Chapter 5 - Ghost
The house sits in darkness like a cancerous growth on the outskirts of Pine Haven, all boarded windows and rotting siding.
Intelligence says three Vultures MC are holed up inside, waiting for reinforcements that'll never come because we intercepted their communications twelve hours ago.
What they're actually waiting for is us.
Five AM and the world is still painted in shades of black and gray, the kind of pre-dawn quiet that makes every sound feel amplified. I check my sidearm one more time, muscle memory from a thousand missions in a dozen different countries where dawn meant violence and violence meant staying alive.
"Thermal shows three heat signatures," Blade whispers through the comm, his voice barely audible even to me standing ten feet away. "Two on the ground floor, one upstairs. No movement in the past twenty minutes."
Reaper's response crackles in my earpiece. "Could be sleeping. Could be waiting for us to think they're sleeping." He pauses. "Either way, we go in quiet. Take them alive if possible. We need information about Charles's next move."
If possible. That's the part that makes my jaw clench, makes the familiar darkness start to unfurl in my chest. I want these bastards breathing so they can tell us where their boss is hiding, but part of me, the part that remembers what they did to those trafficked women, what they're still doing to women just like them, wants them to give me a reason to forget about taking prisoners.
"Ghost, you take the back door. Blade, front. I'll go through the window on the east side." Reaper's voice is calm, professional. He's switched into president mode, the part of him that can compartmentalize everything, including his own need for revenge, for the good of the mission.
I wish I had that kind of control.
The back door is a joke. Rotting wood frame and a lock that probably hasn't worked since the Clinton administration.
I could put my boot through it without breaking stride, but that would announce our presence to everyone within a three-block radius.
Instead, I work the lock with tools that would make a career criminal jealous, the pins falling into place with soft clicks that sound like gunshots in the pre-dawn stillness.
Inside, the house smells like mold and fear and something else.
Cigarettes and alcohol and the particular stench that comes from men who've been living rough for too long.
The floorboards creak under my boots despite my best efforts to move quietly.
This place is falling apart from the inside out, just like everything else these Vultures MC touch.
Through my earpiece, I hear Reaper's whispered update: "In position. Two tangos in what looks like a living room, both conscious, both armed. One's watching the front door."
"Copy that," Blade responds. "I can see them through the window. On your mark."
I move through what used to be a kitchen, stepping carefully around debris that could give away my position. The stairs to the second floor are directly ahead, and I can hear movement up there: footsteps that tell me the third man is awake and alert.
My hands are steady as I start up the stairs, each step planned and executed with the kind of precision that comes from twenty years of sneaking up on people who want to kill you.
But underneath the tactical focus, something else is stirring.
The familiar red haze that creeps in around the edges of my vision when violence becomes inevitable.
I think about Tyler's laugh yesterday, the way his face lit up when he caught that baseball.
Think about Debbie watching from the window, the way she smiled when she thought no one was looking.
Think about what these men represent. The kind of violence that destroys families, that leaves children without mothers and mothers without hope.
The darkness purrs in response, feeding on my righteous anger.
"Ready," I whisper into my comm as I reach the top of the stairs. The hallway stretches ahead of me, doors on either side and what looks like a bathroom at the far end. Light seeps under one door, that's where my target is waiting.
"On three," Reaper's voice comes through crystal clear. "One... two..."
The world explodes into motion.
I kick the door open and roll left as automatic weapon fire tears chunks out of the doorframe where my head would have been.
The man inside is young, maybe twenty-five, with the kind of hollow eyes that come from a life spent doing terrible things to innocent people.
He's good, Better than I expected, but he's also panicked and firing wild.
I am neither panicked nor wild.
Two shots center mass drop him to his knees. The third, aimed higher, ends his participation in this conversation permanently. Through the paper-thin walls, I can hear similar sounds from downstairs. Men shouting, more gunfire, then Reaper's voice cutting through the chaos.
"Target down. Blade, status?"
"Two down, but one's still breathing. Barely."
"Copy. Ghost?"
