Chapter 35
Bring Hell with You
Ghost
The Sanctuary looked the same from the outside.
That almost pissed me off.
Rain slicked the cracked church steps in silver under the streetlights while the stained-glass windows above glowed faintly against the darkness, old saints stared down at a building that hadn’t belonged to God in a very long time.
Music and crowd noise rumbled faintly through the walls beneath the storm, Havoc still ran fights like the world outside wasn’t actively collapsing.
Meanwhile, everything inside me felt wrecked beyond repair.
I stood across the street for a second too long before crossing toward the entrance, exhaustion dragging through my body hard enough to make every movement feel heavier than it should.
Blood stained the sleeve of my jacket from a cut along my forearm — I barely remembered getting it. My knuckles were split open. My ribs ached from a fight near the docks six hours earlier.
I looked exactly like what I was — a man losing control.
The guards at the lower entrance froze the second they recognized me.
One of them immediately reached for the radio clipped to his vest. “Saint’s gonna want—”
“I know,” I cut him off flatly.
The guy shut up instantly.
Good. I didn’t have the patience left for anything else.
The familiar underground corridor stretched ahead of me as I stepped inside, the scent of smoke, sweat, whiskey, and blood wrapping around me like memory itself.
Usually, coming back here grounded me. Reminded me who I was beneath Ghost: violence and strategy. Tonight, it just made the guilt worse. Because Mira should’ve been with me, instead, she was somewhere inside Ironhand while I walked back into Sanctuary alone.
The fight ring noise grew louder as I descended the final stairs into the main chamber. The crowd roared around the cage below, bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath the old cathedral arches while colored lights flashed across cracked stained glass high overhead.
And standing above it all, near the upper balcony rail, were Saint and Reaper. Waiting. Of course, they already knew something was wrong.
Saint saw me first.
Even across the chamber, I watched his entire body go still in that unnerving way only Saint could manage. Six-foot-four of controlled violence wrapped in tattoos and silence, icy blue eyes locked onto me with enough intensity to cut straight through the noise below us.
Reaper turned half a second later.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Reaper muttered the second he got a proper look at me.
I probably looked worse than I realized.
Neither of them moved immediately as I crossed the balcony toward them. Tension settled heavier with every step until the noise from the fights below started to feel distant compared to the weight pressing down between us.
Over a month has gone by. Now I was back, looking like I crawled out of a war zone.
Saint’s gaze tracked every visible injury before landing on my face again. He still hadn’t said a word. The exhaustion and fury burning underneath my skin were probably obvious from a mile away.
Reaper exhaled sharply, running one hand down his jaw. “You’re bleeding all over my fucking floor.”
“I’m fine.” The lie sounded dead the second it left my mouth.
Reaper’s expression darkened instantly.
Saint finally moved, stepping closer slowly until we stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder beneath the dim balcony lights. His eyes searched mine once, quietly and brutally in a way that stripped straight through whatever control I had left.
And just like that, he knew. Not every detail, maybe. But enough. Enough to understand this wasn’t just operational fallout. Enough to know this was personal.
My chest tightened painfully as guilt hit all over again, heavier now that I stood back inside Sanctuary looking at the two men who trusted me enough to help build this place from blood and broken bones years ago.
“I lost her,” I said quietly.
The words nearly wrecked me more than any fight had.
The silence after I said it felt heavier than the roar of the crowd below us.
Saint stared at me for one long, brutal second before his jaw flexed hard enough to tighten visibly along his throat. Reaper’s expression flattened into something colder than anger, which honestly worried me more.
“You lost who?” Reaper asked quietly.
I swallowed once before forcing the words out. “Mira.”
That landed exactly as badly as expected.
Reaper swore viciously under his breath while Saint went completely still again, and for the first time since I walked back into Sanctuary, I saw something crack visibly through Saint’s control.
“You brought Mira into Ironhand?” Reaper demanded.
“She embedded herself first,” I snapped back automatically. “I found her there.”
“And you stayed.”
The accusation hit home because it was true.
I dragged one hand down my face roughly, exhaustion and guilt grinding together hard enough to make my chest ache. “I thought I could contain it,” I admitted. “Thought I could keep her protected while finishing the operation.”
Saint’s eyes sharpened instantly at that word.
Protected.
He finally spoke then, voice low and rough from disuse, in a way that cut straight through me. “And now?”
I looked away briefly because I already knew exactly how bad this sounded out loud.
“They took her,” I said quietly. “Silas knows she’s connected to us. To all of us.”
The temperature around the balcony seemed to drop ten degrees.
Reaper’s stare turned murderous instantly. “How much does he know?”
“Enough.”
That answer alone was enough to confirm the rest.
Reaper muttered another curse before pacing two steps away, his hands briefly braced against the balcony rail as he visibly tried not to put his fist through something.
Saint never moved.
His voice stayed deadly calm when he asked, “Ghost?”
I met his gaze slowly.
“He suspects Adrian is Ghost,” I admitted. “Mira being tied to me confirmed most of it.”
Saint’s expression didn’t change.
That somehow made it worse.
Footsteps approached from behind before anyone else could speak. Eden appeared, carrying a medical kit. She already looked irritated; her red braid hung over one shoulder, while her sharp eyes immediately swept over the blood that soaked through my sleeve.
“Oh, absolutely not,” she muttered. “Sit down before you bleed out on Saint’s shoes.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like roadkill with emotional problems,” she shot back instantly. “Sit.”
Normally, I would’ve argued. Tonight I didn’t have the energy.
