A sliver of darkness waiting.
Ghost stopped. Drew one breath. Let it out slow.
He was still in his fatigues, boots scuffed, gear half-loosened from the flight. He hadn't gone home. Hadn't changed. Hadn't wasted a single second after hearing her voicemail. He'd come straight here.
His hand dropped to his sidearm. The grip was familiar, solid in his palm. He unholstered it in one smooth motion, muzzle angled low, and moved forward. Every muscle coiled. Every step controlled and silent.
The hallway smelled like her, that mix of cedar and vanilla he'd recognize anywhere. But underneath it was something else. Sweat. Fear. The acrid tang of adrenaline.
Ghost raised his weapon as he reached the door and pressed his shoulder to the frame.
Then he entered.
Fast. Silent. Weapon up. Clearing angles the way he'd done a thousand times in compounds halfway across the world.
The living room stopped him cold.
Gutted. Books ripped open and thrown. The couch sliced apart, cushions shredded and scattered across the floor. The TV lay cracked on the hardwood, glass glinting. Picture frames smashed. Every drawer pulled out and dumped.
A search. Methodical. Thorough. They'd been looking for something and hadn't found it.
Ghost's jaw clenched. His finger stayed outside the trigger guard as he moved deeper into the apartment.
The kitchen was worse. Cabinets hanging open, contents swept onto the floor. Broken glass crunched under his boots. A knife block overturned, blades scattered. His pulse kicked harder.
Where the hell was she?
He cleared the kitchen in seconds and moved toward the bedroom, weapon leading. The door was wide open.
The mattress had been torn apart, sliced down the middle, stuffing gutted and thrown. The closet door hung on one hinge. Clothes scattered everywhere. Drawers overturned. Every inch of her life exposed and violated.
Ghost's hands tightened on his weapon. His breathing was too loud in his own ears.
One room left. The bathroom.
He moved slowly now, heart pounding harder than it had on any op in years. His entire body was wound tight, every instinct screaming that something was wrong.
He reached the bathroom door. It was closed.
Ghost’s hand hovered near the handle. One breath, then another.
He pushed it open—
BAM.
The door slammed back into him with full force. Ghost spun on instinct, weapon coming up, ready to engage—
A body crashed into him. Flying fists. Brown hair. A terrified scream.
"Rachel!" He caught her second swing mid-air, weapon already holstered in one fluid motion. "Rachel, baby—it's me!"
Her fist connected with his jaw.
Pain exploded across his face. "Shit—"
"Logan?!" She froze, fist still raised, eyes going wide. "Oh my God! Logan?!"
Her whole body was shaking. Trembling so hard her teeth were chattering.