I stare down at the body at my feet, at the blood pooling on floorboards that have probably seen more violence than they were ever meant to. The red haze is starting to recede, leaving behind the familiar hollow feeling that comes after the adrenaline fades.
"One down," I report. "Clean kill."
"Good. Let's see what the survivor can tell us."
Downstairs, Blade has zip-tied a young man who looks like he's trying very hard not to bleed to death from a shoulder wound. He's conscious, alert, and scared shitless. Exactly what we need for a productive interrogation.
Reaper crouches down next to him, his voice taking on the kind of reasonable tone that's somehow more threatening than shouting.
"You are the only one alive. You understand that, right?”
The man nods, his face pale but his eyes defiant. Young and stupid, like they all are until reality sets in.
"Good. That makes this easier. Where is Charles?"
"Go fuck yourself."
The response is predictable, but it still makes my hands clench into fists. These bastards never make it easy. Never choose the path that keeps everyone breathing.
"Wrong answer." Reaper stands up and nods toward me. "My friend here has anger management issues. Gets real creative when people waste his time."
It's not entirely a lie. The red haze is creeping back, fed by memories of trafficked women. Fed by the knowledge that this man and his friends represent everything wrong with the world.
"I'm going to ask you again," Reaper continues. "And if you give me another smart-ass answer, I'm going to let Ghost here show you what he learned in Afghanistan about making people talk."
The man's defiance wavers slightly as he looks up at me, taking in my size and the scar through my eyebrow and whatever expression is currently on my face. Smart enough to recognize a predator when he sees one, at least.
"Charles is gone," he says finally. "Left yesterday. Didn't say where."
"Bullshit." The word comes out rougher than I intended, carrying more menace than is probably tactically sound. But it has the desired effect. He flinches like I'd hit him.
"Not bullshit! He got word that you were closing in, so he ran. Left us here to... to slow you down."
"Slow us down how?" Reaper asks.
The man hesitates, and I see the moment he decides cooperation is better than whatever his imagination is telling him I'll do to extract the information.
"There's another operation. Bigger than the trafficking. Charles said... said if he couldn't have Pine Haven, he'd make sure you couldn't either."
"What kind of operation?"
"I don't know specifics. Explosives, maybe. Something to hurt the people you protect." He's talking faster now, words tumbling over each other in his eagerness to cooperate. "He said you care too much about civilians. Said that makes you weak, predictable."
I exchange glances with Reaper and Blade. We all know what this means. Charles isn't just planning revenge. He's planning to target the innocent people of Pine Haven. People like the women and children at the shelter.
People like Debbie and Tyler.
"When?" Reaper demands.
"Soon. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a week. He didn't tell us details, just said to keep you busy here while he set things up."
The red haze slams back into my vision, so sudden and complete that for a moment I can't see anything except the image of Tyler's smile, of Debbie standing on that porch trusting me to keep them safe. I can’t think about anything except getting back to the shelter, getting back to them, making sure they're protected.
"Ghost." Reaper's voice cuts through the static in my head. "We need to move. I need to check on Evelyn, make sure the clubhouse is secure."
"What about him?" I gesture to the wounded Russian.
Before Reaper can respond, Blade raises his sidearm and puts two rounds in the Russian's chest. The sound echoes through the empty house like thunder, and I feel the ringing start in my ears immediately.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Blade!" Reaper shouts, pressing his palms against his ears. "A little warning next time?"
Blade shrugs, holstering his weapon with ease. "He'd find a way to warn Charles. Better not to leave witnesses."
"That doesn't mean you couldn't have given us a heads up first. My ears are ringing like a goddamn church bell."
I watch the exchange with grim amusement despite the circumstances.
Reaper and Blade have been having variations of this argument since their Army days.
Blade's tendency to shoot first and explain later versus Reaper's preference for tactical communication.
Some things never change, even when the stakes get higher.
"Could've stepped outside," Blade says reasonably, like he hadn't just executed a man in cold blood without warning.
"Could've used your words like a functioning adult," Reaper fires back, but there's no real heat in it. He's known Blade too long to expect different behavior at this point.