Chapter 44
Ghost sat behind the wheel with his phone in his hand, staring at the screen.
The truck's engine idled beneath him, a low rumble he felt more than heard, vibrating through the seat and up his spine.
Beside him, Torch stayed quiet, his gaze tracking movement on the street.
Pedestrians. Delivery trucks. The normal rhythm of a Tuesday morning in San Diego.
Except Ghost's gut was telling him nothing about this was normal.
His thumb moved across the screen.
Ghost: Hey beautiful, just checking in. You good?
He watched the message deliver. Watched the timestamp update. Watched the space where three little dots should appear if Rachel was typing back.
Nothing.
His jaw clenched. Rachel always responded. Even when she was deep in research, even when she had headphones in and the rest of the world disappeared, she'd see his name pop up and send back a heart emoji at minimum. Just to let him know she'd seen it.
His thumb moved again.
Ghost: I know you're working, but text back so I know you're okay.
Delivered. Read receipt showed she'd seen it.
Still nothing.
The pressure in his chest was building. That sick twist in his stomach he'd learned to trust over fourteen years of operations in places where ignoring your instincts got you killed.
He hit the call button. Listened to it ring once. Twice.
Straight to voicemail.
Rachel's voice came through bright and professional: "Hi, you've reached Rachel Parker. Leave a message and I'll get back to you."
Ghost ended the call without speaking, his thumb white where it pressed against the phone's edge.
His training offered a dozen logical explanations. Dead battery. Lost phone. She'd stepped out to grab something from the corner store and left it charging on the counter.
But the cold weight settling in his gut wasn't listening to logic.
"We need to move," he said. "Now."
Torch's head turned. "What's wrong?"
"Rachel's not answering." Ghost shoved the phone into the center console and threw the truck into gear. The engine roared as he pulled away from the curb, tires biting into asphalt hard enough to leave marks. "She always answers."
"Could be—"
"It's not." Ghost cut him off, weaving through traffic with combat-zone precision. A horn blared behind them. He didn't slow. "Every instinct I've got says she's in trouble."
Torch didn't argue. He just reached for his comms unit. "We've got a situation. Rachel's not responding. Ghost's moving to the house now."
The team channel lit up immediately.
"Is she still at the residence?" Echo's voice came through clear and controlled, but Ghost caught the edge beneath it.
"Unknown," Ghost said, taking a corner harder than he should have. Another horn. He ignored it. "We're three minutes out."
"En route," Brick confirmed. In the background, Ghost heard an engine roar to life.
"Rolling now," Reaper added.
Frost's transmission came through with road noise behind it. "ETA six minutes."
Then Predator: "You want Rogue and me to pull off Carver?"
Ghost's hands tightened on the wheel until his knuckles went white. The question sat in his chest like broken glass. If Rachel was in danger, if someone had gotten to her because of what they'd uncovered, then every second mattered. He should pull everyone. Converge on the house. Find her.
But they were so close. Carver, Langley, Hale, they had the structure mapped, the evidence building. If this was connected, if Vance's people had moved against Rachel, pulling surveillance now could spook them into scattering. They'd lose everything.
And if Rachel was already gone, if they'd taken her...
He'd need leverage. He'd need a name, a location, intel he could use to force Vance's hand before they disappeared her completely.
Ghost keyed his mic, forcing his voice to stay level even though his heart was hammering against his ribs. "Negative. Stay on Carver. If this is connected, we need eyes on all three targets."
A beat of silence. Then Predator's response: "Copy that."
***
Ghost took the final turn onto his street going too fast, the truck's suspension protesting as he cut across two lanes. Tires squealed. The smell of hot rubber filled the cab.
His house appeared ahead.
The front door was open.
Ghost's heart stopped.
Not broken. Not forced. Just... open. Hanging slightly ajar like someone had left in a hurry and hadn't bothered to close it behind them.
He slammed the truck into park before it fully stopped. His seatbelt was already off, his hand already on his sidearm as his boots hit pavement. The afternoon heat wrapped around him immediately, dry and oppressive, the smell of sun-baked asphalt and cut grass.
A neighbor's sprinkler system hissed three houses down. Somewhere a dog barked. The sounds were too normal. Too peaceful.
Ghost moved up the walk with his weapon drawn, every nerve firing. He hit the door with his shoulder, pushing it wide as he swept inside. "Rachel!"
