Chapter 14 RYDER
RYDER
Job done, another successful mission under my belt. I move through the airport on autopilot, body loose in that familiar way it gets after violence is executed correctly—muscles calm, mind clear, and senses slightly sharpened as if my system hasn’t quite powered down yet.
Christmas is everywhere. Lights wrapped around railings, plastic wreaths hung too close to security cameras, annoying music bleeding from overhead speakers—cheerful in a way that feels aggressive.
People move with purpose and anticipation, arms full of gifts, faces softened by the promise of something warm waiting at the end of their journey.
Then the memories hit. A year ago, almost to the day, I stood here with a rifle broken down inside a guitar case, watching a target through glass while Christmas tried to sell itself to the world around me.
Then she happened. Curious eyes, endless banter, a presence that disrupted a clean shot and rewrote the night without asking permission. I exhale slowly and force my attention forward. Nostalgia is a liability, and so is regret. I don’t indulge either. The past doesn’t get a vote.
I move on, boots carrying me through the terminal as if none of it ever happened, as if a woman I never meant to touch doesn’t still exist in the quiet spaces I refuse to examine too closely.
My phone in my pocket vibrates. I don’t stop walking when I pull it out. The screen lights up with a name. Beck. Didn’t we talk two days ago? Why is he calling me again now?
I exhale slowly through my nose before I accept the call and bring the phone to my ear. The noise hits me immediately—voices overlapping, laughter, someone talking too loudly, another shushing them unsuccessfully. A full house. A full life. Everything I chose not to have.
“Merry Christmas, Ryder!” Multiple voices yell, forcing me to pull the phone away from my ear.
Once the noise dies down, I pull it back. “You put them up to this! I told you not to ambush me,” I scold Beck.
“It’s not an ambush. It’s family,” he defends.
I scoff under my breath, but I don’t hang up. The noise on the other end of the call sharpens as soon as they realize I’m listening.
“Don’t act like you weren’t going to answer,” Zane, our firstborn, cuts in. “You always do.”
“Habit, not affection.”
That earns me laughter—the familiar kind that pulls at the strings in my heart that only exist for them. I catch snippets of overlapping voices—Jace trying to keep order, Beck clearly failing at it, and someone clinking glasses too close to the phone.
“Put him on speaker,” Beck decrees.
“No,” I growl, but I’m too late. The sound blooms, filling my ear with warmth and chaos.
“Wow,” Quinn says immediately. “He sounds grumpy. That’s how we know he’s alive.”
“Barely,” I mutter.
Ava laughs. “You say that every year.”
“I’m consistent.”
That sets them off again. I let it happen, shifting to the side of the terminal where foot traffic thins, leaning one shoulder against a column that’s decorated with tinsel I refuse to look at directly.
Silence falls for half a second, heavy with things we don’t say out loud. Then someone clears their throat.
“Ry.”
Ella.
I get a request to shift to video, and I hesitate for a moment before I accept. She starts crying the moment my face fills the screen. She’s always been a crybaby.
“Ry,” she sniffs, voice thick. “You look… good. Are you eating?”
“Enough.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“When it’s quiet.”
She laughs through it, then tilts the camera so I can see them properly. Her husband steps into frame—a solid presence at her side, one arm wrapped protectively around her. Cole looks exactly like the kind of man who belongs by her side—steady, grounded, and rooted.
“This is Cole,” Ella introduces, like I haven’t been tracking him since the day they hired him to build the housing project at Iron Stallion. “And Aria—come here, sweetheart.”
A little girl pops into view, dark eyes curious, smile shy but fearless. She waves at the phone. “Hi.”
I lift two fingers in response. “Hey.”
She grins like I just gave her a medal.
Ella wipes her face, still smiling. “She knows you send the best presents.”
“That’s because he doesn’t show up,” Jace mocks. “Guilt gifts.”
“Strategic generosity,” I correct.
Quinn snorts. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it.”
The teasing continues, good-natured and relentless. They comment on my hair, on the jacket I’m wearing, and the fact that I apparently clean up well when forced to exist in public.
“You should see him in a suit,” Ava says. “It’s criminal.”
I have no idea where she saw me in a suit. Probably went digging into the photo albums.
Zane groans. “Can we not compliment him? He’s already smug enough.”
I glance at my reflection in the glass. If this is smug, I’d hate to see the alternative.
Eventually, the noise settles, and one by one, voices fade until it’s just Beck and me again, the background hum of Iron Stallion still audible but distant.
“You ever think about coming back?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away. I watch a family pass by—parents herding kids toward a gate, arms full, faces flushed with purpose.
Then I turn back to Beck. “I wouldn’t know how to fit. I’ve been gone too long.”
