Chapter 27
The eastern sky was just beginning to pale, casting a low wash of gray over the coastline as Ghost approached the base gates. The world around him stirred quiet and slow, trash trucks, early runners, distant surf, but none of it registered.
His focus was razor-sharp. He hadn’t stopped moving since Echo forwarded the triangulated address. Fifteen-minute ETA. That was fifteen minutes too long.
He’d played her voicemail back three times on the drive over. Just to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. Just to hear her voice again.
“If you get this… just know that I—I wanted to hear your voice one more time.”
That line gutted him. She’d meant it. She’d thought it might be the last time.
His grip on the wheel tightened. Tension down to his teeth. Every instinct screamed to move faster. Hit the gas. Break protocol. Kick down the door and take her back before the world had a chance to take one more thing from him.
It wasn’t just instinct driving him anymore. It was her. Rachel.
Back in Afghanistan, he’d told her he wanted to see where this was headed.
It hadn’t been a line. It hadn’t been about adrenaline or proximity or the sharp edge of war that made people reach for connection.
It was her. The intensity in how she looked at people.
Her refusal to run from hard truths. How standing next to her made everything else feel manageable.
He didn’t let people in. He never had. But she’d gotten under his skin fast and deep, and by the time they’d landed stateside, she already mattered more than he knew what to do with.
Now he was staring down the possibility of losing her, and everything inside him went cold.
He hadn’t let himself imagine more. Not long nights or quiet mornings or what it might feel like to fall asleep with her curled against his chest. But the second her voice hit his ear, whispering goodbye like it might be the last time…
All of that crashed to the surface.
He didn't just want her safe. He wanted time with her. Real time. Not stolen moments between missions, but actual days. Weeks. A future.
He pressed harder on the gas. The lights blurred past and the road narrowed. The city around him felt too slow.
For the first time in his life, someone mattered to him, and he wasn’t going to be too late.
His phone buzzed against the console.
Echo
Ghost answered before the first ring finished. “Tell me you’ve got something.”
“I just sent you her active location,” Echo said. His voice sounded calm enough, but Ghost heard the tension creeping in. “It’s a small apartment complex near the harbor. You’re ten out.”
“Anything else?”
Echo hesitated. “Ghost—don’t let anything happen to her.”
Ghost’s throat tightened.
“She’s tough,” Echo added. “But she’s different. Special.”
“I know,” Ghost said quietly. The words scraped out of him. “I won’t let her down.”
The line went dead. He immediately redialed Rachel.
One ring. “Come on, baby. Pick up,” he muttered.
Two. No answer.
He hung up. Called again.
Still nothing.
Something twisted hard in his throat. His boot pressed into the accelerator. The engine roared. Streetlights blurred past in streaks of white. The city was waking up, slow and oblivious. He cut through a yellow light and didn’t slow down.
When he finally screeched into the lot behind the apartment complex, he killed the engine before the tires stopped rolling. His boots hit pavement hard, every step measured and exact.
He moved low across the lot, staying in shadows. His eyes swept the base of the building. There, her window. And below it, the overgrown shrubs she mentioned in her voicemail. Flattened. She’d jumped. Rolled. Escaped, but she wasn’t here now.
That twisted knot of dread pulled tighter.
He cleared the outer wall in two strides, hit the building entrance at full tilt, and took the stairs two at a time. The hallway was too quiet. Still. Then he saw her door. Ajar.
A sliver of darkness waiting.
Ghost stopped. Drew one breath. Let it out slow.
He was still in his fatigues, boots scuffed, gear half-loosened from the flight. He hadn't gone home. Hadn't changed. Hadn't wasted a single second after hearing her voicemail. He'd come straight here.
His hand dropped to his sidearm. The grip was familiar, solid in his palm. He unholstered it in one smooth motion, muzzle angled low, and moved forward. Every muscle coiled. Every step controlled and silent.
The hallway smelled like her, that mix of cedar and vanilla he'd recognize anywhere. But underneath it was something else. Sweat. Fear. The acrid tang of adrenaline.
Ghost raised his weapon as he reached the door and pressed his shoulder to the frame.
Then he entered.
Fast. Silent. Weapon up. Clearing angles the way he'd done a thousand times in compounds halfway across the world.
The living room stopped him cold.
Gutted. Books ripped open and thrown. The couch sliced apart, cushions shredded and scattered across the floor. The TV lay cracked on the hardwood, glass glinting. Picture frames smashed. Every drawer pulled out and dumped.
