Chapter 19
It had been four days since the kiss. Four days since Ghost pressed her back against that metal shed and took her mouth like he’d been starving for it. Since he walked her to her barracks, fingers grazing hers like he couldn’t quite let go.
The tension hadn't eased. If anything, it had gotten worse. They hadn't touched since. Hadn't spoken of it. But every glance between them felt loaded, like something was building toward a breaking point.
Moonlight slicked off rooftops as the team advanced through the village, shadows moving through shadows. Boots struck hard-packed earth without sound. Rifles high. Eyes sharp.
Ghost took point, moving with silent precision, every sense tuned to the terrain.
Rachel followed at a distance. Camera snug to her chest. She didn’t argue or push, not tonight. She knew better.
She’d tried pushing him earlier, arguing for full access, her usual edge, but he’d shut it down with a single line.
“If you’re coming, you stay here.” His voice had been low. Too calm for the storm still riding behind his eyes.
He’d guided her into the shadow of a crumbling wall, his hand brushing her elbow for half a second longer than it needed to. Just enough for her to feel it.
"Stay put, Parker." The formality felt like armor. Distance he needed to maintain. "No movements. No risks." He locked eyes with her. "Clear?"
She nodded once. He stared at her for another second, then moved into the darkness. Now Rachel hunched in the shadows where he'd positioned her, camera trained on the team. Her breathing matched the rhythm of her shots, steady and controlled.
Ghost hadn't sidelined her just for her safety.
He needed to be able to think clearly. To focus on the op instead of wondering if she was alive.
If she was hurt. Her chest felt compressed.
Her fingers trembled slightly on the camera.
She breathed through it, steadied her grip.
Watched Ghost signal the team into formation, two left, two right. Clean. Precise. No hesitation.
Then, movement. Far edge of the path. A low structure half-hidden in brush. Not on the map. She adjusted her zoom. Flicker inside. A shift in shadow. Small, but off. She tracked it. Five figures. Three in local garb. Two in U.S. military uniforms.
Her heart skipped. That wasn’t protocol. That wasn’t part of the op. And it didn’t look right.
Rachel lowered the camera just enough to peer over the lens, her breathing shallow.
Whatever was happening in that building wasn't routine.
She was supposed to stay put, but something cold settled in her gut.
She needed to know what she'd just seen.
What they were doing. Why they didn't want to be seen. A meeting.
Her pulse kicked as she adjusted the zoom. The uniforms were regulation, boots, vests, patches all correct, but their body language was wrong. Too relaxed. Too still. No hierarchy visible. No operational tension. Just quiet conversation.
She fired off a burst of shots, three frames, clean. One man turned slightly. Too young. Too polished. Blond hair. Not hardened enough for what this was.
Then her lens caught it. A tattoo on mystery soldier number two. Black ink. Bold and unmistakable. A skeletal hand inked across the back of his own, fingers curling as if death itself was gripping his skin
She needed sound. Not just images. Words. Proof.
Her eyes flicked back toward the compound Ghost’s team was clearing. Too close. If he spotted her movement, he’d yank her out before she got another second on record.
Her hand slid to her cargo pocket, curling around her phone. She drew in a slow breath. Then she moved, low and quick, every step calculated.
Gravel shifted under her boot, sharp, loud in the silence. She froze. Heart slamming against her ribs. Waited. No movement. No reaction. Just silence. Just the quiet hum of betrayal behind worn stone.
She eased forward again, sliding along the clay wall, her back to rough texture, eyes scanning. At the edge of the next building, she crouched. Reached for the gate.
It creaked, loud and sharp. Her stomach twisted as she eased it open inch by inch, slipped through, then dropped low beside the back wall of the compound.
Her knees hit dirt. Camera at her hip. Phone in hand. She pressed record. Inside, voices snapped through the crack in the wall, low, fast, dangerous.
“We gave you the drop point. You were supposed to move last week—”
“We needed confirmation. No risk until we know who’s watching.”
Rachel’s arm trembled with the strain. She shifted slowly, just enough to get closer. Her heart pounded louder than the voices now. Every instinct told her to run, but she didn’t. Not this time.
“You’ll get the rest of the shipment next week. Five crates. M4s, suppressors, comms—clean. No serials.”
The words carved through her like a blade. Her hand tightened around the phone.
Inside, the conversation kept going. “We need confirmation on the patrol routes. We lost two men last time.”
“You’ll have it by morning. We’ve got access to the mission logs—training rotations, convoy timings, even drone flight paths. You’ll know when to move.”
Rachel’s breath hitched. Her stomach turned. This wasn’t a simple arms deal, it was war. American soldiers, trading plans, positions, maps, for cash and silence. Treason. Real. Coordinated. And happening right here. And Ghost had no idea.
The phone kept recording. She stayed low, sweat slicking her palms, every inch of her body taut with adrenaline. The voices inside stayed calm. Controlled. Like this was business as usual.
“And your people?”
“Will be nowhere near the area. You’ll have a clean window—three hours, no eyes, no air support.”
Rachel closed her eyes for one slow breath. Just long enough to brace herself. Because what she was hearing, it wasn’t suspicion anymore. It was confirmation. And it was worse than she thought.
“What was that?” one of the Americans asked, sharp and immediate.
Rachel dropped lower. Spine pressed to crumbling stone. Breath locked in her throat.
“I thought I saw—”
Another voice cut in, cool and dismissive. “It’s nothing. We’re clear.”
Still, she didn’t move. Not a twitch. Not even a breath too loud. She crouched in the dirt, heart hammering, legs screaming from holding still. Sweat pooled between her shoulder blades. Her fingers ached from how tight she gripped the phone.
Minutes passed like hours. Then a door shut. A car engine started. Another followed. Voices vanished beneath the rumble of retreating wheels, swallowed by distance and darkness.
Only when the night returned to silence did she finally move. She slid back through the gate, slow and low. Each step measured, every movement silent. No room for mistakes. Breath controlled. She made it across the path, into shadow. Back to cover. Only then did her legs give.
She dropped against the wall, trembling. Every nerve raw. Her shirt clung to her back, soaked through. Her hands were slick and shaking as she checked the phone.
The audio file was there. Treason captured in full. She had it. Proof. Real, undeniable, career-ending proof. And now? Now she was the one holding it.
The weight of it hit harder than she expected.
This wasn’t just about journalism anymore.
Not about exposure or recognition. This was survival.
She’d stepped out of the role of observer.
And into something else. The minute she hit record, she’d crossed the line.
Now she had to decide who she could trust to help her survive what came next.
Rachel gripped the phone hard, pressed her other hand to her mouth, and tried to slow her breathing. She'd just made herself a target. And anyone she told would become one too.