12. Ellie #2
Heat floods my face instantly. I avoid Gabriel’s gaze, reaching for a fresh mug and focus on the monitors instead. Gabriel chuffs out a laugh and flicks to the security feed.
A rider on a matte black Ducati waits at the gate. Even through the monitor, the bike is thrumming with power, the heat haze off the exhaust shimmering in the frame. The rider is geared up in worn, black leather, unmoving while the bike vibrates beneath him.
“Jackson,” Killian says with a half-smile. “Always with the fucking dramatic entrance.”
Gabriel activates the gate. The Ducati leans hard into the curves of the driveway, Jackson pushing the machine until he skids to a stop. He kills the engine and pulls off his helmet, his thick dark hair matted to his forehead with sweat as he looks toward the house.
“Another one of yours?” I ask.
“Jackson Banks,” Killian says. “The only man I trust to find someone who doesn’t want to be found.”
Jackson walks into the kitchen as soon as Gabriel opens the door.
He drops the heavy Pelican case he’d had strapped to his bike, the weight of it thudding against the floor, and unzips his leather jacket.
He’s massive, solid enough that the kitchen feels small once he’s in it.
He must be pushing six-foot-four, with dark stubble heavy along his jaw.
When he rolls up his sleeves to get to work, the movement reveals a mess of black ink winding up his arms. His green eyes crinkle at the corners as he gives me a short nod.
“Jesus Christ, Gabe,” Jackson says, eyeing Gabriel up and down. “Look at you, all domesticated. Got yourself a fucking retirement plan yet?” His voice has a rough edge to it, an accent I can’t pin down.
“Eat shit,” Gabriel replies with a genuine grin. “Still riding that death trap? Your survival instincts are still fucked, I see.”
“Says the guy who used to jump out of perfectly good airplanes for fun.” Jackson pushes past him, dropping a heavy backpack that clanks with the sound of steel against steel.
Jackson turns to Killian first. “Good to see you’re still in one piece, Kill. Mostly.” His focus shifts to me, settling on my face before he finally speaks again. “I’m Jackson. You must be the doctor.”
“Ellie,” I correct, stepping forward. “You’re the intel specialist?”
“For now.” He doesn’t reach for my hand; he’s already hunched over the island, clicking the heavy latches of his bag. A row of specialized sensors and monitors glows under the kitchen light. “Gabe, give me the frequency. I need these sensors up.”
“Kai’s out in the wood line,” he adds, glancing at Killian. “He’ll be in once the sensors are set. He’s got some ‘surprises’ for any uninvited guests. Crazy bastard was grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.”
“Kai?” I ask.
“Kai’s the last member of our merry band of fuckups,” Killian explains. “Demolitions expert and field medic. Basically, he can blow you up and then stitch whatever’s left back together.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “And let me guess, the less I know about him too, the longer I’ll live?”
The warmth of Killian’s hand is the only thing grounding me as my kitchen is dismantled in front of my eyes. He leans in close, his breath hot against my ear.
“Don’t ask about their history. You won’t like the answers.” He plants a kiss on the top of my head. “Some of what these guys have done would give your professional brain nightmares for months.”
Jackson is already on his knees, threading wires through the cabinets and clicking together a bank of servers that look like they belong in a data farm, not a home.
“Uplink is live,” he reports, his eyes fixed on a screen that’s nothing but scrolling green data.
I watch them from the counter, my coffee going cold in my hands. I’ve read people my whole career, but these three are different. They move like they’ve already mapped out every eventuality.
“Just like the old days, eh, Kill?” Jackson grins as he taps a key, a sequence of green code scrolling across the screen. “Except this time we have actual furniture and a doctor who isn’t a drunk from a back-alley clinic in Kiev.”
“Focus, Jackson,” Killian says, though his mouth twitches with the hint of a smile. Jackson shoots me a wink, and for a second, the heavy equipment in my kitchen doesn’t feel quite so hostile.
“Place is clean,” Gabriel reports, grabbing more coffee. “No bugs, no cameras, no unexpected visitors in the last twelve hours.”
“I’ve been spoofing their surveillance feeds since last night, before I set off,” Jackson adds, not looking up from his laptop.
“Intercepted their network before Gabriel even pulled up. They’re watching a loop of you and Killian having a quiet morning at home.
As far as they know, you’re alone with your parolee, no backup, an easy target. ”
The three men slip into a rhythm that speaks of years working together. They move in sync, communicating in half-phrases, inside jokes, and tactical shorthand. My kitchen transforms from a peaceful morning space into something that feels like a criminal command center.
