Code Name: Ghost (Club Opus Noir #1)

Chapter 1

1

NICK

P irate Encampment

Horn of Africa

Ten Years Ago

The chains bite into my wrists, the rusted metal cutting into raw flesh. The sting barely registers anymore, lost in the constant, agonizing ache of my body breaking down. The stench of sweat, blood, and rotting wood clogs my nose, suffocating the small, sweltering room they’ve kept me in for the last—what? Two days? Three? My sense of time is as fucked as the rest of me.

The pirates have been relentless. They’ve used fists, boots, knives, whatever they could find to get what they want out of me. Names. Intel. Weaknesses.

They haven’t gotten shit.

I won’t break.

The metal door screeches open, rusted hinges grinding against each other like nails on a chalkboard. The dim lantern light from the hallway spills into the room, casting long shadows. I don’t look up. I don’t have to.

I know their leader’s footsteps by now—soft but sure, the steps of a predator who enjoys playing with his food. Abdi Warsame, one of Somalia’s most ruthless warlords, steps inside, his sharp eyes raking over me.

“You look terrible, Ryeland,” he says in English, his voice thick with his Somali accent. He crouches, bringing himself to my level. “You are a dead man walking. The world already believes you are gone. Why fight this? Why not make it easy on yourself and we will end your pain?”

I laugh, the sound hoarse and bitter. “Because you’re the one who’s already lost.”

Warsame chuckles like we’re old friends. “You are very brave, my friend. But you and I both know that bravery dies quickly in a place like this.” He reaches into the folds of his robe and pulls out a knife, the serrated edge glinting in the low light. “Perhaps I carve the truth from you instead.”

I meet his eyes, my gaze steady. “Do your worst.”

His expression doesn’t change, but the shift in the air is immediate. The guards tense, anticipating violence. Warsame leans in close, so close I can smell the tobacco on his breath.

“The only reason you are still breathing is because I find you amusing,” he murmurs. “That ends today.”

He straightens, nodding to the two men flanking him. One of them moves forward, a thick wooden baton gripped in his hands.

I brace myself.

The first strike lands across my ribs, sending a white-hot explosion of pain through my side. I don’t make a sound. The second follows, slamming into my thigh. The third cracks against my shoulder.

I grit my teeth, sucking in short, shallow breaths.

Warsame watches, waiting for me to fold. When I don’t, he sighs and turns toward the door. “Break him.”

Then he’s gone.

The guards waste no time, pulling me to my feet.

A fist crashes into my jaw, snapping my head to the side. Another blow slams into my stomach, forcing the air from my lungs. My vision swims, pain radiating through every nerve ending. I don’t resist—I let my body go limp, let them think I’m fading.

It’s exactly what I need them to believe.

I count their steps, track their positions, and wait for the right moment.

Then I move.

I twist hard, ignoring the fire in my muscles, and wrap the chain of my restraints around the throat of the closest guard. He chokes, his hands flying up in panic, but I pull tighter, using what little leverage I have. His body convulses, jerking as he struggles, but his strength drains fast.

The second guard shouts, scrambling for his weapon.

Too late.

I use the dying man’s momentum to launch myself forward. My elbow connects with the second guard’s throat in a brutal, crushing blow. He staggers, gasping for air.

I don’t give him the chance to recover.

With a savage pull, I yank his knife from his belt and drive it into his gut. He lets out a gurgled cry before collapsing, blood pooling beneath him.

I don’t stop.

The first man goes still in my grip. I release him, letting his body slump forward. My hands shake from exhaustion, but I don’t have time to feel it. I yank the dead man’s keys from his belt and unlock my shackles—the metal clattering to the floor.

I’m free.

My legs protest as I stand, weak from days of captivity, but I push forward. I strip one of the bodies of his rifle, check the ammo. Good enough.

I step over the corpses and move toward the door.

The hallway is dimly lit, shadows stretching long against the walls. I know this compound. I memorized its layout the moment they dragged me in here. I need to reach the northern exit—there’s a supply shed there, a place to regroup, to plan my next move.

