45. Mason
45
MASON
M y phone sits on the nightstand. Screen dark. No new messages. No missed calls. Nothing from Shelby.
She’s gone quiet since the bridge. I don’t blame her.
I’ve played that moment in my head a thousand times—her eyes when I pulled her from the blood-soaked concrete, when I pressed my hands to her wound and begged the universe not to take her from me.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was watching her look at me like I might be the thing she has to run from too.
So I let her go.
Not because I want to.
Because I owe her the space to heal without me bleeding all over her peace.
Because this time, love isn't about holding on—it’s about stepping back long enough to become the kind of man she won’t have to survive.
I clench my jaw and rise. My muscles ache from tension, not time. My chest is raw where hope tried to bloom and got crushed under the weight of reality.
I can’t fix what’s broken between us right now.
But I can do something else.
I can make sure Ghost walks out of that prison alive.
The plan’s already in motion, every moving piece a product of months of quiet, deadly coordination. The world think Ghost is rotting in a cell, forgotten and useless. They think they’re safe from his brand of madness. That’s their first mistake.
And the Feds?
They know something is coming. But not this.
I slide on my shoulder holster. The gun settles against my ribs like it belongs there. Maybe it always did.
I tuck the burner phone into my pocket. I grab my jacket. I leave my doubt behind.
Because here’s the truth: I can’t change what’s happened. I can’t erase the pain I’ve caused others. I can’t chase after Shelby when she doesn’t know where the hell she’s going yet.
But I can control what comes next.
And what comes next is blood, fire, and freedom.
By the time I step into the war room, the plan is already in motion.
The place hums with low voices and quiet tension. Screens line the walls, showing live feeds from every angle of Ford Penitentiary—long concrete hallways, barred cells, yards swallowed in shadow.
Kanyan and Brando are locked in, eyes on the monitors, fingers twitching near the controls like they’re waiting for a trigger.
Scar leans against the wall in the corner, arms folded across his chest. His face is blank, but the energy coming off him is ice cold and razor sharp.
“It’s happening,” Brando says, nodding toward the screen. His voice is steady, calm, too calm. “Right on schedule.”
I don’t answer. My eyes are locked on the footage.
One of the exterior cameras shows the yard—dimly lit, eerily still.
Another shows the cell block—concrete and steel, packed with men pacing like caged animals.
Inside, the lights flicker once.
Then again.
Then everything drops to black.
Five full seconds.
Five seconds where the whole prison disappears.
And then?—
All hell breaks loose.
Sirens blare to life, screaming through the silence like something feral. Red strobes pulse across the screens as backup generators kick in. Guards rush into frame, shouting orders, yanking open lockers, pulling weapons. Prisoners pound against cell doors. Some are already loose—charging the gates, tearing through the chaos.
It’s bedlam.
And in the middle of it all?—
Ghost.
There.
On camera two. Moving like smoke, blending into the shadows, slipping past the madness with practiced ease.
His head is down, steps measured. No panic. No wasted movement. Just focus.
Like this isn’t chaos to him.
Like it’s a plan unfolding.
Brando leans forward, jaw tight. “He’s headed to the infirmary.”
“Right where he’s supposed to be,” Kanyan mutters, adjusting the camera feed.
I nod, but my eyes never leave the screen.
Guards fight to contain the outbreak. Pepper spray clouds the hallways. Inmates scream, riot, throw fists, chairs, anything they can get their hands on. One camera catches a guard slamming a prisoner’s head into a wall. Another shows a line of inmates forming a barricade, shielding one of their own.
No one sees Ghost.
Or maybe they do and don’t care.
Or maybe they’re smart enough to look away.
He slips into the medical wing, barely a flicker on the screen—just a shape in the dark.
“We’ve lost camera five,” Brando says suddenly. “Infirmary feed’s gone.”
Static replaces the screen. Then another monitor drops. Then another.
The prison is blacking out again.
We’re left with only one camera feed, which is not nearly enough.
I pull my phone and call the only person inside who matters right now.
It rings once.
Then clicks.
“Mason?” Nurse Wanda’s voice is tight. Rushed. “He’s here.”
“Talk to me,” I say.
“I got him into the laundry corridor. Just like we planned.” Her breathing is fast. “He’s already changed. Dressed in catering uniform. The van’s waiting at the south dock.”
“Security?”
“Too busy tearing apart the rec yard. No one’s watching the rear lot.”
Kanyan raises an eyebrow at me, already knowing what that means.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“I’m heading out the opposite way,” Wanda says. “I’ve got my badge. They think I’m evacuating staff. Place is about to blow.”
“Figuratively?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “Literally.”
Then I hear it.
In the distance, through her line?—
An explosion.
Deep. Low. Then another.
Smoke spills across the surviving camera feed. Fire licks the edge of the screen before it cuts to black.
“She’s out,” Brando says, phone pressed to his ear. “Van’s on the move.”
“ETA?” Scar finally speaks.
“Forty minutes,” Kanyan replies. “Safe house is ready.”
“Let’s move.” I turn and head for the door, blood still drying under my sleeves. “We meet him face to face.”
Brando tosses his burner phone on the table and follows. Kanyan’s already in motion.
Scar doesn’t say another word.
But the look in his eyes says it all.
Ghost is free.
And tonight, we just burned a prison to the ground to make it happen.
The first news alert hits before we’re even halfway to the rendezvous point.
I glance down at my phone as Jayson weaves through traffic like the city's just another battlefield. Headlights blur past us. Sirens wail in the distance. The whole city feels like it's pulsing under the surface—restless, electric, a beast stirring in its sleep.
On my screen, the headlines scream in bold.
