Chapter 49 Ghost
GHOST
Three days later…
“YOU’RE NOT GOING, GENEVA.”
I slide the knife into my pocket, remembering a different time, one that was more enjoyable and involved Geneva’s pussy. Unfortunately, that’s not on the agenda for tonight. At least not with the way she’s glaring at me.
While pointedly ignoring her, I double-check the comms, the burner phone, and the security badge Benedetto had cloned, along with my other weapons.
Geneva’s standing in the middle of her apartment, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
The last ten minutes have been a tug-of-war in silence. Any second now she’s going to explode.
“You’re not going,” I say again, slower this time for emphasis.
She steps closer. “You said it yourself; this isn’t a solo job.”
“I’ve got Benedetto on backup.”
“Benedetto’s not going. He needs to stay with Sarah and keep her safe.”
From the couch, the enforcer raises his glass like this is a toast. “To another babysitting gig. Nothing says job security like being benched for emotional support.”
Sarah picks up the untouched glass of whiskey Benedetto poured for her and downs it. He’s turning the women into alcoholics.
“It’s too risky,” I grit out, glancing at Geneva. “There are cameras, motion sensors, and a night staff that shoots first and asks questions never.”
She’s looking at me like she’s ready to throw hands. I’d be turned on if I wasn’t so frustrated. Okay, maybe it’s both.
“Haven’t I proved myself with Carter, Bisset, and Dominguez?” she asks. “What more do you want from me?”
“Immortality,” I snap. “Preferably some Kevlar skin and a built-in escape plan that doesn’t involve me dragging your ass out of a hail of bullets.”
She scowls. “I’m not asking for permission, Ghost.”
“Good. Because I’m not giving it.”
Benedetto clears his throat. “Okay, but just so we’re clear,” he tells Sarah. “If they start fucking in the middle of this, I’m taking you and the whiskey to a safe location.”
“Good to know,” Sarah mutters, pouring herself another glass.
Geneva ignores them. She steps even closer, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off her body. Smell the perfume on her skin.
“You don’t trust me,” she says.
“I trust you to be brilliant. Brave. And borderline self-destructive.”
She pauses, her gaze skimming my face. Then her eyes widen. “You’re worried something might happen to me.”
“No,” I whisper. “I’m terrified something might happen to you.”
Geneva stares at me like the ground shifted under her feet and she doesn’t know how to brace herself. Like she wasn’t expecting me to say it out loud, especially in front of the others.
“You think I don’t worry about you too?” She reaches out to grip my forearm, her voice soft and her touch soothing. “You think I can sit back and do nothing while you walk into a building crawling with guards and not imagine every possible way you could die in there?”
I open my mouth, but she barrels forward.
“I know what you’re capable of. But you’re not invincible, Ghost. Believe it or not, you’re human. So don’t stand there and act like I’m the only one who’s at risk.”
I grind my teeth. “This isn’t just about protecting you.”
Wow, that’s a huge fucking lie.
“You think I’m supposed to stay behind while you go in without backup? Leave Sarah here without protection?”
“Benedetto—”
“Is one man,” she says.
“Ouch.” Benedetto slaps a hand to his chest, feigning a wound.
“And Sarah’s not a fighter,” Geneva continues.
Her friend purses her lips and mutters, “Rude.”
Geneva places her palm against my cheek, drawing my attention back to her. “If something happens to you, I’ll never forgive myself.”
Her breathing’s uneven now. I can see how close she is to unraveling, and it guts me. Because she’s standing here with fire in her chest and tears she won’t shed and a heart that won’t let her stay safe while I’m at risk.
Because she loves me.
“This is a two-man mission,” she says, voice low but firm. “And I’m your second. Whether you like it or not.”
And just like that, we’re back to where we always are—standing in the middle of something reckless and intimate and inevitable.
I snatch her wrist and press her hand flat against my chest. “You feel that? That heartbeat? That’s yours now. And if you get yourself killed, I’ll find whatever’s left of your soul and drag it back just so I can kill you again myself.”