He exhales. “That’s not how home works.”
I don’t argue, but I don’t agree either.
“I’m serious. If you ever change your mind… there’s a place for you. Always.”
“I know.”
It’s the closest thing to acceptance he’s going to get. We end the call after another chorus of goodbyes.
I pocket my phone and push off the column, scanning the space around me again. The world resumes its motion, Christmas lights blurring into color as I move.
The call with Beck lingers longer than it should. Home. The word means something different to me than it does to them.
I didn’t leave because I stopped loving them. I left because I know what follows me. Because I’ve watched enough good men bleed out on bad intel to understand that proximity is a liability. Because being absent is the cleanest way I know to protect the people I didn’t choose to lose.
Iron Stallion is full of life now. Kids running through hallways, women laughing in kitchens, dogs barking without fear because no one there expects the night to turn violent without warning. It’s a place built on continuity. I don’t bring continuity with me; I bring aftermath.
The thought settles deep as I board my flight, slipping into a window seat I selected for the view and the control.
I stow my bag, sit back, and let the hum of the aircraft seep into my bones.
Outside, snow dusts the tarmac, lights reflecting off ice in a way that’s almost beautiful if you’re the kind of person who pauses to appreciate it.
I’m not.
As more people keep boarding, the phone in my pocket vibrates. It’s my handler, so I answer without wasting a second.
“New mission?”
“No. Courtesy call. You have a minute?”
“You already called.”
He exhales softly. “Somalia’s come back around.”
That gets my attention. “Define come back around.”
“The son,” he replies. “Yusuf Aden Barre’s.”
The name lands heavy, familiar in the way unfinished business always is.
“He’s hell-bent on revenge and making a point.”
I sit up slightly, spine straightening. “What kind of point?”
“He’s targeting Americans connected to the peace talks. Media. Security. Diplomatic staff. Anyone he can trace.”
I close my eyes again, jaw tightening. “How many?”
“A dozen so far. Confirmed dead.”
The plane hums around me, oblivious. I don’t feel fear—not for myself. That ship sailed a long time ago. But names surface anyway. Faces. Two of them in particular.
Kate.
Addison.
“Has he gotten to them yet?”
I don’t say their names out loud. I don’t have to. He knows exactly who I’m talking about.
“No.”
That’s a relief, but for how long?
“What’s being done about him? Local authorities?” I ask.
“Overwhelmed. Intelligence assets are compromised. This isn’t a blunt-force campaign. It’s surgical. He’s sending a message.”
I know the type. Rage sharpened into patience. Loss calcified into purpose. The son won’t rush this—he’ll savor it. He’ll choose targets that make headlines. He’ll force fear to do his work for him.
“He won’t stop.”
“No,” my handler agrees. “He won’t.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with implication. He’s waiting to see what I’ll do with the information. Whether I’ll disengage the way I always have, or if this time, something different will surface.
“You’re not asking me to go back?”
“No,” he replies smoothly. “I’m informing you.”
I drag a hand down my face, thumb pressing briefly into the corner of my eye. Fatigue settles deeper now—not physical but mental, the kind that comes from recognizing patterns you hoped you’d outgrown.
“He’s not my responsibility,” I say, because saying it feels necessary, even if it rings hollow.
“Of course not,” he answers, too easily. “You completed your contract. Cleanly.”
The word lands wrong. Clean is a lie we tell ourselves so we can sleep.
The flight attendant passes, indicating we’re about to take off, and my phone needs to go. I nod, gaze fixed forward. Somewhere below us, the world is celebrating. Families gathering, doors opening, lights turned on in windows meant to signal welcome.
Kate should be doing the same, back in LA, while Addison will be chasing the truth, convinced she can outrun consequences the way she always has. Neither of them knows what’s coming.
I close my eyes, jaw set. “What’s your assessment?”
My handler doesn’t hesitate. “If he escalates at this pace, it’s a matter of time before they cross his radar.”
I’m not worried about me. I’m a ghost. He’ll never find me. But I can’t say the same for Kate and Addison. But they are no longer my responsibility now. I cannot let myself get tangled up with her again.
“I’m not asking for an assignment, and I’m not volunteering.”
“Understood.”
“But if they disappear,” I continue, choosing each word with care, “if anything happens to them… I want to know first.”
“I’ll flag it,” he replies after a beat.
The call ends without ceremony. I sit there long after, phone still in my hand, staring at nothing. I tell myself this is where it ends. That I’ve done enough. That ghosts don’t get to rewrite their rules just because the past refuses to stay buried.
But the truth is already settling in. The cost of being a ghost is that you see the danger coming, and eventually, you have to decide whether staying invisible is worth the price.