Our men scatter, diving behind containers and equipment as bullets tear through the air. They try to coordinate, falling back on hand signals and visual cues, but without comms there’s no way to call for backup, no way to direct fire, no way to warn each other.
“Did you really think you could fool me?” it asks, amused. “That I wouldn’t see through the trap you tried to set?”
My jaw clenches. Always one step ahead. They hijacked the ship before it even docked.
“We’re going to give you a demonstration. A lesson in why you’re already losing this war.” Robotic laughter comes through. “The past always comes back, gentlemen. And I’ve been very, very patient.”
The past always comes back? What the fuck does that mean?
But the docks are already a fucking war zone, and there’s no time to think.
Below, our men scramble, raising weapons, trying to organize without a way to speak with each other. Muzzle flashes strobe across the pier as they shoot back.
But they’re surrounded. Ghost soldiers from the ship, from the boats, all of them moving with military precision while our people can’t talk to each other.
I line up a shot on one of the operatives spilling from the speedboat and fire.
The target drops hard. Blood sprays. One down, but more keep pouring from the boats, taking cover behind the pylons, laying down disciplined fire that pins our people in place.
Bullets slam into the rooftop around me. I roll behind the HVAC unit as concrete bursts where my head was seconds ago.
They know exactly where I am.
Staying low, I head for the fire escape. I need to get down there and salvage something from this disaster.
I'm halfway down the staircase when a figure appears on the landing below me.
A Ghost soldier in head-to-toe black tactical gear.
We freeze for half a second, and then everything detonates at once. The soldier swings their rifle up toward me as I throw myself sideways, slamming into the railing while rounds rip through the space where I'd just been standing. My own rifle clatters down the stairs, bouncing past the soldier's boots and out of reach.
No time to draw my sidearm. They're already closing the distance, weapon coming back around, and if I let them set their stance I'm dead. So I launch myself down the last few steps and drive my shoulder into their chest before they can line up the shot.
We slam against the concrete wall hard enough to rattle my teeth, a tendon grinding deep in my shoulder, but the adrenaline buries the pain under something hotter. Their rifle goes off between us, rounds spraying wild into the stairwell as I get both hands on the barrel and wrench it sideways. The strap snaps and the weapon clatters down the stairs after mine, both of us suddenly empty-handed and breathing hard in the narrow space.
They recover first and drive an elbow into my face. Pain flares across my cheekbone, copper flooding my mouth, and I answer with a punch to their gut that empties their lungs in one wet sound. I catch the next strike before it lands, twist their arm back at an angle the joint isn't meant to bend, and slam them face-first into the wall. They grunt but they're not done yet, driving a boot into the side of my knee hard enough that my leg buckles, and we both go down grappling on the landing.
I get on top, pin their arms, press my forearm across their throat just hard enough to make my point. "Who do you work for? Who's the Ghost?"
They spit blood in my face as boots thunder down from above. Fuck. Their backup is closing fast and I'm out of time to play interrogator. I grab my sidearm and slam the grip into their temple. Once, twice. They go limp.
I fire two rounds up through the stairwell to slow whoever's coming, the shots cracking off concrete and buying me maybe ten seconds. Then I holster the pistol, haul the unconscious Ghost under his arms, and drag him down the stairs as fast as my knee will let me.
My shoulder screams and my knee protests, but I don't stop until I kick the exit door open and drag him outside into the fray. The pier is lit up like a battlefield, muzzle flashes strobing through the smoke.
I spot one of our SUVs thirty feet away. Fuck, yes. The sooner I can get them out of here, the sooner I can find out who they work for.
As I drag him, the soldier starts convulsing.
I drop them and yank my sidearm back out, thinking they're coming to. Then the foam at the corner of their mouth registers, the way their body goes rigid before it goes slack.
“No, no, no,” I groan, but it’s too late.
Dead. Our one chance at real intel, gone by their own hand before they'd give us a single name.
They must have had a cyanide pill tucked in their cheek the whole time, waiting for the moment they knew the game was up.
I haul the corpse toward the SUV and shove it into the back anyway. Maybe our guys can pull something useful off him. Tattoos, scars, dental records, the manufacturer of the boots on his feet. There has to be something we can work with.