She bites her bottom lip. “So dramatic.”
“So stay alive.”
From the couch, Sarah clears her throat. Again. “Not to interrupt the emotionally charged death pact,” she says, “but if we could focus on the part where we ruin a billionaire’s life before sunrise, that’d be awesome.”
Benedetto clinks his glass with hers. “Agreed. Less romantic trauma, and more corporate sabotage.”
I exhale and step back, but not before brushing my knuckles down Geneva’s jaw, reveling in the feel of her for one more second.
“If you’re coming, you follow my lead. No hero shit. You don’t bleed unless I do first. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Geneva’s breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with mine. I can feel the pull between us, the rage and desire braided together like a fuse about to catch fire.
From the couch, Benedetto claps. “Glad we’ve established a healthy relationship dynamic built entirely on murder and mutual obsession.”
Sarah sips her drink. “Honestly? Better than most marriages I’ve seen.”
I drag my eyes back to Geneva and run a hand down my face. “Gear up. We leave in fifteen.”
Behind us, Benedetto clinks his glass to Sarah’s and mutters, “They’re definitely going to die. Or bone. Or both.”
Sarah groans. “Honestly, at this point, I’m rooting for both.”
We park two blocks out under a flickering streetlamp, the kind that hides more than it shows. It’s past midnight. Quiet. But not empty.
Geneva’s beside me, black jacket zipped, hood up, eyes locked on the building like she’s already memorizing it.
She doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t speak. My girl is locked in.
God, she’s so fucking perfect for me.
I kill the engine. The hum fades, and the only sound left is the dull thrum of my pulse in my ears.
“That’s it,” I say, nodding to the mid-rise across the street. No signage. No cameras outside. Just another anonymous office space in a city full of them. “Floor seven. Front office registered under Ardens Global Consulting.”
Geneva leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Security?”
“Minimal on the surface. The building’s clean, no paper trail linking it to Stanton. But once we’re inside, it’s a different story. Private surveillance, closed loop. Three guards. One on patrol. Two posted. Night rotation. No uniforms. No questions.”
She nods. “And what are we looking for exactly?”
“Benedetto’s contacts said there should be evidence of trafficking routes. Financials. Hard copies because Stanton is old-school when it comes to blackmail. We find the ledger. Maybe a burner. Maybe a list of ‘contracted labor partners.’”
“How are we getting in?”
I point to the rear of the building. “Back entrance through the alley. Fire code access. The keypad is just for show; the real trigger is a motion sensor hidden in the doorframe, not the panel. I’ve already looped the hallway camera feed for ten minutes. That’s our window.”
She glances at me, lips pressed tight. “And if someone’s inside?”
“We improvise.”
Her brow rises. “Define ’improvise.’”
“You distract. I dismantle.”
She doesn’t smile, but there’s a flicker of amusement in her eyes.
“Once we’re in,” I continue, “you stay to my left. Always. You don’t touch anything unless I say. You don’t speak unless I ask. You see something suspicious, you signal. Remember, no Superman shit.”
“Copy that.”
She sounds like a soldier. I hate how much I like it. And how much my dick likes it too.
I reach over, tighten the strap on her gear vest, then run my knuckles along her jaw. Just once. Just to remind myself she’s okay. “Ready?”
She dips her head in acknowledgment, but the energy radiating off her is tense. Not just focus. Fear is there too. For me.
I step out of the car first and do a quick scan of the alley before gesturing for her to follow. The air’s thick with the smells of rain-soaked concrete and engine grease, the kind of scent that clings to your clothes and reminds you exactly where you are.
We move toward the back entrance. It’s as nondescript as I remember, without a reason for anyone to look twice.
I approach the door and run my fingers along the frame until I feel the subtle ridge of the sensor. “Hang back.”
Geneva positions herself behind me without a word.
