Her inbox flooded. Support. Threats. Questions. Chaos. She couldn’t release the footage. Not yet. Not until she knew Ghost was clear. Not if there was even a chance he’d get pulled under with her.
If this web stretched into his command chain, if even one of the men he answered to was part of the deal she’d recorded, then warning him might be the worst thing she could do. It could put a target on his back.
She pressed her forehead to her palm, breath catching in her throat. She’d spent the last twenty-four hours combing every second of footage, cataloging every face, insignia, angle. She knew what she had. This wasn’t speculation. It wasn’t theory. It was proof. And anyone connected to her, even loosely, was a risk. Anyone who stood beside her might not walk away.
Her stomach twisted.Even from across an ocean, even embedded in the field, he wasn’t beyond their reach. Not if the chain was compromised. Not if command was tainted. Not if they saw him as a threat.
She sat back, swallowing hard, heart pounding loud in her ears. She hovered over her phone, fingers frozen above his name. Every part of her wanted to call. Just to hear his voice. Just to say:I need you, butshe didn’t.
She stayed like that for a long time, silent, unmoving, her body locked and her mind spiraling through worst-case outcomes. She’d always known the truth had a price. She just never expected someone else might have to pay it.
Then her phone buzzed. The vibration hit the desk like a gunshot in the silence, short and sharp. Rachel jerked, eyes snapping down.
Unknown Number.
Her stomach dropped. She stared, breath shallow, dread blooming cold and fast. The screen lit again.
Unknown:Drop the story and disappear.
Eight words. No signature. No explanation. Rachel's grip on the phone went white-knuckled. She couldn't pull air into her lungs. They'd found her.
No more headlines. No more digital smear campaigns or vague rumors. This was a threat.
Her gaze darted to the windows. The blinds were loose, corners cracked open to the night. A breeze shifted the fabric, soft and slow. The thought that someone had been watching her crawled over her skin.
She edged toward the window, heart pounding in her throat. Carefully, she nudged the curtain aside, eyes scanning the street below. Nothing.
Parked cars. A flickering streetlight. Distant traffic washing through the city like a slow tide. No figures. No movement, but the stillness felt wrong now. Thick with presence.
She retreated from the window, every nerve on edge. Sat back down, her fingers hovering over the keyboard for a second before she started typing.
Rachel:Who is this?
A pause.
…
Typing.
Her pulse hammered. Then, the three dots vanished. Gone. No reply. No follow-up. Just silence.
Rachel stared at the screen, heart crashing against her ribs. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts. This wasn’t over. It was just beginning. Someone knew what she had. And they weren’t going to wait for her to publish it. They were going to bury her first. Not just professionally, but permanently.
24
Rachel lay still in the dark, eyes locked on the ceiling. Sleep wasn’t coming.
The usual background hum of city life drifted through the open window, cars in the distance, laughter too loud from the bar down the block, but none of it reached her. Something felt off.
She sat up slowly. Tossed the blanket aside. Bare feet hit cold hardwood as she padded to the window and eased the curtain back just enough to see the street below.
Her breath stopped. Three men.
Two at the end of the block, one across the street under a broken streetlamp. All still. All silent. Too still to be drunk neighbors or wandering strangers.
She watched their stance, the weight distribution, how they tracked movement without actually moving. Trained. Alert. She backedaway from the glass. They weren't watching the building, they were watching her.
Her phone vibrated on the nightstand. The sound cracked the silence. She jumped, heart slamming, hand darting for the screen.
