My fists flex.“If you expect me to watch from the sidelines—”
“You’re not risking your life.”Monty thrusts a finger at me.
“Tell Jag that.”I laugh, and it comes out ugly.
“You will not—”
“I already did.The second they took Jag and Dove.”
He opens his mouth again, ready to pull rank or blood or both, and the door opens.
Frankie rushes in, breathless, hair damp from the drizzle outside.Her eyes sweep the room, land on me, and soften.Then she sees The Ghost.
“Oliver.”Her voice cracks.
He turns, and his face changes.Not gentleness.Recognition.History.
Oliver Popov was Frankie and Monty’s private chef for years on this island.He fed them while keeping his head down and his knives sharp.They didn’t know then what he’d been before the aprons and menus.
When Dr.Howell abducted her, Oliver stopped pretending.
I wasn’t here when he revealed himself as The Ghost, but I was present for the feral last stand, when he helped us escape the doctor.
Frankie crosses the room in three fast steps and throws her arms around him.He stiffens for a heartbeat then lets it happen, one hand coming up to steady her.
“I missed you.”She presses her face into his shoulder.
“I missed your Eggs Benedict,” Monty mutters.
That earns a small smile from Oliver.“I will make them now while Mikhail works.”
“Please.”Frankie releases him.“Before Monty burns the house down.”
Oliver turns toward the door, already rolling up his sleeves.Monty and Frankie follow him, pulled by routine and comfort.
I stay where I am, eyes on the screens as Mikhail dives deeper, lines of code stacking and feeds flickering.
“You should eat.”Monty lingers in the doorway.
“I can’t.”My stomach is a knot of acid and vicious anger.
With reluctance, he leaves.I grab my sketchbook and pull up a chair beside Mikhail.
Long into the night, Mikhail’s fingers glide over the board, the keys clicking in soft bursts.He doesn’t stretch or drink or look away from his task.Whatever zone he’s in, it doesn’t include time.
With my sketchbook open beside him, I don’t draw princesses.I sketch outcomes, corridors, entry points, and blind corners.I rough out rescues like crime scenes in reverse.
If Jag and Dove are being held in a warehouse, there will be loading docks, forklifts, stacked containers, and snipers on catwalks.
If it’s a cave, it will be single access, choke points, tunnels, condemning echoes, lights out, and close work.
If it’s some underground lair, there will be security doors, biometric locks, cameras, vents, and service shafts.
Every version ends the same way.
Get in.Get them.Get out.
I don’t draw revenge.I can’t let myself plan Crowe’s death.Jag has been watching that man for twenty years, tracking him, studying him, and waiting for an opening that never came.