I slide the tool from my pocket and touch the sensor in sequence. Three soft taps, precise and practiced. A faint click follows, and the lock disengages with a quiet hiss.
The door swings open, and we step into a narrow hallway lit by a dim emergency strip light. The atmosphere changes immediately, becoming more sterile.
I glance down the hall. It’s clean. Carpeted. Quiet. A single camera in the far corner blinks once, then settles. The loop is working.
“We’ve got ten minutes,” I tell Geneva. “The vault’s at the end of the hall, right side. If anything feels off, say something.”
We move together down the hall then take the stairs, our steps muffled. She’s close enough to register in my peripheral vision, and even now, with all my focus aimed forward, I’m aware of every breath she takes.
Once we step through the door on the seventh floor, the vault door is just ahead. It’s steel-reinforced, with a keypad and a retinal scanner. It’d be intimidating to anyone who isn’t me.
I pull the contact lens from my pocket, put it on, and line it up with the scanner. A biometric lift from one of Stanton’s senior execs. Guy never had a chance.
The scanner flashes green. The lock clicks.
Geneva lets out a soft breath.
“This is where shit gets real, Doc.”
I push the vault door open, and we step inside.
It’s colder in here. Quieter somehow. Like the room absorbs sound instead of bouncing it back. Rows of file cabinets line the walls, sleek and matte black, without labels. A table in the center holds two laptops, both powered down.
Geneva walks to the closest cabinet and starts scanning drawer labels.
I move to the desk, pull out the cloned security card Benedetto lifted from Stanton’s logistics director, and slide it across the hidden reader beneath the keyboard.
A green light flashes and the laptop powers on with a soft hum.
No biometric prompt. No password screen.
“Idiot,” I mutter.
Geneva glances over, still riffling through the cabinets. “You expected more from the billionaire?”
“I expected him to be more paranoid than prideful.”
The desktop loads. At first glance, everything looks curated. A few spreadsheets, basic financial statements, vague export data. It’s too clean.
This is the kind of front you build for audits and press leaks. Neatly labeled folders with nothing inside but empty templates and sanitized summaries. All dressed up to look legit.
“This is for show,” I say. “The real files are buried.”
I minimize the open folder and scan the drive partitions. There’s a second one that’s hidden and encrypted.
Bingo.
Behind me, I hear Geneva pull open another drawer with a sharp tug. Metal clinks softly. She doesn’t ask what I’ve found. She’s too busy uncovering proof of her own.
“There we go,” I murmur, my fingers flying across the keyboard. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
I run a bypass script—one Benedetto swore wouldn’t trip any silent alarms. I didn’t believe him then. I still don’t. But it’s the best shot we’ve got.
The encryption cracks faster than it should. Something stirs in my gut.
A new folder blinks onto the screen. It’s labeled as “Annual Projections,” but inside is a graveyard of real data. Logistics reports, inventory lists, invoices, and wire transfers. Hundreds of files.
“Found it,” I say.
I plug in the external drive and start the download. Geneva rushes to my side, scanning the screen as line after line of damning information transfers.
“You think this is enough?” she asks.
“If it’s not, it’s Benedetto’s turn next.”
Twenty-five percent. Fifty. Seventy-five.
A sound reaches me. It’s a faint, mechanical whir. Almost like hydraulics.
Geneva straightens. “What was that?”
“That’s the sound of us getting fucked.”
Eighty-five percent. Ninety.
“Ghost,” she whispers.
“I know.”
Download complete.
I rip the drive out and shove it in my pocket. “Move!”
We sprint for the vault door as it starts to slide shut. Geneva ducks through the small opening, and I follow an instant before the lock slams home behind us.
“Fuck, that was too close for comfort,” I say.
“Wasn’t this supposed to stay open?”
“It was. In theory.”
Geneva frowns. “You said the script wouldn’t trip anything.”
“I also said don’t trust Benedetto’s tech guy. He smokes more than Benedetto drinks.”