JONAH (Delta Five SEALS #5)

1. Jonah

Jonah

T he pattern moves again.

Not random.

Not corrupted.

Purposeful.

The line of code shifts across my monitor with almost surgical precision before disappearing into the maze of encrypted architecture surrounding the Delta Five servers. My fingers hover over the keyboard, every instinct sharpening.

There.

A flicker.

Gone again.

I lock onto the thread before it can vanish completely, isolating the process inside a secured sandbox. The command executes instantly, my eyes narrowing as data streams across the screen.

“Got you,” I mutter.

Across the room, Ronan looks up from cleaning his weapon. “Do you?”

I don’t answer.

Because the thing sitting inside our system doesn’t behave like malware.

It adapts too fast.

Most intrusions fight to stay hidden once cornered. They scramble. Erase themselves. Burn the trail behind them.

This one stopped moving entirely.

Like it’s watching me back.

I lean closer to the monitor, forearms braced against the desk while the glow from the screens carves shadows across the operations room.

“Show yourself,” I say quietly.

Nothing.

Then the monitor flickers.

Not enough to trigger alarms.

Not enough to register as interference.

Controlled.

Deliberate.

Text slowly forms across the center of the screen.

You’re close.

Every muscle in my shoulders locks instantly.

Behind me, Ronan shoves to his feet. “What the hell is that?”

I stare at the words while the cursor blinks once beneath them.

Patient.

Waiting.

“Not what,” I say.

My voice comes out lower than before.

“Who.”

The cursor blinks again.

Then new words appear.

Closer than you should be.

My jaw tightens.

“Then stop running.”

Silence.

Not empty silence.

Measured silence.

Like whoever sits on the other side of the screen is considering the response carefully.

Then—

I’m not running.

Something cold slides down my spine.

Because I believe her.

That realization hits harder than it should.

Every trace I’ve followed over the last three weeks rearranges itself in my head—not as an attack…

But as breadcrumbs.

I sharpen my focus on the screen.

“Then what are you doing?”

The cursor blinks steadily.

Once.

Twice.

Waiting.

The word appears slowly.

Almost cautiously.

Waiting.

Ronan moves closer beside me now, tension radiating off him. “Jonah—”

“Hold on.”

I barely hear myself.

My focus tunnels completely.

The room.

The servers.

The world outside the monitor.

Gone.

“Why me?”

The response comes instantly this time.

Because you’re the only one who followed the pattern.

My pulse kicks harder.

Another line appears beneath it.

Slower.

Deliberate.

And the only one who might survive what’s coming.

The temperature in the room seems to drop.

Ronan swears quietly under his breath.

I push back slightly in my chair, eyes locked on the words.

“Who are you?”

The cursor blinks.

Pauses.

For one second, I think she disappeared.

Then—

Not yet.

Not no.

Not never.

Not yet.

A decision.

My fingers curl around the edge of the desk hard enough for the metal beneath them to creak softly.

“You don’t get to control this.”

The response appears immediately.

I already do.

Silence slams into the room.

Heavy enough to feel.

Ronan lets out a sharp breath. “Yeah. Don’t like that.”

Neither do I.

But beneath the tension—beneath the warning bells screaming in my head—something else burns hotter.

Curiosity.

Instinct.

Recognition.

Like some part of me has been chasing this long before I understood why.

“Then prove it,” I say quietly. “Give me something real.”

Nothing happens at first.

Then the screen flickers again.

The encrypted pattern shifts.

A new window opens.

Coordinates appear.

My eyes lock onto them instantly.

Domestic location.

Remote terrain.

No masking protocols.

No rerouting.

Too easy.

Ronan steps closer, studying the numbers over my shoulder. “That’s a trap.”

“Yeah.”

No hesitation.

I stare at the coordinates while every instinct I possess tells me to slow down.

Question it.

Verify it.

But my hand is already reaching for the SIG resting beside the keyboard.

Because deep down—

I know she wants me there.

And somehow…

I know she expects me to come.

“She wants us to follow,” I say.

Ronan grabs his tactical vest off the nearby table. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

“No.”

I rise from the chair, the legs scraping sharply against the concrete floor.

“It’s not.”

I strap the holster into place and grab my jacket in one smooth motion.

Ronan studies me carefully for half a second.

Then gives a slow nod.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Let’s go meet your ghost.”

I look back at the monitor one final time.

The coordinates still glow against the black screen.

Waiting.

Patient.

Like she already knows exactly what I’ll do.

My jaw tightens.

“Not a ghost,” I say.

And for the first time since this started—

I’m absolutely certain.

“She’s real.”