Chapter 1
Chapter One
Present day…
He was going to die.
The cold crept through his limbs, numbing his joints, making his fingers and toes clumsy as he stumbled through the snow.
Everything was white. His breath. The trees and mountains and fields.
Ice as far as he could see. Behind him. Before him.
He’d never make it. He’d been stupid to leave. Stupid to try.
“No,” he whispered. “No.”
He stumbled onward, determined. He had to find a way.
Before the sun dropped behind the mountains. Before the temperature dropped another sixty degrees.
And then the wolf howled.
He stopped, his heart in his throat, his head jerking in every direction as he spun where he stood. Where was the wolf?
Another howl joined the first. A third, fourth, and fifth.
And then so many he couldn’t count them anymore.
They were coming closer.
He started to run, his heart hammering, his eyes stinging as the moisture froze in them. His breath razored in and out, his blood beating in his ears.
So loud. Too loud to hear the wolves behind him.
He had to find a tree or a cave, somewhere to shelter. Somewhere to stay until the danger passed.
A branch snapped. He threw a look over his shoulder.
The wolf was big, white, with piercing blue eyes. Blood dripped from its teeth as it closed the distance between them.
“No,” he panted, struggling onward, fear a cold thing inside that twisted his guts and made his heart leapt into his throat.
He stumbled on a root, his knees buckling, body sprawling in the snow.
The wolf was on him, jaws snapping. He lifted his arms, tried to fight. But the teeth sank into his tender flesh. There was pain, futility, defeat.
He was going to die—
Ghost snapped awake with a start, bolting out of bed and whirling, his pistol in his hand.
Nothing was there. Nothing at all.
Just him. Sweating, the taste of fear sharp and acidic on his tongue, his body aching from the accumulation of old injuries that wouldn’t have bothered him just a few years ago.
“Fuck,” he muttered, lowering the pistol to his side, and shoving a hand through his damp hair.
What the hell was happening to him?
The dream wasn’t new. It was an old dream that happened sometimes when he least expected it. The feelings of helplessness from that time in his life had never completely gone away, and he hated the reminder of them. Hated the weakness.
He sucked in a breath and stalked to the kitchen for a beer. Maybe not the best way to cope, but it’s what he was gonna do. The Ghost Ops mission would be over in the next few months. He had to stay focused. Get the job done, save the world, disappear somewhere. Not permanently.
Just long enough to get his shit sorted, stuff this dream back into the dark chasm it’d crawled out of, and figure out what the hell he planned to do with the rest of his life since his options had changed so dramatically when he agreed to this job.
Nothing he couldn’t handle though.
Sure, he’d have to leave his team, the life they’d built in Sutton’s Creek, and begin somewhere new. He got a pang at the thought, but it was no different than rotating out of one assignment and into another in the military. It’s what you did, what you expected.
He was used to being alone. Used to moving on. He had no roots, no home. No family.
It’s why he was here. Why they’d picked him to lead Ghost Ops.
He grabbed the beer, popped the cap, and took a long drink. Then he lifted the lid on the laptop he’d left on the counter and scrolled through the news. Not the most relaxing way to spend the early hours, but he wasn’t getting back to sleep anyway. So why not?
President Willis smiled on the screen in one of the articles. That wasn’t what caught his attention, though. She was overseas on another state visit and suddenly having to deny rumors of a new weapon the US was developing.
He frowned as he scanned the text. Sighed and rubbed his forehead.
Fucking Athena Project. It wasn’t a weapon, but it could be wielded as one by essentially giving whoever controlled it the ability to attack other countries without fear of retaliation.
Nothing was getting through that shield, and that was a problem for people who were being asked to trust that the president wouldn’t order a strike if she got pissed enough.
He understood the fear, but he also knew why the US needed the shield. It was revolutionary and meant to protect the citizens of this nation. And if they didn’t develop it first, somebody else would. Then what? Could they trust Russia or China not to launch a strike if they had the technology?
He’d spent too many years in the military, too many years preparing for war scenarios, to believe they wouldn’t. The fact the project was actively being targeted by foreign operatives, resulting in Ghost Ops moving to Alabama to protect it, was proof enough.
