29. Ghost
The hum of server fans is the only sound in the tech room, a constant, low-frequency buzz that vibrates through the soles of my boots.
The room is small, cramped, and smells of overpriced energy drinks.
Cyber and Slayer are hunched over their respective rigs, their faces illuminated by the glow of scrolling code and flickering data windows.
Stone, Bruiser, and Doc are standing against the back wall, three giants in leather who look like they belong in a different century compared to the hardware surrounding them.
Oliver is sitting in the center of the room, perched on a rolling stool.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours—pale, jittery, and clutching a burner phone like it’s a lifeline.
“Got it. UK Home Office central server. It’s like they’re begging to be poked.” Cyber mutters.
“Shallow, too,” Slayer says, his fingers dancing across a tablet.
“They’ve got a witness statement from a bouncer who says he saw a young lad matching Oliver’s description near the warehouse, and a grainy CCTV still from a block away. It’s not enough for a conviction, but it’s enough to ruin a life.”
Oliver’s phone vibrates. He looks at the screen, his breath hitching. “It’s Ethan.”
“Go ahead,” Cyber says, tapping a button on his console. “The line is bounced through three different satellites and a proxy in Switzerland. No one can trace it.”
Oliver hits the speaker button. “Ethan?”
“Ollie,” the voice on the other end is weary, filtered through a digital rasp.
Ethan, Oliver’s detective brother, sounds like a man who has aged ten years in a week.
“I’m at the precinct. It’s a madhouse. They’re preparing a formal warrant for your flat. They think you’re the key to the whole Brian mess.”
“We found the digital trail, Ethan,” Cyber interrupts, his voice cool and clinical.
“The CCTV, the forensic logging at the station, the digital witness report. We can make it go away. We can scrub the servers so it looks like the files were corrupted during a routine backup. No red flags. But we can’t touch the physical. If there’s paper or evidence in a locker, that’s on you.”
A long, heavy silence stretches across the Atlantic. I watch Oliver’s face. Regret and shame are written in every line of his posture. He’s a healer, a kid who wanted to save lives, and now he’s forced his older brother to choose between his blood and his badge.
“I hate this, Ollie,” Ethan sighs, the sound crackling over the line. “I hate that you’ve put me in this position. I’ve spent fifteen years on the force trying to be different than our parents. And now...”
“I’m sorry,” Oliver whispers, his voice breaking. “I never meant for it to reach you. I just—he killed her, and he would have gotten away.”
“I know,” Ethan rasps. “But what’s the plan? You’re in California. You can’t just hide in a biker compound forever. How are you going to stay? You don’t have a visa, you don’t have a job. You’re a just med student.”
“I’ll figure it out,” Oliver says, though we all know he has no idea.
Another pause. I can almost hear Ethan pacing, wondering if his career is about to end.
“I’ll take care of it,” Ethan finally says.
The words are heavy, like stones falling into a well.
“There’s a statement on my desk and a thumb drive in the evidence locker. I’ll make sure they don’t survive the night. But listen to me, Oliver. I love you. You’re my brother. But I never want to be put in this position ever again. Do you hear me? If you do this again, I can’t help you.”
“I promise, Ethan,” Oliver says, tears welling in his eyes. “I promise.”
“Stay safe.”
The line goes dead.
Cyber and Slayer don’t waste time. They dive back into the screens.
For what feels like hours, the only sound is the frantic clicking of keyboards.
The tension in the room is a physical weight.
Stone is watching the door, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife.
Doc is staring at the monitors, his medical mind trying to grasp the digital surgery happening in front of him.
I stay near Oliver. I still feel that prickle of possessive irritation whenever I think about how close he was to Angel in London, but seeing him now—broken, terrified, and willing to lose everything—the jealousy is replaced by a grim respect. He stood up when it mattered.
“Check it out,” Slayer suddenly says, a shark-like grin spreading across his face. He spins his monitor around toward Cyber.
Cyber leans in, his eyes scanning the lines of code. A slow, rare smile breaks across his face. “Good job, Noob Slayer. Clean as a whistle.”
They both turn around. Slayer leans back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head.
“It’s done,” Cyber says, looking at Oliver.