“Hey, Doc,” Jackson calls out suddenly, looking up from his screen. “I’ve hit your office network, but it’s a mess of encrypted firewalls. Where’s the rest of your dad’s research stashed?”
The abrupt question catches me off guard. “First, it’s Ellie. And second, what exactly are you asking about?”
“Your father was hunting the Order before they got to him,” Jackson explains matter-of-factly. “His files, his notes, all that investigative shit, where’s it kept?”
I hesitate, my fingers pressing so tightly into my ceramic mug that my nails go white. “Some of it’s in a safe deposit box downtown, but the bulk is in my office.”
Jackson’s fingers are already a blur on his keyboard. “Yes! Got it. Office server is mirror-decrypted.” Whatever that means in English. “But we need to lock that safe deposit box down immediately. If they’re mobilizing Cell 7, they’re coming for the hard copies. The physical evidence.”
“You already have it all?” I watch my father’s research bloom across the monitor. The red-lined maps, the names, the dates. It’s a graveyard of secrets laid bare in seconds.
“I think so,” Jackson says quietly. “Your father got too close to something they’ve been trying to bury for years. They think you’re picking up where he left off. And with Killian in your corner? You’re not just a researcher anymore. You’re a liability they can’t afford to ignore.”
“Am I?” I look directly at Killian. His expression is a flat, unreadable slate. The mask he wears when he’s calculating the quickest way to end a life. “Is that what this is about? My father’s research?”
Jackson and Gabriel go perfectly still. A split-second of silent communication I can’t decipher, but the shift in the room is instantaneous.
“Partly,” Killian admits finally.
“The Order operative your father was tracking was codenamed Ghost,” Jackson says, his fingers dancing across the keys. A new file blooms on the center monitor. “As you know, he was an elite enforcer. He didn’t just kill people; he erased them. The perfect undetectable weapon.”
“Ghost,” I repeat.
The name is an itch I can’t scratch. Killian’s hand is still on the small of my back, and I feel the slight shift in his fingers, a tension he releases too intentionally.
I don’t look at him. I turn back to the screen instead, digging through the memorized pages of my father’s research until I find it: a margin note in red ink in one of his journals, pressed so hard it bled through the paper.
“Dad mentioned him once. I thought he meant a figurative ghost, not an actual name. A metaphor. He was convinced there was a person behind dozens and dozens of deaths across the country that everyone else wrote off as ‘coincidences’.”
“Dozens?” Jackson’s laugh is a dry, grating sound. “Try thousands, Doc. Your father was barely scratching the surface of the Ghost’s career.”
I move closer to the screen, studying the pattern analysis my father created. Years of data, meticulously compiled. Suspicious deaths, convenient accidents, perfect crimes. All potentially the work of one person.
“Do we know who the Ghost is?” I ask.
Jackson’s jaw clamps shut. A muscle jumps in his cheek. “That’s classified. All that matters is the Ghost hasn’t been operational in years. He’s a relic.”
Another loaded silence falls over the room, broken when one of Jackson’s devices emits a sharp ping.
“Shit,” he mutters, studying the screen. “My source inside their logistics chain: Cell 7 requisitioned tactical gear and vehicles. They’re mobilizing.” He looks up, expression grim. “Best guess? They’ll hit within thirty-six to forty-eight hours. Need time to coordinate and stage.”
“How solid is your source?” Killian asks.
“Solid enough. He’s been feeding me Order movements for three years. Never been wrong yet.”
“Fuck,” Gabriel says, already moving toward what I assume is one of the hidden weapons caches he has installed. “Full assault package?”
“Looks that way,” Jackson confirms. “These assholes aren’t fucking around this time.”
“What does that mean exactly?” I ask, looking between them.
“It means they’re coming at us with everything they’ve got,” Killian says, his voice dropping to something quieter and more dangerous than the one I’ve been hearing all morning. “And we’re gonna hit back twice as hard.”
Killian pulls me aside while the others transition into a pre-combat rhythm. His hand is like a branding iron on my arm. “There’s still time to move you. A safe house. Somewhere they can’t track.”
“No,” I say. My voice is far steadier than I feel. “This is my home. My father’s legacy. This is my fight too, Killian.”
“These aren’t just criminals, Ellie. These are professional killers who don’t leave witnesses.”
“And you?” I counter. I step into his space, forcing him to look at me. “You’re the best they have. All of you. I’m choosing the devil I know.”