need some proper music.”
He rummaged through a duffel bag in the corner, producing a small, battered radio. With a few twists of the dial, static filled the air before giving way to the steady beat of a song—something lively with a fast rhythm that made Gaz nod his head in time.
“Now we’re talkin’,” Soap declared, setting the radio on the table. He turned to me, his grin as wide as ever. “And since you’re new, lass, it’s only fair you join in. Can’t have you sittin’ there like a lump.”
“Join in?” I asked, narrowing my eyes suspiciously.
“Dancin’, of course!” he exclaimed, already stepping into the open space in the center of the room. He held out a hand, wiggling his fingers. “Don’t make me drag you, now.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re joking.”
“Not even a little,” he shot back, his grin daring me to refuse. “C’mon, we’ve got to teach you how to unwind properly. It’s tradition.”
Gaz leaned back in his chair, raising his glass. “It’s true. First downtime together, everyone’s got to let loose. No exceptions.”
I glanced between them, debating my options. On one hand, the thought of dancing in front of the team—especially with Ghost’s ever-present gaze burning into me—made my stomach twist. On the other, I could already tell Soap wouldn’t give up until he got his way.
Sighing, I placed my glass down and stood. “Fine. But if you step on my toes, I’m sitting back down.”
Soap whooped in triumph, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the open space. “That’s the spirit! Now, just follow my lead.”
The music pulsed through the room, and I let him guide me, his movements exaggerated and playful. Despite my initial embarrassment, I couldn’t help but laugh as he spun me clumsily, his over-the-top antics impossible to take seriously. Gaz cheered from the sidelines, his own glass sloshing slightly, while Price shook his head with a faint smile.
“Not bad, lass,” Soap said as he twirled me again, his grin infectious. “Got a bit of rhythm in you after all.”
“Thanks, I think,” I replied, trying to keep up with his unpredictable moves.
But it wasn’t just Soap’s teasing that made my heart race. It was the weight of Ghost’s stare, heavy and unrelenting. I didn’t have to look to know he was watching, his dark eyes following every step, every laugh that escaped my lips. There was something almost… tense about it, like he was holding back from saying or doing something. The thought sent a shiver down my spine, though I wasn’t sure if it was the whisky or something else entirely.
Soap leaned in, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “You know, he’s watchin’ you.”
“I noticed,” I muttered, glancing toward Ghost. He hadn’t moved from his spot, but his gaze was fixed on me, unreadable beneath the mask.
Soap chuckled. “Don’t let it get to you. He’s always like that—quiet, broody. But I reckon you’ve managed to get under his skin a bit.”
“I doubt that,” I said, though the idea sent a strange flutter through my chest.
“Suit yourself,” Soap said, spinning me one last time before releasing my hand and stepping back with a bow. “Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for our newest dancer!”
Gaz clapped, raising his glass again, and even Price gave an approving nod. I returned to the table, my cheeks flushed from exertion—and maybe a little from Ghost’s unwavering stare.
As I sat down, my eyes met his across the room. For a moment, neither of us moved. The tension was palpable, a silent exchange of something unspoken but undeniable. Then, with a small shake of his head, Ghost turned and disappeared into the shadows of the room, leaving me wondering what, exactly, had just passed between us.