A search. Methodical. Thorough. They'd been looking for something and hadn't found it.
Ghost's jaw clenched. His finger stayed outside the trigger guard as he moved deeper into the apartment.
The kitchen was worse. Cabinets hanging open, contents swept onto the floor. Broken glass crunched under his boots. A knife block overturned, blades scattered. His pulse kicked harder.
Where the hell was she?
He cleared the kitchen in seconds and moved toward the bedroom, weapon leading. The door was wide open.
The mattress had been torn apart, sliced down the middle, stuffing gutted and thrown. The closet door hung on one hinge. Clothes scattered everywhere. Drawers overturned. Every inch of her life exposed and violated.
Ghost's hands tightened on his weapon. His breathing was too loud in his own ears.
One room left. The bathroom.
He moved slowly now, heart pounding harder than it had on any op in years. His entire body was wound tight, every instinct screaming that something was wrong.
He reached the bathroom door. It was closed.
Ghost’s hand hovered near the handle. One breath, then another.
He pushed it open—
BAM.
The door slammed back into him with full force. Ghost spun on instinct, weapon coming up, ready to engage—
A body crashed into him. Flying fists. Brown hair. A terrified scream.
"Rachel!" He caught her second swing mid-air, weapon already holstered in one fluid motion. "Rachel, baby—it's me!"
Her fist connected with his jaw.
Pain exploded across his face. "Shit—"
"Logan?!" She froze, fist still raised, eyes going wide. "Oh my God! Logan?!"
Her whole body was shaking. Trembling so hard her teeth were chattering.
Ghost didn't think. His arms were already around her, pulling her tight against his chest. She was alive. She was here. She was breathing.
He closed his eyes, breath stuttering out, his hand in her hair, the scent of her, the familiar mix of cedar and vanilla, flooding his senses. It hit harder than any battlefield ever had.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" Rachel's voice came out muffled against his chest. "Are you okay? Why are you here? I didn't know it was you—"
Ghost couldn't answer. Couldn't speak past the knot in his throat. He just tightened his grip, one hand in her hair, the other spread across her back, feeling her heartbeat racing against his chest.
She was alive.
He'd never been this scared in his life. Not in Fallujah. Not in Helmand. Not in any firefight or ambush or clusterfuck op he'd survived. Nothing had ever terrified him like hearing that voicemail. Like thinking he might be too late.
"Logan?" Her voice was smaller now, uncertain.
“Fuck, Rachel.” His voice was ragged. “Yeah, my face will be fine. Jesus, that was a hell of a right hook.”
A shaky laugh escaped her, half-sob, half-relief. She clung to his neck like she was afraid he might vanish.
He pulled back just enough to see her face. His hands came up to cup her cheeks, tilting her face toward his so he could look at her. Really look at her.
"I got your voicemail," he said, rougher than he meant it to. "Are you okay?"
She nodded fast. "I'm okay. I hid."
Ghost's eyes dropped, cataloging. Blood at her knee. Dirt caked along her feet and ankles. Scrapes on her palms. A faint bruise forming on her shoulder.
"You call this hiding?" He reached past her to grab a hand towel from the vanity, ran it under warm water, and turned back.
Rachel stayed still as he crouched in front of her.
"I saw them outside first," she said quietly. "Through my window. Three men. I knew something was wrong. So when they broke in the front door, I slipped out the bedroom window."
Ghost lifted her foot gently, cradling her heel in his palm. The skin was scraped raw, dirt embedded in every line. He wiped it carefully, working the grit free.
"You climbed down?"
"Onto my neighbor's balcony. Then I hid in the bushes until they left."
He moved to her other foot, his touch gentle despite the rage building in his throat. Someone had done this. Had come here. Had torn apart her home and terrified her.
"Barefoot?"
Rachel nodded. "Didn't have time to grab shoes."
Ghost's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
He moved to her knee next, shifting closer.
His hand wrapped around her thigh to steady her, fingers spreading across bare skin as he cleaned the scrape.
She'd jumped out a second-story window barefoot and hidden in the bushes while armed men ransacked her apartment.
"You shouldn't have had to do that alone," he said, voice low.
"I didn't have a choice."
Ghost looked up at her. His hand was still on her thigh, thumb moving in slow circles against her skin without him meaning to. "You do now. You're not on your own anymore."
The words came out before he could stop them. Before he could think about what they meant.
Rachel's breath hitched. Her eyes locked on his.