I dropped into one of the old lounge chairs near the upper balcony while Eden immediately started cutting through the torn sleeve of my jacket without waiting for permission.
Pain flared sharply through my forearm as the fresh air hit the deeper cut hidden under it.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “What the hell have you been doing?”
“Starting small wars, apparently,” Reaper said darkly.
Another set of footsteps approached quickly behind us before I could respond.
Vex stalked into view with her laptop already balanced beneath one arm — short black hair with electric-blue tips stuck out in chaotic angles around her jaw while her fitted black shirt stretched over the growing curve of her stomach.
Five months pregnant and still terrifying.
“I’m in,” she announced immediately, dropping into the chair beside the table while typing fast enough that the keys blurred beneath her fingers.
“Ironhand’s internal firewalls are already screaming.
Ghost, tell me exactly which routes you burned because somebody’s panicking hard enough to reroute half their offshore encryption. ”
I stared at all of them for a second. Exhaustion hit differently now that I was back here, surrounded by people who actually knew me underneath Ghost.
And somehow that made the guilt hurt even worse. Because Mira should’ve been safe here with us, instead, she was trapped inside Ironhand because I let myself believe I could protect her alone.
Everything shifted after that.
The second Mira’s capture stopped being just my problem and became Sanctuary’s. The entire atmosphere in the upper levels shifted from concern to preparation. Not panic. Never panic. Havoc had survived too many wars already for that. But war recognition? That happened instantly.
Vex’s fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard while streams of encrypted routing data reflected across her glasses. “Holy shit,” she muttered under her breath. “Ghost wasn’t exaggerating. These aren’t isolated movement chains. This is full-scale infrastructure.”
Reaper stepped behind her chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest, while he scanned the scrolling data. “Can you track where they’re moving her?”
“Not directly yet,” Vex replied. “But I can track the disruption patterns every time Ghost burns a location. They’re scrambling routes too fast to stabilize.” Her eyes narrowed slightly at the screen. “Which means he scared them.”
“Good,” Saint said flatly.
The single word settled through the room like a promise.
Across the balcony, Havoc’s upper crew had already started moving. Vehicle crates emerged from the secure storage beneath the old church floor as runners moved between rooms, carrying ammo, burner phones, and intel packets.
The energy that spread through Sanctuary wasn’t chaotic. It was focused, deliberate — like a machine waking up.
Eden finished wrapping my forearm before stepping back with an unimpressed look. “You needed three stitches and probably fractured your hand again.”
“I noticed.”
“Try harder not to punch walls next time.”
“No promises.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue further, already turning toward the growing operational setup behind us. Medical kits started piling onto one of the long tables while she checked supplies automatically, mentally transitioning from nurse into battlefield medic without missing a beat.
Reaper grabbed a rifle case from one of the runners passing through before tossing it onto the table hard enough to rattle the contents. “If Syndicate wants open conflict,” he muttered darkly, “they picked the wrong fucking crew.”
Saint remained near the balcony rail that overlooked the fight cage below, silent and terrifyingly still while the rest of Sanctuary accelerated around him.
The fighters downstairs hadn’t realized anything had changed yet.
They still screamed over blood and bets beneath stained-glass windows, while upstairs, Havoc quietly prepared for war.
Vex looked up from her laptop, her expression focused. “I found something called the Summit.”
I straightened, intrigued. “What kind of references?”
“Encrypted chatter about offshore financial consolidations and internal movements,” she replied, typing quickly. “Syndicate is moving assets across territories for it.”
Reaper leaned closer. “A meeting?”
“No, too coordinated. This seems like rollout preparation,” Vex said, her tone serious. “It’s consolidation.”
A heavy silence fell over the room.
What we were dealing with was bigger than we thought—ghost operations, human trafficking, weapon movement. Syndicate wasn’t creating isolated crimes; it was building infrastructure.
If Vex was right, the Summit marked a transition from independence to a unified threat capable of surviving open warfare.
“How long until they’re operational?” Maddox asked.
“Not sure,” Vex replied, exhaling sharply. “But soon.”
Saint pushed away from the rail, his expression shifted to one of resolve.
“We hit them before that happens,” Reaper said.
“Yeah,” I added, fixated on Vex’s screen, and the image of Mira flashed in my mind. “First, we get her back.”
No matter how dangerous this war became, one truth weighed on me—Mira was still trapped inside it.
I reloaded my weapon in silence while the rest of Sanctuary moved around me.
The familiar weight settled into my hands automatically, and muscle memory took over while my mind stayed locked somewhere else entirely.
I kept imagining Mira exhausted, restrained under fluorescent lights and alone, all while Silas played psychological games with her …
as if this were all some controlled experiment instead of a war already spiraling out of control.
Every second she stayed inside Ironhand felt like a countdown ticking louder in my head.
Reaper was already coordinating movement teams downstairs while Vex tore through Syndicate routing data, searching for relocation patterns.
Nearby, Eden shoved extra medical supplies into a duffel bag with the irritated focus of someone fully aware she was about to spend the next several days patching up idiots with death wishes.
Which left Saint standing directly across from me near the balcony rail.
Waiting.
I checked the chamber one last time before sliding the weapon back into place. “I’m going back in.”
Saint studied me for one long second, icy blue eyes unreadable beneath the fractured stained-glass light spilling across the old church walls. Then his jaw tightened. And when he finally spoke, his voice came out low, rough, and deadly enough to silence the entire upper level around us.
“Then we burn Ironhand to the fucking ground.”