Chapter Six
Kael’s coffee had gone cold.
Six hours had crawled by since Drew walked out of the warehouse and the silence that followed had been unbearable.
Kael had run through every possible scenario—Drew running, Drew fighting, Drew vanishing again—but the worst one, the one that wouldn’t let him breathe, was Drew lying broken somewhere because Kael had let him go.
When the secure comm pinged, Kael snatched it up before the second tone.
Dev Roberts’ face appeared first, his usual smirk replaced by something sharper.
Bateman joined a beat later, seated beside him in the Ridge’s command center.
The faint hum of background tech and Marsh’s low voice came through before the video stabilized.
“Kael,” Dev said, lifting a mug. “You look like shit.”
“Good morning to you too, Roberts,” Kael muttered. “You find anything?”
Bateman leaned forward, arms folded. “We brought Marsh in to dig. He’s been at it since your call.”
The camera shifted and Marsh appeared behind them—calm, analytical, eyes bright from too much screen time. “We went deep,” he said. “But what we found... isn’t much. Or maybe that’s the problem.”
Kael frowned. “Explain.”
“Drew Hawkins. Orphan. State care until he aged out. No family, no close ties. Military file lists him KIA on the op you were part of six years ago.”
Kael’s throat tightened. “That’s the one.”
Marsh nodded. “After that, nothing. It’s clean. Too clean. Like someone scrubbed him from every registry after his death notice went through.”
Dev whistled low. “Ghosted for real. What about Wraith?”
“That’s where it gets interesting.” Marsh tapped a key, and a holographic feed came to life behind him—a web of names, dates, red lines, and overlapping contracts.
“About eighteen months after Hawkins was listed KIA, Wraith shows up on the radar. Starts small—taking down a corrupt customs chief in Peru. Then escalates.”
“Escalates how?” Kael asked.
“Government corruption. Drug and arms trafficking networks. Child exploitation rings. Cyber-terrorists. Even stopped two assassination attempts on world leaders. He’s a one-man surgical strike team. No traceable employer, no known allies. Every job ends in bodies and buried secrets.”
Kael’s jaw flexed. “Sounds like a man on a crusade.”
Marsh gave a tight nod. “Yeah. But here’s the catch. Between his ‘death’ and Wraith’s first confirmed op—there’s an eighteen-month void. No activity. No trace.”
Dev leaned back. “Eighteen months is a long time to vanish. A lot can be done to a man in that window.”
Bateman’s eyes narrowed. “Or to make one.”
Kael felt that like a punch to the chest. “That’s the turning point,” he said quietly. “That’s the why of it all.”
Marsh looked at him. “You think something happened to him then?”
“I know it,” Kael said. “He wasn’t this man before. He was sharp, but idealistic. He wanted to fix things, not burn them down.” He paused, the memory of Drew’s laugh cutting through the ache. “Whatever they did to him in those eighteen months, it changed him.”
Dev crossed his arms. “I’ve heard rumors. Whispers about something big—a group so far above the Bratya it makes them look like street-level amateurs. Global money. Private armies. Political reach. They pull strings, and entire governments dance.”
Bateman’s brow lifted. “You’re talking about the Directorate?”
Dev shrugged. “That’s one name I’ve heard. Could be a myth. Could be what happens when too many shadows start overlapping.”
Marsh pointed at the hologram. “Every op Wraith touched ties back to something that traces into the same void. A thread you can’t see, but it’s there—contracts, transfers, dummy corporations.
Whoever’s at the center has deep pockets and zero visibility.
It’s like the absence of data itself is their signature. ”
Kael rubbed his jaw. “And Drew’s chasing it.”
“Looks like it,” Marsh said. “He’s been dismantling their assets piece by piece without ever naming them. Like he knows, but can’t—or won’t—say it out loud.”
Dev exhaled through his nose. “Jesus. That’s not a crusade, that’s suicide.”
“Apparently the man has a thing for impossible missions,” Kael murmured.
For a moment, no one spoke. The tension on the line thickened until Marsh broke it. “We’ll keep pulling on the thread, see what shakes loose.”
Kael nodded absently, his mind drifting. The Drew he’d known—reckless, loyal, too brave for his own good—was buried beneath a legend that didn’t sleep. And that eighteen-month gap? That was the scar tissue.
Marsh cleared his throat. “There’s something else. No medical records. No transactions. Even his safehouses—ghosts. I can’t find anything that says that man is supporting himself or living life somewhere. As far as I can tell, he’s running on fumes.”
Kael’s chest tightened. “Then we find him.”
Dev opened his mouth to answer, but another voice cut in—Luca’s. “Surge!”
Kael turned. The use of his call sign told him this wasn’t casual—Luca only fell back on that kind of formality when adrenaline and training took over.