My team is gone—every last one of them slaughtered in an ambush we never saw coming.

I should be dead, too. I will make them pay.

I slip through the corridors, silent as death. There are voices ahead, laughter, the indistinct murmur of men who don’t know they’re about to die—all of them.

I move fast, bringing the rifle up and firing in quick succession. Two go down instantly. The third reaches for his weapon—I shoot him in the kneecap, then put a bullet between his eyes before he can scream.

I keep moving.

The air thickens as I near the exit. I smell the ocean, the distant scent of gasoline. My heartbeat is steady, my hands sure.

Almost there.

I press against the last door, listening. Nothing. I push it open, stepping out into the humid night. The compound’s outer wall looms ahead. Just a few more steps and I’ll be outside—one step closer to freedom.

Then I hear it. The unmistakable click of a safety being switched off.

I freeze and turn around slowly. Three red laser dots paint my chest.

Fuck.

I lift my head slowly, meeting the eyes of the men waiting for me. They’re not pirates—at least they’re not dressed in the ragtag way of most of Warsame’s men. They’re dressed in all black—no insignia, no markings. Just shadows wrapped in Kevlar. One man steps forward, his face obscured by night vision goggles and the balaclava he is wearing.

“Nick Ryeland,” he says, his voice smooth, with a heavy French accent I can’t quite place. “Your pathetic attempt to escape has failed. Although I suppose technically you escaped those idiot pirates. But you will not escape me. You’ve got two choices: put the gun down and come willingly, or we’ll drag your sorry ass back for further questioning.”

I scan the area, calculating. I’m outnumbered. Outgunned. There’s no way I can escape this time, but if I submit, perhaps there will be another chance. Slowly, I lower my rifle. The lead operative gestures to his men. They move in, weapons raised, closing the distance. I’m ready to do whatever I have to do in order to survive without betraying my country, but then something slams into the back of my skull and pain detonates behind my eyes. The world tilts, and everything goes black.

The metallic tang of blood fills my mouth, sharp and unrelenting. My head throbs with every pulse of my heartbeat, a dull, persistent reminder that I’m still alive—though not for much longer.

The ropes binding my wrists cut into my skin, slick with sweat and blood. My swollen left eye is shut, my ribs protest with each breath, and I feel the deep gash on my thigh seep warmth down my leg. One man in Kevlar stands in front of me gripping a jagged knife, playing with me like a toy.

“You are stubborn,” he says in his French accent, his voice filled with amusement.

I don’t answer. My throat is raw from screaming, from the hours of beatings, from the dehydration clawing at me like a living thing.

But I don’t beg. I never will.

He steps closer, pressing the flat of the blade against my cheek, dragging it down slowly until it rests at my throat. “Your team is dead. Your country has forgotten you. No one is coming.”

He’s wrong.

I grit my teeth, keeping my expression unreadable, though the pain lancing through my body is enough to drive most men insane. But they trained me for this. SEAL training didn’t just prepare me for combat—it prepared me to die with dignity.

And yet, when I let my mind drift for even a second, it doesn’t go to my fallen teammates, or the mission gone to hell.

It goes to her.

Cherise.

I close my eyes, inhaling the scent of salt air that isn't there. My mind conjures up the memory as if it were yesterday—the warmth of the California sun, the way the waves rocked the sailboat, and how fucking beautiful she looked under the setting sun.

She was laughing, her green eyes bright with mischief as she leaned over the rail, letting the wind whip through her dark hair.

“Nick Ryeland, are you drunk?” she had teased, watching as I fumbled with the small velvet box in my pocket.

“Not yet.” My voice had been steady, but my pulse had raced with something foreign, something terrifying and exhilarating all at once. “But I might be in a few minutes, depending on how this goes.”

Her smile faltered slightly, realization creeping into her expression. “What are you...”

