"I heard you've got the journalist," Carver said, his tone casual.
A pause. Long enough that tension coiled in Ghost’s chest.
Then: "We do."
Ghost's breath stopped in his throat. Confirmation. She was alive. For now.
Carver kept going, his voice steady. "She was embedded with SEALs. Knows their tactics. If anyone can make her talk, it's me. You want names, contacts, locations—I'm your guy."
Another silence.
Then: "The warehouse. Get here. Don't take too long. She's running out of time."
The line cut.
Ghost was already moving, his hands reaching for his tactical vest. "Move. Now."
The room kicked into motion. Everyone gearing up with practiced efficiency.
But Ghost fumbled the magazine release on his sidearm, something that had never happened before. His fingers felt thick, clumsy. He had to try twice to slam the mag into place.
Rachel was running out of time.
Carver stood near the center of the room, already geared up. "We'll get her out."
Ghost glared at him. "They don't touch her," he finally managed, his voice low and deadly quiet.
48
Two SUVs cut through fading dusk, headlights sweeping across empty industrial roads. Ghost drove the lead vehicle, hands locked on the steering wheel, knuckles still split and raw from hitting Carver. The pain was distant, background noise his brain had filed away under "deal with later." The adrenaline flooding his system had other priorities.
Rachel was alive. Hurt. Tied to a chair in a warehouse ten miles outside the city.
And Ghost was going to tear apart everything between him and her.
Beside him in the passenger seat, Torch went through his weapon check for the third time, magazine out, chamber clear, reload, charging handle back. The rhythmic movements were automatic, muscle memory born from thousands of operations. But Ghostheard the slight tremor in Torch's breathing. Saw the way his jaw was locked tight.
In the back seat, Reaper stared out the window, his hand resting on his rifle's grip. The weapon was already loaded, safety off, ready to go the second they stopped. Brick sat beside him, silent, but Ghost could see him in the rearview mirror, rocking forward slightly with each bump in the road, the tension building in his shoulders with every mile.
Behind them, the second SUV held tight formation, perfectly spaced, maintaining visual contact without crowding. Bear drove with Predator riding shotgun, while Echo hunched over his laptop in the back seat, fingers moving across the keyboard. Rogue and Frost filled out the vehicle, all of them geared up and ready.
Predator's voice came through the comm, quiet and controlled. "Two minutes out."
Ghost's foot pressed harder on the accelerator. Not enough to be reckless, but enough that the speedometer crept up another five miles per hour. Every second Rachel spent in Langley's hands was another chance for things to go catastrophically wrong.
Echo's voice came through the comms, tight and focused. "Got movement inside. Six bodies minimum. One pacing, probably a guard. One seated and stationary." He paused. "That's her. Has to be."
Ghost's jaw locked. Seated and stationary. Tied down. Unable to move.
"No signs of external security," Echo continued. "No rooftop positions, no perimeter patrols I can detect."
"Doesn't mean they're blind," Ghost said, forcing his voice to stay level. "Keep scanning. I want to know about any vehicle that comes within half a mile of that location."
"Copy."
The warehouse appeared ahead, a massive structure crouched low against the darkening sky, its rusted metal siding barely visible in the failing light. Ghost turned onto the dirt access road, tires crunching over loose gravel. Weeds scraped against the SUV's undercarriage with a sound like fingernails on metal.
He pulled up behind a thin tree line and killed the engine. The second SUV pulled in beside them, engine cutting immediately.