The newsfeeds are spinning fast—wild theories, misinformation, shaky footage of fire tearing through the prison like it was built from gasoline. The cops are scrambling. The media’s foaming at the mouth. The public’s already moved on to the next horror story.
And Ghost?
Ghost is free.
Alive.
Breathing.
Moving toward a new life we’re about to build for him.
Jayson glances at me. “You think they’ll buy it?”
“They already have,” I say. “They’ve got a body. Burned just enough. Right tattoos, wrong heartbeat. He died the way they wanted him to. End of story.”
Jayson grins. “Until he writes a new one.”
Exactly.
Ahead of us, the night stretches wide and dark. The city lights thin out as we push past the edge of the city, toward the old marina where Scar’s men cleared out a holding house just for this.
Brando’s already en route, somewhere behind us in a matte-black SUV that blends into the night like a phantom. Kanyan took a separate route—he doesn’t like convoys, doesn’t like patterns. Scar’s coming too, but he'll be the last to arrive. That’s his way—let everyone else play their hand, then slide in with the ace.
I tap open a message from Kanyan.
IN POSITION. ETA 10. DOORS CLEARED.
Good.
Everything’s in motion.
And me? I can’t stop thinking about what’s next.
Ghost didn’t just escape—he did us a favor when he took down that monster, Altin Kadri. The authorities are still scrambling, trying to piece together what happened to the Albanian kingpin. Let them wonder. All they’ll ever get is the official story: an allergic reaction. It’s clean, it’s simple… and it’s just believable enough to bury the truth.
He didn’t just do us a favor.
He erased a problem.
We owe him. Not just for Altin. But for what Ghost is .
Useful.
Efficient.
Detached.
A tool with no allegiance but purpose—and now that purpose belongs to us.
We’re not just freeing a man. We’re reforging a weapon.
The next step? Getting him a new face.
The surgeon’s already been called. Quiet. Clean. The kind of man who works for cash and conscience-free clients. Ghost will come out the other side of that table looking like someone the world’s never met.
Because the world already buried the last version of him.
And that’s how it has to stay.
“You think he’s gonna behave?” Jayson asks after a beat.
I stare out the window, watching the coastline blur by in the dark.
“No,” I say. “But I think he’s going to do exactly what we need.”
Jayson chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
We both know Ghost isn't a pet.
He's a wolf.
And we just cut the leash.
We step inside one by one—me, Brando, Kanyan, and Scar. Jayson waits outside, pacing in the dark, itching for orders he’s not ready for yet. This isn’t his moment. This is ours.
This is for the man we just pulled from the jaws of hell.
Ghost.
He’s already waiting in the center of the space, crouched on an overturned crate, elbows on his knees, head tilted like he hears things none of us can. He’s still wearing a caterer’s uniform, something I’m sure he’s itching to get out of.
But his eyes?
They’re clear. Focused. Empty.
Like nothing back there touched him.
Like it didn’t matter who he had to kill to step into this room.
Scar’s the first to speak. His voice echoes slightly in the cavernous space, sharp and deliberate.
“We appreciate your… contribution.”
Ghost says nothing.
Scar nods once, unbothered. “Altin Kadri was a problem. Now he’s a corpse. That earns you favor.”
Still, Ghost doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches him with that calm, unsettling stillness.
Brando steps forward next, arms crossed. “We’ve had our eye on you since day one. Not many men make it out of Ford. Fewer still that erase a man who has been a stain upon this city.”
Kanyan grunts. “Even fewer manage to vanish in plain sight.”
Ghost lifts his head just slightly. “You wanted a killer,” he says, voice quiet, rough. “Now you’ve got one.”
Scar smirks. “We want more than a killer. We want a ghost who’s alive.”
I take a step closer, studying the man in front of me. Whatever he was before that prison, he’s not that now. He’s something sharper; cold and clean and brutal.
“We need you to disappear,” I say. “More than just off the books. We’ve arranged surgery. Face, hands, gait correction. You’ll walk out someone else.”
Ghost shrugs like it doesn’t matter. Like his identity died a long time ago.
Scar continues. “After that, we plug you in. Quiet work at first. Targeted.”
I glance at the exit, where Jayson waits like a fuse. “Your first job? Second eye on Jayson. New blood. Eager. Scar wants him protected, even if from a distance.”
Ghost raises an eyebrow. “Babysitting?”
“No,” Scar says, stepping forward now. “Guarding an investment.”
Kanyan adds, “You stay out of sight. Step in if the kid gets stupid.”
Brando pulls a cigar from his coat, doesn’t light it, just rolls it between his fingers. “After that? We’ve got bigger fish.”
I already know what’s coming next.
“Human trafficking,” I say. “We’ve been cutting off heads for years, and somehow they keep growing back.”
Scar turns to Ghost. “We want the whole body gone this time. The rot. The roots. Everything.”
There’s a pause.
Then Brando adds, “We think you might give a shit.”
The air shifts.
It’s subtle—but I see it. A flicker in Ghost’s eyes. A tension in his jaw. A heartbeat of memory he doesn’t invite but doesn’t fight, either.
We don’t know what happened to him. Don’t know what made him the way he is.
But I know this: you don’t kill like he kills unless you’ve been where the screams come from.
Ghost looks at each of us. Then nods.
“Give me the names,” he says.
Scar smiles, faint and wolfish. “You’ll get them. After the makeover. After Jayson.”
Ghost stands slowly, shoulders squared, gaze unwavering.
And in that moment, I don’t see a man anymore.
I see a blade.
Forged in fire. Tempered in blood. Ready to be aimed.
And the terrifying thing?
He’s exactly where he wants to be.