I’d dropped to one knee right there on the deck, the movement making the boat sway slightly. Her breath hitched as she looked down at me, her hands trembling at her sides.

“You drive me insane,” I had admitted, my lips tugging at the corner in a way I knew made her crazy. “You argue with me about everything. You hate when I take control. And you have this frustrating habit of always being right.”

She had laughed, but there were tears in her eyes.

I’d flipped open the small box, revealing the diamond ring I’d spent months agonizing over. “But I love you, and I don’t want to spend another second of my life without knowing you’re mine. Marry me, Cherise.”

She had stared at me, completely still, the ocean air whipping around us as if time itself had stopped.

Then, without warning, she had launched herself at me, sending us both sprawling onto the deck.

“Yes,” she had whispered, her lips pressing against mine. “Yes, you overbearing, insufferable man. I’ll marry you.”

I had slid the ring onto her finger, watching as it caught the last rays of the dying sun, and thought—for the first time in my life—that I had everything I could ever want.

But I never made it down the aisle. Now, trapped in this godforsaken hellhole, I realize I never will.

He drags the blade up, pressing just enough to let me feel the sharp bite of steel. “Tell me what I want to know, and I will make your death quick.”

I chuckle, a rough, broken sound. “I’d rather you work for it.”

His eyes darken, his grip tightening. I brace myself for the pain, for the last cut that will end this, but then… the world explodes.

Gunfire erupts from the jungle outside, rapid and merciless. The crack of automatic weapons cuts through the humid air, followed by the distant roar of an engine—a chopper.

The man's head jerks up, his expression flickering with panic. Another burst of gunfire rips through the night, and then the whole goddamn roof shakes as a deafening blast detonates just outside.

I don’t hesitate.

With the last reserve of strength I have left, I lurch forward, catching the man off guard. My legs are weak, my body screaming in protest, but I grit through it. I twist my hands, ignoring the pain as the rope slices into my skin, and hook my boot around his ankle.

He stumbles, and in that half-second, I strike.

I slam my bound hands against his throat, crushing his windpipe with the sheer force of my body weight. He gurgles, his knife clattering to the ground as he claws at his throat. I kick him hard in the ribs, sending him sprawling, and snatch the blade from the dirt.

Even though my hands are still tied, it doesn’t matter.

I drive the knife into his neck.

The blood spurts, hot and fast, and I don’t stop until the fight leaves his body.

Panting, I wrench the blade free and use it to saw through the ropes at my wrists. The second I’m loose, I grab the rifle from the cooling body and turn toward the door.

I make it two steps before the night explodes again.

A chopper sweeps in low, its rotors kicking up dirt and debris as it hovers just beyond the compound’s walls. The men outside scream in confusion, their weapons useless against the sheer force of the assault.

And then two figures drop from the bird, moving with lethal precision.

Robert Fitzwallace. Sawyer Barnes. Cerberus.

The first shot takes out the sentry at the main gate, his body crumpling before he even registers what’s happening. The second figure—Sawyer—moves like a ghost, cutting through the remaining hostiles with calculated efficiency.

I stagger forward, my vision blurring, my body fighting to stay upright.

Sawyer’s gaze locks onto mine, his expression unreadable beneath the night-vision goggles. “Jesus Christ, Ryeland.”

“Thought you were dead,” Fitzwallace adds in his Scottish brogue, stepping over a corpse as he slings his rifle across his chest.

I let out a ragged breath. “So did I.”

Sawyer extends a hand, his grip firm as he hauls me to my feet. “We’re getting you out of here.”

More gunfire erupts behind us, but the chopper is already lowering, its side door open, waiting.

“Move!” Fitzwallace orders.

I don’t have to be told twice.

We sprint for the chopper—well, they sprint, kind of dragging me between them—the gunfire turning to distant echoes as I haul myself inside. The second we hit the metal floor, the pilot lifts off; the jungle disappearing beneath us.

I lean back, breathing hard, my vision swimming.

Cherise.

Her name is the last thing I think before the darkness takes me.