Ghost snapped the lid shut and went outside, onto the screened-in porch at the back of the house. It was early September, and still hot as fuck during the day. But nights weren’t bad at all. Not cool, but not sweltering either.
He liked the heat. Preferred it.
When he’d been nine, his dad had come home one day and announced they were moving to Alaska.
His mom had seemed stunned, but she didn’t argue.
They’d sold everything, packed up what little they’d kept, and drove from Florida to Alaska over the course of three weeks.
Mom had been optimistic and tried to make the trip fun.
Dad had been jubilant, certain of their future.
Certain that taking his family to Alaska was the right move to protect them from all the chaos he believed was coming.
Ghost sipped his beer as the memories crowded for space in his mind. He’d been a kid, excited about bears and caribou and seals. About the adventure of it all.
If only he’d known how bad it would get. How twisted his dad’s mind would become.
He hadn’t though. Probably a good thing since he’d been fucking nine and couldn’t have done anything about it anyway. Some things were better not knowing.
Thanks to those years, he didn’t trust many people.
His team. General John “Viper” Mendez.
That was about it.
If he didn’t know he was adopted, he might have worried he could crack the way his father had. His parents had been good people, loving, but Desert Storm had triggered something in Calvin Bishop’s psyche that never recovered.
Ghost finished the beer and took a shower, then headed up the driveway on foot.
One Shot Tactical, the range and training facility he ran with his team, sat on a small rise about a quarter mile from the houses on the property.
It was four in the morning and the moon was sliding across the sky, sinking toward sleep.
Some of the guys would arrive early to workout. Others would stay in bed with their women a while longer. He’d picked this team for their lack of relationships of any kind, and yet every last one of them was shacked up and planning to get married when this job was over.
If anyone had asked him back in December, he’d have said there was no way any of them would go against orders to form a relationship, let alone all of them.
Then again, it was a stupid fucking order some asswipe in Washington had thought was a good idea. Yeah, getting involved made them vulnerable to manipulation, but it wasn’t enough of a reason. They were smart and capable—and special operators got married all the time. It wasn’t the priesthood.
Honestly, the best way to blend in was to become part of the community, which is why he hadn’t come down too hard on any of them. If the suits in Washington wanted to get pissy about it, Ghost would go toe to toe with them.
And if this operation went tits up and the worst happened, it could be the end for all of them anyway. Might as well enjoy life while they could. Fall in love. Feel those highs. Make plans for the future.
Even if the future didn’t come.
He entered the range and locked the door behind him, then went down the hall to his office.
Inside, he opened the door to what appeared to be a closet but was really a short hallway leading to the secure part of the facility.
The SCIF was hardened, a place where classified information could be shared and discussed.
When he was inside, doors locked behind him, he typed in his password and pulled up his encrypted messages.
There was one from Viper.
It’s a risk. You know that. But I’m with you. Do what needs doing. You were sent there to do what it takes, not to sit around with your thumb up your ass.
Ghost typed a reply, knowing Viper would get it the next time he logged in.
I’m not asking you to stick your neck out. You’ve got a family to think about. Just wanted you to know, in case it goes wrong, that I didn’t actually go rogue.
He didn’t expect a reply to ping back immediately, but he should have known Viper wasn’t asleep. The man was always on alert.
I’d know it even without you saying it. Time’s running out. We still don’t know if McCann passed your records to anyone, which means you need to be fucking careful.
Their official military records were sealed, hidden, and replaced with plain Jane assignments and histories that weren’t theirs at all. All evidence of the Hostile Operations Team was gone. They were former Army Rangers. Special Forces, but not the kind of elite operators they really were.
Except that Paisley’s ex-husband, Trey McCann, had seen them all in Sutton’s Creek when he’d been stalking her.
Since he’d been a former HOT operator himself, he’d gotten suspicious about their real purpose.
He’d paid hackers to break into their files—but had he sold the information to anyone?
Or had he died before he got the chance?
They’d never know because Ethan had shot the bastard before McCann could kill him.
Know that, Ghost typed. I’ll be careful.
