Chapter 50
Ghost was already moving when Langley's voice came through comms.
"You didn't have a bag on you when we grabbed you," Langley drawled, voice smug and slow, "which means if it's on you… I'm going to have to do some digging."
Ghost's fingers bit into the rifle grip. His breath came faster despite his training, despite years of controlling his body's responses under pressure.
Langley kept talking. Enjoying it. "Now, Miss Parker… are you going to hand it over? Or do I get to examine every inch of your body myself?"
Ghost's boots hit gravel harder. Each step precise, mechanical, his body moving on autopilot while his mind screamed at him to go faster. But he couldn't. Not yet. Timing mattered. One wrong move and she'd die before he reached her.
Then came the sound.
Fabric tearing. Sharp and violent through the audio feed.
Breath hitched, a small, desperate inhale that went straight through him.
Ghost's chest locked up. His vision narrowed. Heat spread across his skin, then turned cold, ice in his veins, in his lungs. Every muscle in his body pulled tight, rigid from his shoulders down to his fists. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.
Langley chuckled, low and satisfied. "Well, well. Seems our little journalist has a taste for the finer things."
Ghost stopped walking.
His pulse hammered in his ears loud enough to drown out the night sounds around him. His next breath dragged down his throat, rough and painful.
He'd been through ambushes. IED strikes.
Firefights where he'd watched teammates bleed out in his arms. Kunar.
All of it. But this, Rachel, tied up, stripped, terrified, this cut deeper than any of that.
This bypassed every layer of training and discipline and hit the raw part of him that would destroy anything to keep her safe.
He pressed his finger to the mic. When he spoke, his voice came out low and deadly calm. "Get your fucking hands off her."
Ghost was already moving before the words finished leaving his mouth. His boots ate up ground, crossing the open space between his position and the warehouse perimeter. Reaper materialized from the shadows to his left, Torch to his right, the team flowing into formation.
They hit the exterior wall and stacked up. Ghost's shoulder pressed against cold metal siding. His breath came controlled now, measured, his body shifting into the familiar rhythm of a breach. This was what he'd trained for. What his body knew how to do even when his mind was screaming.
Torch's hand landed on his shoulder. Ready.
Ghost counted down on his fingers. Three. Two. One.
The charge blew.
Metal shrieked and buckled inward. Smoke and debris filled the air. Ghost moved through it before the echo faded, rifle up, eyes scanning through the haze.
The first guard never saw it coming. Ghost's round hit center mass. The suppressor kept it quiet. The man dropped.
The second started to turn, caught a blade through the throat instead. He staggered, gurgling, then collapsed in a spreading pool of blood.
Ghost moved through the breach. Rifle up, eyes scanning, clearing sectors while his mind stayed locked on one thing: Rachel.
Movement caught his eye, Langley sprinting for the rear exit, boots hammering concrete. The coward disappeared around a corner into the darkness.
Ghost's voice cut through comms. "Where's Langley?"
"I've got him." Rogue's response came back steady.
A beat of silence. "Stay on him. I'm coming."
From somewhere deeper in the warehouse, Ghost heard the impact, a body slamming into metal, the crack echoing off concrete. Then Langley's voice, panicked and pleading. "We can make a deal. I know things, "
"Not interested." Rogue's voice, cold and final.
Ghost was already moving past that sector. His boots hit concrete in a steady rhythm, rifle sweeping left then right as he cleared the space. Stacked crates cast long shadows under flickering overhead lights. The air smelled like rust and old diesel and fear-sweat.
But he barely registered any of it. His focus had narrowed to a single point, finding Rachel.
He moved past shipping containers, around a forklift abandoned at an odd angle. Each step brought him closer to the back section where Carver's wire had been transmitting from. Where Langley had torn her shirt. Where she was still tied to that chair.
His jaw ached. His finger rested just outside the trigger guard, ready.
Then he saw the open space ahead. The chair in the center.
And Rachel.
She was still bound, straining against the zip ties at her wrists.
Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow pulls.
Even from here, he could see the tremor running through her shoulders, the way she held herself rigid despite the restraints.
Blood had dried in a line down her temple. Bruises darkened along her arms.
Then her gaze found him.
Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened slightly. Relief washed across her face, followed immediately by fear, then something desperate and raw.
Ghost moved toward her. His rifle stayed up, clearing angles automatically while his focus locked on her face. Cataloging damage. Looking for injuries. For signs of how badly Langley had hurt her.
He closed the gap in long strides, then dropped to one knee in front of her. His blade was already in his hand. The zip ties at her wrists gave way with a single slice. He moved to her ankles next, his hands working fast, efficient.
When the last binding fell away, she slumped forward.
He caught her. His arms came around her and pulled her in, one hand cradling the back of her head. His chest expanded with the breath he'd been holding since he heard that fabric tear. His pulse slammed against his ribs, too fast, too hard.
She was here. Warm under his hands. Breathing against his neck. Real.
He pressed his face into her hair. "Baby," he breathed, and his voice broke on the word. "I've got you."
Her fingers curled into his tactical vest, gripping hard enough that he felt it through the Kevlar. She pressed her face against his neck. Her lips brushed the skin just above his collar, and he felt her pulse there, racing as fast as his own.
"You found me." The words came out broken. Shaking.
Ghost closed his eyes and pulled her tighter. He pressed his forehead to hers, their breath mixing in the space between them. "I will always find you."
Gunfire cracked from the hallway, sharp reports echoing off concrete.
Ghost twisted, pulling Rachel down with him as he dropped behind cover. His arm came up to shield her, rifle snapping into position in his other hand.
Across the room, Carver jerked backward. The impact slammed him into the wall. Blood burst across his shoulder in a dark spray. His shout cut off as the hit drove air from his lungs.
"Son of a bitch—" He gasped, hand flying to the wound.
Ghost's eyes tracked the doorway. The first shooter stepped through. Ghost fired. The round hit center mass. The man dropped mid-stride, body crumpling before it reached the floor.
A second figure appeared, weapon coming up. Ghost didn't hesitate. Single shot. The man's head snapped back. He went down.
Silence rushed back in. Ghost's ears rang from the gunfire. Cordite burned in his nose and throat.
He turned, eyes finding Rachel. She was still pressed against his side, arms wrapped around her knees. Her hands trembled. Her breathing came quick and ragged, but when their eyes met, hers were clear, focused, still fighting.
Across the floor, Carver knelt with one hand clamped to his shoulder. Blood seeped between his fingers, spreading dark across the concrete beneath him.
"You good?" Ghost's asked.
Carver let out a breathless, pained laugh. "Define good. Still breathing."
Boots pounded in the corridor outside. Ghost's rifle came up, then lowered as he recognized Torch's movement pattern, the way Predator cleared the corner.
They swept through the entrance, weapons raised, eyes scanning. Torch's gaze hit Carver first, tracking to the blood, then shifted to Rachel. His whole body went rigid, shoulders squaring, jaw setting, eyes going cold.
Predator moved straight to Carver. He grabbed him under his good arm and hauled him up.
"We need to move," Torch said. But his eyes stayed on Rachel.
Ghost turned fully.
The sight hit him harder than the firefight had.
Rachel stood a few feet away, no longer crouched behind him.
Her shirt, his shirt, the one she'd stolen from his dresser, hung in torn pieces.
Bare skin showed through the gaps, marked with bruises already turning purple.
Her hands clutched at the ruined fabric, trying to pull it together, trying to cover herself.
Ghost's gaze moved to her face. Her eyes met his, clear and defiant. Her hands trembled where they gripped the torn fabric, and blood had dried on her temple, but she held his gaze without flinching.
She was still fighting.