She wanted to stop him. Wanted to ask for more, but the words locked behind the knot in her throat.
Ghost paused at the edge of the barrack, half-shadowed beneath the weak overhead light. He glanced back, eyes on hers, sharp and unreadable. “Don’t do anything stupid, Parker.”
Rachel smirked, but the edge of it wavered. “I never do.”
He didn’t return the smile. Just watched her. Long enough for her to feel like he was memorizing her too. Then he turned and walked into the dark. With each step, the air felt thinner.
She stood frozen, her heart still pounding, lips tingling, hand clenched tight around the slip of paper he’d given her.
She looked down. His number was still visible, the ink just slightly smudged from where she’d been gripping it without knowing. It was a lifeline. A warning. And maybe something else. Because the silence left behind didn’t feel like goodbye.
22
Commercial Flight - Somewhere Over the U.S.
Rachel couldn't process the flight home. She sat motionless, bag pressed against her chest in a death grip. The thumb drive was buried in the most protected pocket, barely weighs anything, but the implications were crushing. This should've been relief. The proof secured, but I felt like carrying a bomb.
The air inside the cabin pressed too close. Stale. Recycled. She couldn’t breathe deep without feeling like someone was watching. Her eyes flicked to the window, but the clouds streaking past didn’t register. She wasn’t really seeing them.
She was back in the sand and smoke, the low thrum of rotors in her chest, her boots still on Afghan soil. Back on the flight line where everything started to unravel.
She’d spotted him right before liftoff.
Ghost stood near the edge of the landing zone, boots planted, hands on his hips, the dust swirling around him like he didn’t even notice. He didn’t wave. Didn’t move, but his eyes locked on hers through the rising heat. And he didn’t look away.
That was the part she couldn’t forget. It wasn’t the mission or even the drive in her pocket. Not even the evidence she’d risked everything to get.
He stood there, steady and immovable, as the helicopter carried her up and away. Even rising into the air, she felt anchored to him.
She’d wanted to scream. To jump back down and run to him. To bury her face in his chest and stay there until the world made sense again, but she hadn’t. She couldn’t. Because if she stayed, if she told him everything, he would’ve stood beside her. No hesitation. No questions. He would walk into hell for her. And that’s exactly why she had to go.
The bag strap bit into her shoulder. She didn’t shift.
Passengers settled into restless sleep around her, adjusting blankets and closing shades. Rachel tracked every sound. Every movement. Every glance that held a beat too long made her throat tight.
The shadow outside her tent. The unnatural quiet in the compound. That flicker of movement she hadn’t imagined. Someone had followed her. Someone had seen.
She adjusted in her seat, legs cramping from how long she’d been holding tension. The city lights of San Diego bloomed on the horizon, sharp against the darkness. It used to feel like coming home. Tonight it felt like walking into a war she hadn’t trained for.
Her hand slipped into her pocket. The paper was still there, folded, worn, familiar. Ghost’s number. She unfolded it slowly, smoothing the creases with shaking fingers. Bold handwriting. All edges. All him. She stared at it like it might blink. Like the ink might shift and rewrite what they’d never had time to say.
Her thumb drifted across the paper.She wondered if he’d even answer if she called. That thought hit harder than expected. She shut her eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. No use in the what-ifs. She’d made her choice. She’d walked away to protect him.
Logan Hayes had a mission. A team. A life that couldn’t afford the fallout she was carrying in her bag. If he knew what she’d heard, what she’d seen, he wouldn’t stay out of it. And that was the problem. Because if he stepped in, he wouldn’t stop until the truth came out. Even if it burned him down in the process.
The wheels touched down with a muted thud, jolting her back into the present. The seatbelt sign dinged. Passengers stirred,stretching, gathering bags, already thinking about connections and weekend plans.
Rachel didn’t move. She froze, eyes fixed on the seat in front of her, refusing to blink. She was home, but it didn’t feel like returning.
The weight of the last few days dug deeper into her bones than any deployment ever had. When she finally stood, she moved on instinct, grabbed her bag, followed the line of travelers through the terminal, blind to the overhead announcements and artificial light.
At the baggage carousel, her fingers barely worked. She tugged her suitcase free, wheeled it toward the exit. The automatic glass doors slid open with a hiss.
Warm California air met her skin. It should’ve felt like safety.
She slipped into the back of the first taxi in line, gave the driver her address in a voice that sounded like it belonged to someone else. The car pulled forward. Streetlights dragged long shadows across her face.
Every mile blurred. She’d crossed oceans, outlasted firefights, filed dispatches from the edge of collapse, but coming home had never felt this cold.
