Chapter 54
The front door clicked shut behind them. The moment the team stepped into Ghost’s house, the debrief started.
Brick dropped his go-bag on the hardwood with a solid thud and raked a hand through his hair, sweat-dark strands sticking to his temple. His gaze swept the room, then found Ghost.
"Alright," he said. "Let's lay it out. We got Rachel back. Carver took a round. And we lit up a rat nest that's been rotting under our feet for months. What's next?"
Carver had already pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside, blood smeared across his chest and shoulder. He sank onto the couch, teeth gritted as Frost crouched beside him with gauze and pressure.
"Jesus," Carver muttered, hissing as Frost pressed down. "Be nice if I could go five goddamn minutes without getting punched, stabbed, or shot."
Ghost didn't look up.
"Quit bitching," he said, voice low. "You're lucky I didn't kill you myself."
Brick's jaw ticked. Reaper shifted his weight at the edge of the kitchen, arms crossed.
Carver held Ghost's stare for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."
Ghost scanned the room, pain pulling at the corners of his eyes and mouth, but he kept his voice level.
"Hale's not finished. We all know that. Langley was just one piece. We've hit back hard, but that won't be the end of it. We need to move before they do."
Reaper nodded from the doorway. "That means exposure. We drag this shit into the light, fast.”
Torch had taken up a post near the window, one shoulder to the frame, eyes on the perimeter. Frost kept pressure on Carter’s wound, face set in a grim line.
Ghost stood in the doorway with Rachel at his side, his arm wrapped low around her waist. He couldn't bring himself to move away from her. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.
Bruises had already darkened along her arms and ribs, visible even through his shirt where the fabric pulled across her skin. Each mark was a reminder of what Langley had done. What Ghost hadn't been fast enough to stop.
Rachel hadn't spoken since they walked through the door, but Ghost felt the tension in her body. The way she watched the team move around the living room. Listened to every word of the debrief.
Then her voice cut through the conversation, quiet but certain. "I can do that."
Heads turned.
"I know where to start. I know what they're afraid of. And I know how to make it hurt."
Ghost's arm stayed firm around her. His body turned just enough to meet her eyes. The look he gave her held weight, intense enough to catch her breath for half a second.
"You're sure?" he asked, voice low.
Across the room, Bear stepped in from the back hallway, his long frame filling the archway. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, dog tags catching the light as he folded his arms across his chest. He looked between her and Ghost.
"She's got guts," Bear said after a beat, voice quiet but firm. "But if we're putting her back in the line of fire, it's not gonna happen without backup."
Ghost’s jaw worked. He didn’t answer right away. His hand stayed at Rachel’s waist, fingers pressing in slightly, then he moved, guiding her toward the kitchen with a gentle but firm touch at her lower back.
"Give us a minute," he said over his shoulder.
The team didn't argue. Torch turned back to the window. Bear joined Frost and Reaper near the gear pile. The quiet hum of conversation resumed behind them, but it felt distant.
Ghost led her through the doorway and into the kitchen. The overhead light was off, only the dim glow from the living room spilling across the tile. He guided her to one of the barstools at the island, his hand steady at her lower back.
"Sit," he said quietly.
Rachel lowered herself onto the stool, wincing as the movement pulled at her ribs. Ghost moved to the cabinet above the sink and pulled down a white first aid kit.
He set it on the counter beside her with a soft thud, then turned on the small light above the stove. Warm yellow light spilled across the kitchen, just enough to see by without being harsh.
Ghost's hands found her wrists first. He turned them over gently, examining the damage. The zip tie marks were angry and raw, deep red grooves where the plastic had cut through skin, some spots still weeping clear fluid mixed with blood.
He opened the kit and pulled out antiseptic wipes, tearing one open with his teeth.
"This is gonna sting," he said.
Rachel nodded.
The first touch of antiseptic made her hiss through her teeth. The burning was immediate and sharp, like alcohol poured directly into an open wound. Ghost worked carefully, cleaning each wrist with deliberate strokes, his fingers gentle despite the roughness of his hands.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
"It's okay." Her voice came out tight. "Keep going."
He finished cleaning both wrists, then reached for antibiotic ointment and gauze.
