Chapter 30
Ghost's boots slammed against pavement, his hand locked around Rachel's wrist as they hit the alley. Sunlight beat down on them, making them visible targets. His jaw clenched. Being pushed into an alley was textbook ambush setup.
The alley narrowed between brick buildings, heat radiating off the walls and making sweat run down his spine. Behind them, a shot cracked. Metal sparked as a round hit a dumpster.
Ghost grabbed Rachel's arm and yanked her behind the rusted steel. His body covered hers, blocking her from the shooter's line of sight. His heart hammered against his ribs but his breathing stayed controlled.
"They're herding us," he said through clenched teeth.
Rachel's back hit the wall. Her chest was heaving. "What do we do?"
Ghost scanned the alley. Fire escapes were too high, too exposed. The street behind them was a kill zone, then he spotted it, an unmarked door, rusted steel, no security camera. He grabbed Rachel’s hand. "Come on, baby."
He crossed to the door and drove his shoulder into it. The metal shrieked. The latch snapped. He pulled Rachel through and kicked the door shut behind them.
The temperature dropped fifteen degrees in the span of a breath.
Ghost blinked against the sudden darkness, his pupils still contracted from the bright alley.
The smell hit him before his eyes adjusted, stale beer soaked into wood, cigarette smoke layered thick enough to taste, and underneath it all, something sour that made him think of spilled liquor and decades of poor ventilation.
A bar. Nearly empty this early in the day.
He kept Rachel's hand in his, fingers laced tight, and pulled her deeper into the dim space.
His posture shifted without conscious thought, shoulders relaxing, head angling down just enough to look less vigilant.
Anyone watching would see a guy in Navy fatigues with his girl, nothing worth a second glance.
In San Diego, half the city wore cammies.
He let himself disappear into that normalcy.
Rachel stayed close, her shoulder brushing his arm as he steered her toward a booth in the far corner.
Dark wood, vinyl seats cracked at the edges.
He waited for her to slide in first, then settled beside her instead of across.
His back pressed against the wall, eyes already tracking movement.
Two exits, the door they'd come through and one behind the bar that probably led to a stockroom or alley access.
The bartender, a guy in his fifties with a stained white shirt and forearms like he'd done manual labor before pouring drinks, looked up. No surprise registered on his face. Just a slight nod that Ghost returned.
Rachel's hands were shaking against her thighs. Ghost could see her pulse hammering in her throat, her breathing coming too fast and shallow. The adrenaline was still coursing through her system.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping low. "You good?"
She nodded, but her breath hitched. "Yeah. Just...processing."
His gaze swept the room again. Two old men at the bar nursing amber drinks in short glasses, staring at nothing with the glazed focus of people who'd started early and had nowhere else to be.
A waitress moved between tables with practiced indifference, low ponytail, stained apron.
No one else. No threats he could identify.
He looked back at Rachel. "They weren't trying to kill us. Not yet."
She stared at him, her eyes still too wide. "What?"
"They were herding us. Trying to push us into a pickup zone." His voice stayed calm, matter-of-fact, the same tone he'd use briefing his team. "That SUV probably had restraints in the back."
The color drained from her face. He watched her swallow hard.
"So what now?" Her voice came out quieter than she'd intended.
"Now we wait." His hand found hers under the table, thumb brushing across her knuckles in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "Let them think we slipped through. Give them time to pull back and reposition. We sit tight, blend in, and when it's clear, we move."
She exhaled shakily, nodding, but her breathing was still uneven. Her chest rose and fell too fast.
Ghost shifted closer, his shoulder pressing against hers. "Hey." He waited until she looked at him. "This is what I do for a living, remember? I've run ops in places that make San Diego look like Disneyland. I know how to keep you safe."
Some of the tension in her face eased. Not all of it, but enough that he could see her trying to trust him.
The jukebox in the corner crackled to life, playing something slow and country that sounded like it belonged in the eighties. Twangy guitar, a woman's voice singing about heartbreak and highways.
Ghost's hand settled on her thigh. His palm was warm, fingers curling around her leg with enough pressure to anchor her. His thumb stroked up and down absent mindedly, feeling her breathing start to even out.
She was still scared, he could see it in the tightness around her eyes, the way she kept glancing toward the door, but she was holding it together. Processing it like he'd told her to instead of letting panic take over.
Two exits. Three potential threats if those old men weren't what they seemed, but Ghost's gut said they were harmless. The waitress didn't give them a second look. The bartender had already gone back to wiping down glasses.
To anyone watching, they were just another couple. Nobody worth noticing.
Ghost's fingers tightened slightly on Rachel's thigh, and she looked at him. He scanned her face the way he'd scanned the alley, checking for damage, assessing her state.
"We're gonna get through this," he said quietly.
She nodded, and he could see her trying to believe him. The fear was still there in her eyes, but underneath it was something else. Determination, maybe. Or just the simple fact that she didn't have another choice.