Page 11 of Code Name: Ghost

“Cerberus is opening their newest satellite office there. No one knows about it. They’ve been keeping a very low profile. Do you think you can do all that?”

I’m not sure and I hesitate, saying nothing.

“Cherise. Do. You. Understand?” she asks. “If you’re not up to it...”

“Yes, I understand, and I can do this… I have no choice.”

“We can figure out something else…”

“No. I can do this.”

“Good. If you need anything, you call this number.”

The line is silent, and I wonder if she’s hung up on me.

“Cherise, are you still there?” asks JJ.

“Yeah, I’m here.” I’m now terrified that I’ve involved my new friend in my disaster of a life.

“We’re going to get you to safety. Okay? We’ve got you, I promise.” JJ tells me and I’m instantly relieved and determined to be my own savior. In the background, I hear JJ’s husband tell her to get off the phone, as it’s not safe for me to be on any phone for any length of time. “Okay, Cherise. We’ve got to hang up, but call if anything happens, okay?”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Okay. Thank you, JJ.”

“Always,” she says and then the line goes dead.

Late in the afternoon the next day, someone slides a thick manila envelope under my hotel room door. When I look out through the peephole, I don’t see anyone in the hallway, but I don’t open the door either.

I pick up the envelope and tip the contents onto the bedspread. Inside are my new identification papers—including a passport—along with colored contact lenses, train tickets to Monte Carlo, a small key, a timeline with detailed instructions, and a photo of a logo labeledOpus Noir.

I’m instructed to place all of my belongings—save the clothes on my back—in a plastic bag to dispose of at the train station. The key is to a locker where I will find new clothing that will identify me to the Cerberus operative meeting me in Monte Carlo.

I wonder how I will recognize the operative. I smile as the answer to my question is at the bottom of the timeline. My contact will be a tall man with a muscular build and a ball cap with the Opus Noir logo. I laugh at my disappointment that we won’t have some secret code phrase.

I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m in expert hands. This is really happening and for the first time in weeks, I allow a small bit of hope to settle in my stomach.

* * *

Today’s the day. I rise from the bed, grabbing my bag and moving toward the bathroom mirror. My reflection stares back—haunted eyes, sharp cheekbones, hair now a deep auburn instead of its usual chestnut brown. Not the best disguise, but it’ll do. I can explain away the difference in hair color by telling anyone who asks that I wanted a change.

I reach for the contacts included in my care package, which will turn my usual green eyes into icy blue ones. A small difference, but one that might buy me a few extra seconds if I run into the wrong people and will get me through customs.

I walk out of the hotel and don’t look back. I paid for my room in advance with cash when I checked in. My new identity is in place, a forged passport tucked safely in my bag, and my train ticket to Monte Carlo secured. Now, I just have to make it there alive.

The train station is a swarm of bodies, voices blending into a cacophony of languages—Italian, French, English. I keep my head down, shoulders hunched, slipping between clusters of travelers as I move toward the locker, retrieve the clothing waiting for me there, and slip into the restroom to change. Once I have on my new clothing, I walk out, disposing of my old clothing in one of the trash bins as I make my way to my platform.

I can feel the paranoia sinking in. The phantom sensation of eyes watching me. Every scrape of a shoe against tile, every flicker of movement in my peripheral vision, makes my pulse spike. I step onto the train, sliding into a seat near the back, my gaze tracking every single person who boards after me.

The businessman in the navy suit, scrolling through emails. The mother with two restless children, adjusting their coats. The older woman reading a paperback, her lips moving slightly with the words. None of them are a threat.

Then, a man steps into the car. Dark hair, expensive suit, and sunglasses. He moves with controlled ease, scanning the rows as he walks. I go rigid. My grip on my bag tightens. He keeps moving, passing by without a glance in my direction. I force myself to breathe. Not every well-dressed man is an assassin. Not everyone is hunting me, but I can’t take chances.

The train lurches forward, and I settle in, pressing my fingers against the cool metal of the window frame. I have eight hours until Monte Carlo. Eight hours to convince myself that making that call to JJ was the right thing to do. But then, what else could I have done?

By the time the train pulls into Monaco’s Gare de Monte-Carlo, exhaustion has settled into my bones. The station is sleek, modern, carved into the cliffs above the glittering city. A world of wealth and excess stretching beyond the platform.

I step onto solid ground, my bag slung over my shoulder, eyes sweeping the terminal. I don’t feel anyone following me and for a second; I think maybe I’ve won a minor victory, but then, I feel it.

A shift in the air. A presence behind me. I turn—fast, ready to run, and collide with a broad, unyielding chest. Strong hands close around my arms, steadying me. Keeping me in place. I see the ball cap, but then my breath catches when I see a ghost. I don’t have time to question what is happening because my knees begin to buckle as everything fades to black.

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