Chapter 47
Ghost's knuckles were bleeding.
He registered it distantly, the split skin, the warmth trickling down his fingers, the sting that should have registered as pain but didn't. Not yet. Not while Rachel was out there in enemy hands and every second he wasted was another second they could be hurting her.
Rage sat in his chest, hot and heavy, barely contained by years of tactical training that kept him from putting his fist through Carver's skull.
Across the living room, Ethan Carver was doubled over, one arm wrapped around his ribs. He coughed hard, a wet, painful sound, Ghost's last punch had landed exactly where he'd intended. Spit hit the hardwood floor as Carver straightened slowly, shoulders squaring despite the obvious pain.
"You done?" Carver's voice came out rough and frayed.
Ghost closed the distance in two strides.
His hand grabbed a fistful of Carver's tactical jacket and drove him backward into the wall hard enough that the framed photo beside them shattered.
Glass exploded outward, shards hitting the floor with high-pitched tinkling sounds.
Ghost pressed his forearm across Carver's throat, pinning him there with enough force that Carver's feet almost left the ground.
Nowhere to dodge. Nowhere to lie.
"Where the fuck is she?" The words came out low and controlled, but Ghost could hear the edge underneath. The violence that wanted to break free and tear this whole house apart until he got answers.
Carver's hands came up, defensive, palms out. His eyes narrowed. "Who?"
Ghost shoved harder, his forearm cutting off Carver's air just enough to make breathing difficult. His own breath came fast, pulse beating hard in his throat. "Rachel. Where are they keeping her?"
Carver's face changed. Confusion in his eyes, in the way his eyebrows drew together. Real or performed, Ghost couldn't tell and didn't care.
"Who the hell is Rachel?"
Ghost's grip tightened on Carver's jacket, the fabric bunching in his fist. Every muscle in his body was locked tight, his shoulders rigid, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. Rage pressed against his ribs, building with each breath, heat spreading through his limbs.
"The journalist," Ghost snarled. "The one who's been documenting your weapons deals with Langley and Hale.
The one who photographed you at that airfield transfer three days ago.
" He leaned in closer, close enough to see the burst capillaries in Carver's eyes.
"We've been watching all three of you. So don't fucking lie to me. "
Carver's expression shifted, not guilt, but recognition mixed with alarm. His pupils dilated slightly. "If she caught us on camera—"
"They took her." Ghost's voice dropped. "Off my street. An hour ago. Professional snatch. And you're going to tell me where Langley's holding her before I put you through this wall."
Carver shoved back suddenly, catching Ghost off-balance for half a breath. Not enough to break free completely, but enough to get some distance. He straightened, one hand going to his throat, breathing hard.
"I don't know where she is," Carver said quickly. "But if Langley's got her, you don't have much time."
Ghost felt the shift in the room, Torch's posture changing near the window, the way he straightened and turned his full attention this direction.
Reaper went absolutely still in the corner.
Brick and Predator were positioned near the hallway, weapons holstered but hands hovering close.
Everyone waiting to see if this was about to turn into an execution.
"Wrong answer." Ghost's voice came out flat and cold.
"Wait—" Carver held up both hands. "Listen to me. You think I'm part of this. I get it. You've been tailing me with Langley and Hale. You saw me at their meetings." His eyes locked on Ghost's. "But I'm not working for them. I'm working against them."
Ghost stared at him, his mind working through the angles, looking for the lie. "You expect me to believe you're undercover."
"I've been infiltrating their operation for eight months," Carver said, his voice urgent now. "No handlers. No oversight. Because I couldn't trust anyone in the chain of command."
"Bullshit." But even as Ghost said it, pieces were sliding around in his head. The angles weren't fitting together the way he'd assumed.
Carver's jaw clenched. "You've been blaming me since Kunar. Since that clusterfuck ambush during Bear's extraction. I've seen it in your face every time you look at me."
Something tightened in Ghost’s chest. The memory was there immediately, the chaos, the confusion, walking into what should have been a simple rescue and instead finding a coordinated ambush. They'd been compromised. Someone had sold them out.
He'd blamed Carver. The Ranger who'd been in the area. The one with access.
"I wasn't the one who set that trap," Carver said, his voice quieter now. "But Langley and Hale were."
The words hit differently this time. Not new names, Ghost had been surveilling them for days, building a case against them for arms dealing.
But hearing them connected to Kunar, to the ambush that had nearly killed his entire team, his brain started recalculating, reassessing, seeing the operation from a different angle.
"They sold you out," Carver continued. "Set the whole thing up. Because your team was getting too close to their operation. They couldn't risk you stumbling onto what they were moving through that region."
Ghost's fists curled at his sides, his damaged knuckles protesting. Fresh blood welled in the splits. They'd been watching Langley and Hale for weapons trafficking. For corruption. But this, this was betrayal on a different level.
"They knew we'd be in the kill zone." Ghost's voice dipped low. "Let it happen."
"Planned it," Carver corrected. "They fed you intel that was just good enough to get you there, but bad enough that you'd walk straight into an ambush."
The silence that followed was heavy. Absolute.
Torch let out a slow breath. Reaper swore under his breath. Brick shifted his weight, jaw tight. They'd all been there. They all remembered.
And Ghost had been aiming at the wrong target for months.
"How do you know this?" Ghost demanded.
Carver's expression hardened. "Because it's not the first time they did it. Eight months ago, my Ranger unit got hit the same way. Three months before your op. Clean intel, sanctioned mission, then we walked into a kill zone."