The living room opened up in front of him, couch, coffee table, the bookshelf Rachel had reorganized last week. Everything in its place. No overturned furniture. No broken lamps. No signs of struggle.
The quiet was absolute. No hum of the refrigerator cycling. No creak of floorboards. Just silence so complete it made his ears ring.
Behind him, truck doors slammed. Brick and Reaper were already coming through, weapons up, moving with the controlled efficiency Ghost had drilled into them over years.
"Clear the kitchen," Ghost ordered, his voice coming out clipped and hard. He was already moving deeper into the house, his boots silent on the hardwood despite his pulse hammering in his throat.
Rachel's water glass sat on the windowsill, still half full. Condensation had pooled beneath it, leaving a ring on the wood. A throw blanket lay draped over the arm of the couch where she'd left it this morning.
Everything looked lived-in. Normal. Safe.
Except Rachel wasn't here.
"Kitchen's clear!" Brick called from behind him.
Ghost moved down the hallway toward the bedroom, his breathing too loud in his own ears. The door stood open. He swept inside, clearing the corners automatically even though some part of him already knew what he'd find.
The bed was unmade from this morning. His shirt on the chair. Her phone charger on the nightstand, the cord coiled neatly the way she always left it. Everything exactly where it should be if Rachel had just stepped out for a minute.
Which meant whatever happened didn't happen here.
Ghost moved back into the hallway, his boots hitting the hardwood harder than necessary. "Brick. Security feed. Pull it up now."
Brick was already moving toward the living room. "On it."
Ghost followed. Reaper had his laptop out on the coffee table before Ghost reached him, fingers flying across the keyboard to access the Ring camera system.
"When did you last hear from her?" Reaper asked, not looking up from the screen.
"Two hours ago." Ghost stood behind him, arms crossed tight across his chest to keep his hands from shaking. "Text message. Said she was working through files."
The laptop screen filled with a grid of camera angles. Front door. Driveway. Side yard. Reaper clicked on the front porch camera and started scrubbing backward through the timeline.
2:47 PM. There.
The image shifted from empty porch to sudden movement.
Rachel burst through the front door at a dead run, barefoot, wearing one of his T-shirts and jean shorts. No hesitation. No looking back. She flew down the porch steps and across the street.
Ghost's chest constricted. "What the hell—"
"Wait." Brick leaned in closer, squinting at the screen. "There. On the sidewalk."
Reaper zoomed in. An elderly woman, Mrs. Chen from down the street, was on the ground, clearly hurt. Rachel dropped to her knees beside her, checking for injuries, helping her sit up.
"She saw someone fall," Torch said quietly from Ghost's right. "Went to help."
They watched Rachel support Mrs. Chen's weight, guiding the older woman slowly toward her house two doors down. Kind. Careful. Exactly what Rachel would do without a second thought.
Ghost's hands curled into fists. His nails bit into his palms.
On screen, Rachel got Mrs. Chen inside. Spent maybe thirty seconds at the door, probably making sure she was okay, getting her settled, then stepped back onto the porch and turned toward Ghost’s house.
That's when the van appeared.
Black. No plates. Coming in fast from the wrong end of the street, engine audible even through the camera's cheap microphone.
Rachel's head snapped toward the sound. Even through the grainy footage, Ghost could see her body language shift, recognition, then fear.
She ran.
Twenty feet to Ghost's driveway. Fifteen.
The van's side door slid open before it fully stopped. Two men in dark tactical gear hit the pavement in perfect coordination, their movements precise and practiced.
Military training. Ghost would bet his life on it.
Rachel was fast, but she wasn't fast enough.
The first man caught her before she reached the gate. His hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off the scream Ghost couldn't hear but could see building in her throat. The second man locked an arm around her waist and lifted her off the ground like she weighed nothing.
She fought. Ghost watched her kick backward, her elbow driving into ribs, her whole body twisting and bucking as she tried to break free. One of her feet connected with something, a shin, maybe a knee, and the man holding her stumbled slightly.
It didn't matter.
They were bigger. Stronger. Trained for exactly this.
They dragged her backward toward the van, her toes scraping pavement as she tried to plant her feet, tried to find leverage that wasn't there. She got one arm partially free and swung wild, her fist glancing off a shoulder.
Then they had her inside.
The door slammed shut. The van peeled out with a screech of tires that left rubber on the street.
Start to finish: eleven seconds.
The timestamp read 2:47 PM.