The young tech barreled into the room, tablet in hand, eyes wide, excitement warring with discipline.
“Sorry to interrupt, but you need to hear this.”
Dev arched an eyebrow. “He’s got that look—this oughta be good.”
Luca barely glanced at the holo-screen. “I’ve been scanning local channels, hospital logs, emergency comms—making sure none of those Bratya bastards crawled out of the wreckage we left them in. And I just picked up a police transmission from downtown.”
Kael straightened. “What kind of transmission?”
“A John Doe was brought in to Mercy General about an hour ago. Male, early thirties. Found unconscious on the highway. Drugged, beaten, thumb dislocated—looks like he jumped or was thrown from a moving vehicle.” Luca’s voice quickened. “He also has a scar along his jaw. Small, right side.”
Kael’s pulse hammered. The room tilted. “Say that again.”
“Scar. Jawline. They said it was clean—looked like an old knife wound.”
Bateman sat up straighter. “You think it’s him?”
Kael didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Dev’s tone softened but carried that commander’s steel. “If it is, call us. We can have boots on the ground in four hours.”
Kael nodded once. “Appreciate it.”
He cut the feed, already moving. “Breaker! Torch! Reef! Gear up.”
Tane appeared almost instantly, eyes sharp. “We’re going after him?”
Kael grabbed his jacket. “Yeah. If that John Doe is Drew, then he will be surrounded by enemies. He’s not dying alone in some hospital bed at the hand of some asshole who thinks he can take what’s mine.”
They piled into the truck, the rain starting to fall in sheets. Kael slid behind the wheel, adrenaline drowning out the fatigue. The headlights cut through the dark as they tore down the highway toward Mercy General.
No one spoke. There was nothing left to say.
Kael’s hands tightened on the wheel. The memory of Drew’s voice filled the silence.
Out of everyone in this world, you’re the only one who ever had the right to claim me.
“Hold on, Drew,” he whispered. “I’m coming, and I am staking my claim.”
****
The first thing Drew registered was the antiseptic sting of disinfectant. The second was pain—sharp, constant, living under his skin. He knew hospital beds by feel, by the stiff sheets and the weight of IV lines. He’d woken up in too many not to recognize the signs.
His eyes opened to blinding white light. The steady beep of a monitor kept time with the throbbing in his head. His tongue felt like sandpaper, and the chemical tang in his mouth reminded him he’d been drugged—again.
A man in scrubs leaned over him. “Sir? You’re at Mercy General. You’ve been through quite a bit. We’re just keeping you stable for now. Can you tell me your name?”
Drew blinked slowly, scanning the room. Curtains drawn. Single bed. Only one door. His instincts hummed—wrong, all of it. Too quiet. Too still.
The doctor continued, oblivious. “You have a mild concussion, two cracked ribs, dislocated thumb—already set—and a few bruises that’ll make you colorful for a while. Lucky you weren’t killed.”
“Yeah,” Drew rasped. “Lucky me.” He kept his tone flat, but his mind was racing. The Bratya were gone, they wouldn’t be here, but the Directorate would be. He’d barely escaped the van. Whoever wanted him would make sure he didn’t wake up a second time.
He glanced toward the door again, then at the doctor. That was when the itch started—the one he’d learned never to ignore. Something off. Something wrong.
His stomach dropped. The danger wasn’t outside the room.
It was behind the doctor.
“Doc—” he started, but the word barely left his mouth before the scalpel flashed. The blade slashed clean across the man’s throat, and arterial spray painted Drew’s face and the white sheets in red.
The doctor fell soundlessly, his eyes wide with shock. Drew didn’t flinch. He’d seen worse. Felt worse. He only stared at the killer who stepped from behind him.
The man was tall, lean, surgical in movement. His gloves were black, his smile practiced. “Hello, Wraith.”
Drew’s jaw tightened. “You’ve got me at a distinct disadvantage. Mind telling me who you are before I develop PTSD from secondhand trauma?”
The man’s grin didn’t reach his eyes. “Just another ghost, Wraith. Not in your league, but this kill? It’ll make me a fucking legend.”
“Dreaming big,” Drew muttered, shifting slightly under the covers. Every muscle protested, but he was already calculating distances—door, window, IV stand, the tray table beside him. “You sure you’re ready for legend status? You’ve got blood on your shoes already. Bad omen.”
The killer tilted his head. “You always talk this much?”
Drew nodded. “Only when I’m stalling.”
He chuckled. “Doesn’t matter what you’re thinking of doing, Wraith. I know all your tricks. Every counter, every tell. Any move you make—I’ll see it before you do. We have had the same training, you and I.”
Drew forced a dry smile. “So what, you’re psychic now?”