He squeezed a line of ointment onto his finger and smoothed it across the raw skin, cooling, soothing after the burn of the antiseptic, then wrapped each wrist with gauze, not too tight, just enough to protect the wounds.
His fingers worked with practiced efficiency. How many times had he done this? For himself, for his team, in the field under worse conditions than a quiet kitchen.
When both wrists were wrapped, he moved to her face. His thumb brushed along her cheekbone, just below the bruise that had darkened to deep purple. He grabbed another antiseptic wipe and cleaned the cut on her forehead where blood had dried in a thin line down her temple.
Rachel watched his face while he worked. The concentration there, the furrow between his brows. The tension in his jaw that hadn't eased since the warehouse.
"Your knuckles," she said quietly.
Ghost paused, meeting her eyes. "What?"
"Your knuckles are split. You need to clean them too."
He glanced down at his hands, blood crusted across the knuckles, some of the splits still oozing. He'd forgotten about them entirely.
"After," he said.
"Now."
Ghost’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. He grabbed another wipe and cleaned his knuckles quickly, efficiently, barely flinching at the sting, then wrapped them in gauze, using his teeth to secure the end since he couldn’t do it one-handed.
When he finished, his hands found her waist again, thumbs brushing against the fabric of his shirt where it hung loose on her frame.
"Baby," he said. "Look at me."
She did. Her eyes found his in the dim light.
"Are you okay?" He needed to know.
Rachel's throat tightened. She wanted to say yes. Wanted to brush it off and move forward because that's what she did, she pushed through. But standing here in his kitchen with his hands on her waist and his eyes searching hers, she couldn't.
"I don't know," she said quietly. "I'm here. I'm breathing. But I can still feel his hands on me. I can still hear—" Her voice caught. She swallowed hard. "I can still hear him."
Ghost's jaw clenched, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. His hands tightened on her waist, pulling her closer until their bodies were flush, no space between them. "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner."
"You got there," she said. "That's what matters."
His forehead dropped to hers. They stood like that for a moment, breathing the same air, grounding each other in the quiet.
Then Ghost pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again. "You don't have to be the one to do this," he said. "We have contacts. Trusted journalists. People who can take what you've got and run with it. You don't have to put your name on this."
Rachel's brow furrowed. "What?"
"We can leak it," he continued. "Get it out there without putting a target on your back. Hale already knows you're a threat. The second your byline goes live, he'll come after you harder than before."
She stared at him. Her hands came up to rest against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "Logan, I can't—"
"You can," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "You've done the work. You've got the proof. Let someone else take the heat."
Rachel shook her head. The movement pulled at her ribs, but she ignored it. "No. It needs to come from me."
"Rachel—"
"No," she said again, stronger this time.
"I was there. I saw what they did. I felt it.
This story, it's mine. And if I hand it off to someone else, it loses the truth of what happened.
" Her voice didn't shake. "They took me.
They stripped me. They tried to break me and I'm going to be the one who breaks them. "
Ghost's eyes searched hers. She saw the conflict there, the part of him that wanted to lock her away somewhere safe where Hale could never reach her, and the part that understood why she needed this.
"You're sure?" he asked.
"I'm sure."
A long beat passed. His hands stayed on her waist, anchoring her. Then, finally, he exhaled hard. "Okay."
Rachel blinked. "Okay?"
"Okay," he repeated. "But you're with me. Twenty-four seven. You don't go anywhere without me until Hale is caught. I won't lose you again."
The words settled between them.
Rachel's breath shuddered out. She nodded slowly. "Okay."
Ghost's hand came up to cup her face, fingers threading through her hair just below the bruise forming there. His touch was gentle, completely at odds with the violence still drying on his bandaged knuckles.
"I thought I lost you," he said quietly. "In that warehouse. When I heard him—" His voice roughened. "I thought I was too late."
"You weren't," she whispered.
"I will always find you," he said. "No matter what. No matter where. I will always come for you."
Rachel's eyes stung. She reached up and covered his hand with hers, pressing it firmer against her cheek. "I know."
He leaned in and kissed her. Slow and deliberate. Not desperate or hungry, but a promise made physical. His lips moved against hers with careful intent, like he was confirming she was real, here, alive.
When he pulled back, he searched her eyes, ensuring this is really what she wants.