GHOST PROTOCOL
Chris
I’ve seen people shut down before, be it soldiers, prisoners, and sometimes civilians after a blast or raid, but this is not the same. Now I’m responsible. I did this, and for no good reason at all.
Mendoza’s a corrupt politician. There would’ve been a dozen ways to repay the favor. Why it had to be his campaign partner’s daughter, along with a ton of money, is still a mystery. I never cared about the payout. I wanted my debt gone.
When I saw her ditching school, breaking rules, and defying every authority figure in her life, some part of me thought the job could be fun, like taming a wild animal. Turns out it’s the opposite. As a bonus, my conscience decides to show up. Didn’t even know I still had one.
She doesn’t fight, doesn’t talk, doesn’t so much as stir when the lamp flares on. Curled up on the bed, she looks like she’s hoping to vanish into the mattress.
I don’t check her legs or feet again. After I cleaned every scrape, every raw patch of skin, and dressed them in sterile gauze, the tape held. That’s all that matters. So I leave her alone. I’ve got nothing else in my arsenal.
Sometimes she sleeps. Sometimes she stares at the wall, eyelids drifting slowly, as if that’s already too much effort. She’s been like this for several days now. I never knew silence could press on a room like this.
I honor my word and keep her alive, providing water, protein bars, and vitamins.
It’s the bare minimum, but it’s enough. When she’s asleep or pretending to be, I catch myself maneuvering around the shed like it’s hostile ground, planning every single step before I take it.
I’ve stopped trying to get a reaction. It doesn’t matter if I clatter the sink or drag my boots across the floor.
She doesn’t move. At this point I’m not even sure she registers that I’ve been in and out.
This isn’t what I signed up for. I was told to keep her off the radar, to keep her safe and offline. Not turn her into a ghost, although I doubt her father would care either way.
Cash came by yesterday. The second he saw my face when I left the shed, his mouth curved. He knew this was coming.
“You’re out of your depth, man.”
“No shit,” I muttered.
He raised a brow, amused by my outburst. I don’t use that kind of language. Ever. Had enough of it all through my childhood. Even Cash tries to regulate his mouth around me. With more or less success.
With his elbows braced and fingers laced loosely, he leaned against the porch rail. “Need help?”
I scoffed. “What the hell do you know about teenage girls?” I threw up both hands, palms out like a referee calling for a timeout. “Wait. Don’t tell me. Forget I asked.”
He smirked. Cash likes this too much, me fumbling with problems I can’t solve with a threat or firepower.
Standing next to him, I checked the feed to see whether she’d gotten up or drunk the orange juice I left her. She hadn’t. “So, you actually wanna fix this mess for me?” Hard to believe, but I asked anyway.
His expression shifted, less joking, more thoughtful. “Not for you,” he said. “For her.”
I frowned. “Why?”
“I like her.” He said it plainly. Shrugged. “You don’t meet girls like her often. Fire in her gut. She doesn’t deserve this.” Cash didn’t laugh this time. “She’s not an enemy or a soldier. She’s someone who’s been pushed around too much already.”
I didn’t respond, which only encouraged him.
“You talk about discipline and control like she’s one of your command. This isn’t combat.” He paused. “Let up a little. You were that kid once, remember?”
I didn’t argue, simply because I didn’t have a comeback. I’d already repaired that damn hoodie, hoping it would wash away the guilt. It’s intact again.
Cash’s words stuck. More than I cared to admit.
I leaned back against the cabin, eyes on the shed, mind miles away.
Back to cracked walls and kicked-in doors, to a home where company meant tension and noise meant danger.
I don’t remember a mother, and my father was a mean drunk.
My older sister raised me. She disappeared after I caught him putting out a cigarette on her arm because he didn’t like the meal she’d cooked.
For years, I thought it was my fault. She might have stayed if I’d protected her more.
Being only ten was never a valid excuse.
I learned to hit back before I learned to drive. Each passing year only made it worse. Violence was the only language that ever worked until I joined the military at eighteen and finally learned how to channel my rage, give it shape, purpose.
Perhaps Sara was never the spoiled princess I made her out to be. More likely, she’s been fighting a war no one bothered to notice, and unlike me, she doesn’t use her fists to fight. She resorts to words, to defiance, to stupid decisions, daring the world to stop her. But why?
I try to remember what I would’ve needed at her age. Probably someone who didn’t give me a hard time for every wrong move. Which makes me the exact opposite of what I’ve been to her so far.
I had friends. I had Cash.
As far as I can tell, she has no one.
Maybe I’m the one who needs to change first.
The next morning, I watch the feed longer than usual before I enter.
She’s awake, at least I think she is, but she hasn’t moved. I turn on the light. No acknowledgment when I sit on the edge of the bed behind her. I clear my throat.
“You know it doesn’t have to be like this, right?”
No answer.
“I’m sorry,” I continue, “about your father. About what he put you through. He pays me to keep you under control.” I say the last part with a huff.
She doesn’t turn around. Not that I expected it.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” I promise. “Not gonna tie you up, or feed you again, or humiliate you in any way. You don’t have to be in here. Not if I have your word no one gets hurt—including you.”
There’s the slightest shift, although I might be imagining it.
Knowing I won’t get more than that, I glance once more at her motionless form before heading out.
The lights stay on. She’s had enough darkness.