“The digital files are gone. The backup logs are scrambled. As long as your brother holds up his end with the physical evidence, the Crown Prosecution Service has nothing to bring to a judge. We’ll be monitoring the UK databases for the next few weeks to make sure nothing resurrects,
but for all intents and purposes, you’re a free man.”
“A free man who needs to stay low,” Slayer adds. “Don’t go posting any selfies on the beach. As far as the UK is concerned, you vanished. Keep it that way.”
Oliver lets out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. He looks like a man who was just pulled back from the edge of a cliff. But the worry doesn’t leave his eyes completely. He’s safe from a cell, but his life is still in pieces.
“Thank you,” Oliver says, looking at the two hackers. “I don’t know how to repay you.”
He hesitates, pulling his knees slightly toward his chest.
His eyes dart toward the dark screen that previously held his brother’s digital life.
“Will any of this... will it blow back on Ethan? If the UK authorities realize the digital files are corrupted at the same time the physical evidence vanishes...”
Cyber doesn’t look up from his screen. “They won’t. We made the server glitch look like a legacy system crash—happens to the Home Office once a quarter anyway. And as for your brother, we ran a deep dive into both of your files.”
“From what we found, it’s not common knowledge you two are even related,” Slayer chimes in, spinning a pen between his fingers.
“Different last names, born in different boroughs. Unless someone is intentionally digging into your family records, it just looks like a botched investigation by a chaotic precinct. It won’t look suspicious.”
Oliver nods slowly, a fraction of the tension leaving his shoulders. But then his expression darkens, a new shadow falling over his face. He looks between Cyber and Slayer.
“But then,” Oliver says, his voice dropping an octave. “Who was it that tossed my flat? Ethan said the police were only preparing for the warrant.”
Cyber and Slayer exchange a brief, heavy look. The casual, triumphant energy in the room evaporates.
“We’ve still working on it,” Cyber says carefully, leaning forward on his elbows. “But it wasn’t the authorities, Oliver.”
“Then who?”
“Brian’s family,” Slayer says, the shark-like grin completely gone from his face.
“Turns out, dear departed Brian wasn’t just some local thug. His family runs a firm out of East London. Heavy involvement in unlicensed sports gambling, cross-dock smuggling, and running cut-rate narcotics through the docks.
They aren’t the type to wait for the Crown Prosecution Service to handle a dispute.”
Oliver just stares at them. The blood drains from his face entirely, leaving him looking hollowed out. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, as the pieces click into place in his mind.
“So...” Oliver starts, his voice barely a whisper. He swallows hard, looking down at his trembling hands. “So even if the case dismisses me... even if the cops completely drop it... I still can’t go back. Ever.”
The realization hits him like a physical blow. He’s not just a fugitive from the law; he’s a marked man. The UK isn’t a home anymore—it’s a kill zone. If he steps foot across the border, a badge won’t be waiting for him. A executioner will.
“Even if I’m legally cleared,” Oliver mutters, mostly to himself, “there might be retribution from Brian’s family. They’ll be waiting.”
Slayer sighs, his tough exterior softening just a fraction into something resembling grim empathy.
He taps the edge of his tablet against the desk.
“Look, we’re still looking into the depth of their reach. For now, you’re on the other side of an ocean in a compound surrounded by guys who kill for a living. You’re safe here. Let us dig a little deeper into the family’s network before you start writing your own obituary.”
But Oliver doesn’t look comforted. He just stares at the floor, a free man who has suddenly realized his prison just got a whole lot bigger.
Stone pushes off the wall, his leather vest creaking. His face is grim, but the approval is there in his eyes. He looks at Bruiser and Riot, who have been hovering by the door.
“It’s a win,” Stone says. “But we aren’t out of the woods yet. We have a guest to hide.”
He looks at me, then at Oliver.
“I’ll call Church,” Stone bellows. “Everyone needs to know the status.”
As Stone leads the way out of the room, I catch Oliver’s eye one last time. He nods, a small, shaky gesture of gratitude. I know the road ahead for him is going to be hard—rebuilding a life from nothing always is. But he’s under the protection of the Broken Halos now.
I walk out into the hallway, the cool air of the clubhouse hitting my face. The weight of the London job is finally lifting, replaced by the reality of what comes next. Christmas is coming. My wife is safe. And for the first time in my life, I have a family I choose, other than my club family.