He paused, his gaze distant. "I had a man down. Jensen. I wasn't leaving him behind. But I got separated during extraction." His voice dropped. "That's when Colonel Victor Sloane found me."
Ghost's pulse kicked up. He'd seen that name in casualty reports. KIA. Enemy action.
"He had a gun to my head," Carver said flatly. "Tried to recruit me right there in the middle of a firefight. Told me I'd walked into something bigger than I understood. Said he could make me rich if I played along."
"He tried to recruit you," Torch said, disbelief in his voice.
"While my men were bleeding out fifty yards away," Carver confirmed. His expression went cold. "He gave me two choices: work for them, or die in the sand. So I killed him. Put my knife through his throat before he could pull the trigger."
The room stayed silent.
"Before he died, he gave me names," Carver continued.
"Langley. Hale. Told me the operation was bigger than one colonel.
" He met Ghost's eyes. "So I decided to go after them.
Walked right into Langley's office two weeks later and told him I'd been working with Sloane before he got killed. Offered to fill the gap."
Ghost studied Carver's face, searching for the lie. "And he believed you."
"He tested me first," Carver said. "But yeah. Eventually he brought me in. That's why I was at that airfield meeting. By that point, I'd been embedded for months. They trusted me enough to have me run security for high-value transactions."
Reaper's voice cut through, quiet but certain. "You're saying you've been undercover this whole time."
"With no backup," Carver confirmed. "No safety net. Because I couldn't risk anyone knowing. Not until I had enough evidence to bring down the whole network."
"Evidence." Echo leaned forward. "You have proof?"
Carver pulled a small thumb drive from his vest pocket.
"Dead drops. Encrypted files. Account numbers.
Shipping manifests. Three senators. At least five high-ranking military officials.
Shell companies in four countries." He held up the drive.
"This is a backup. The full archive is buried in three separate secure locations. "
Ghost stared at the drive, then at Carver. Every instinct told him this could still be a play. "And Bear's ambush?"
Carver's face changed. Pain there, and regret, the kind that didn't look performed.
"I found out about it six hours before execution," he said, his voice tight. "Not enough time to stop it through proper channels without blowing my cover. All I could do was volunteer for the rescue op and get us there before they finished the job."
Ghost understood the calculation. The cold math of choosing between saving one man immediately or staying embedded to save more later.
"You could be lying," Ghost said, his voice low and controlled. "This could all be bullshit."
He held out his hand. "The drive."
Carver handed it over without hesitation.
Echo took it immediately, plugging it into his laptop.
Ghost kept his eyes on Carver. "You understand if any of this is fabricated, you don't leave this house alive."
Carver met his stare without flinching. "What's it gonna take to prove I'm on your side?"
"You willing to put yourself on the line?"
"Whatever it takes."
Ghost gave a single nod, his mind already moving to tactical planning. "Then we use your access. You set a meet with Langley. Tell him you can make Rachel talk. We track you in, find her, and get her out."
Carver didn't hesitate. "Fine. Set me up."
From the corner, Echo's voice cut through the tension. "Before we go deeper, I've got something."
Every head turned as Echo angled his laptop toward the center of the room. The screen showed a grainy traffic cam image, black van, no plates, heading east.
"Tracked the van to an industrial site," Echo said. "Ten miles outside San Diego."
Ghost stepped closer. The timestamp showed forty-seven minutes ago.
Carver leaned in, his focus sharpening. "I know that place."
Ghost's voice came out sharp. "Talk."
"Abandoned warehouse," Carver said, his eyes fixed on the screen. "Langley uses it for off-book operations. No cameras. No paper trail." His voice dropped lower. "If they've got her there, they're either getting ready to move her or end it before she becomes a bigger problem."
Ghost's hands curled into fists. End it. The words conjured images he couldn't afford to entertain. Rachel bleeding. Rachel broken. Rachel,
"We're not giving them the chance," he said, his voice deadly calm.
Carver nodded. "I'll call Langley. Tell him I can handle interrogations. That I've broken prisoners before." He met Ghost's eyes. "If they think I can get intel out of her, they'll hold off on killing her. Buy us time."
"And if it doesn't?" Ghost's voice was cold.
Carver didn't flinch. "Then I hope you're ready to shoot your way in."
"Always."
Carver pulled out his phone and dialed.
The team went still. Ghost listened to the ringing. Once. Twice.
Then a voice came through, flat and cold. "Yeah?"
"I heard you've got the journalist," Carver said, his tone casual.
A pause. Long enough that tension coiled in Ghost’s chest.
Then: "We do."
Ghost's breath stopped in his throat. Confirmation. She was alive. For now.
Carver kept going, his voice steady. "She was embedded with SEALs. Knows their tactics. If anyone can make her talk, it's me. You want names, contacts, locations—I'm your guy."
Another silence.
Then: "The warehouse. Get here. Don't take too long. She's running out of time."
The line cut.
Ghost was already moving, his hands reaching for his tactical vest. "Move. Now."
The room kicked into motion. Everyone gearing up with practiced efficiency.
But Ghost fumbled the magazine release on his sidearm, something that had never happened before. His fingers felt thick, clumsy. He had to try twice to slam the mag into place.
Rachel was running out of time.
Carver stood near the center of the room, already geared up. "We'll get her out."
Ghost glared at him. "They don't touch her," he finally managed, his voice low and deadly quiet.