You fucking better. I haven’t liked anything about how this has gone down since you boys left here, but it’s not up to me. I thought it was important or I wouldn’t have asked you to go.
Ghost scrubbed a hand over his head. He’d made his choice and he wouldn’t allow himself to regret it. It is important. I’m not sorry we’re here. But I wouldn’t feel right about taking action without telling you.
You’ve told me. Get the job done. Then come to Washington and we’ll toast your success.
HUA, he typed. Once he knew Viper had seen it, he deleted the messages and logged off. Viper was deleting the ones on his end as well. Not even Seth “Phantom” King could retrieve them now.
Ghost took out the file on Viktor Dashevsky.
All evidence pointed to Dashevsky being behind the attempts to steal the Athena Project’s technology and use it for his own evil purposes.
He was a Russian oligarch who ran a humanitarian foundation, but that was just a front for his real activities.
He trafficked in weapons and humans, according to FBI Special Agent Diana Corbin, and he was amassing his own private army for purposes as yet unknown.
But it wasn’t good, whatever it was. Nobody formed a private army so they could give away more money than they already did.
To protect his humanitarian efforts in war torn countries? Also not likely since UN peacekeepers and private security often went into those places alongside the workers. So what was his objective?
Ghost continued to study the information on the Dashevsky Group’s alleged members in northern Alabama, looking for connections he might have missed.
Sometimes information had a way of slotting together suddenly when you looked at it, but no such luck yet.
His team had been working hard to compile a dossier, but it was thin.
Diana claimed she didn’t have any more information than they did, but he didn’t know if he believed her.
“Shit,” he muttered as Diana’s face lingered in his mind. Once she was in, it wasn’t easy to push her out again. She was there to stay, in all her irritating glory.
He leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling, thinking about the next steps he needed to take to move this mission along. It didn’t help. She didn’t fade.
Her long blond hair and sensible pantsuits—navy blue with white shirts, usually—lingered. He’d seen her in jeans, too. Off duty. She was shapely and beautiful, but icy cool. Like a marble statue.
She’d been a thorn in his side since this operation began, gliding into his range with her partner, Clay Ackerman, and sticking her nose into Ghost Ops business like she had a right. He’d gotten her dismissed and sent to Kentucky, but she’d boomeranged right back again.
Because Diana Fucking Corbin was an Adler. The Adlers had been a fixture on the Washington scene for generations. Their influence and connections ran deep. She’d used those connections to return to her job at Redstone Arsenal.
And now it was ten times worse because she knew who they were and what their mission was.
Knew and inserted herself into it. Pissed him off.
Because everything he had, he’d worked his ass off for.
He didn’t know what it was like to be born with a silver spoon in his mouth, or what it felt like to snap his fingers and have shit happen.
When the Smiths had saved him from the hell his life had become in Alaska, they’d given him direction and encouragement, but the work had been up to him.
He’d been incredibly far behind when he’d reentered public school, but he’d been driven.
Because of that drive, he’d excelled. So much so that he’d gotten into West Point.
If not for that, he wouldn’t be where he was now.
All Diana had to do was call Uncle Stephen. Or Uncle Don (he assumed the FBI director was like an uncle to her, though they weren’t related). And, boom, she got what she wanted.
He couldn’t deny that she’d given his team information they’d been able to use—but she was still fucking infuriating. Her privileged existence annoyed him the hell out of him. The way she’d gotten involved in his mission like it was her right made him want to chew nails.
But the fact she made his balls ache? Now that didn’t help his attitude in the least.
He hated that she affected him, but he had to admit she did. A man would have to be dead or gay not to notice how beautiful she was. With great tits and an ass he could hold onto.
Ghost growled as he closed the files. Diana Corbin was a walking, talking danger zone, and he wasn’t stupid enough to wander into it.
No matter how fun it might be to peel off one of those staid pantsuits and discover the delights underneath.
He left the SCIF and headed for the small gym they’d built in one of the bigger rooms. Nothing like a hard workout to purge an inconvenient attraction for a woman who’d slap him in cuffs if she got the chance.
And not the fun kind, either.