Page 2 of Code Name: Ghost

Too late.

I use the dying man’s momentum to launch myself forward. My elbow connects with the second guard’s throat in a brutal, crushing blow. He staggers, gasping for air.

I don’t give him the chance to recover.

With a savage pull, I yank his knife from his belt and drive it into his gut. He lets out a gurgled cry before collapsing, blood pooling beneath him.

I don’t stop.

The first man goes still in my grip. I release him, letting his body slump forward. My hands shake from exhaustion, but I don’t have time to feel it. I yank the dead man’s keys from his belt and unlock my shackles—the metal clattering to the floor.

I’m free.

My legs protest as I stand, weak from days of captivity, but I push forward. I strip one of the bodies of his rifle, check the ammo. Good enough.

I step over the corpses and move toward the door.

The hallway is dimly lit, shadows stretching long against the walls. I know this compound. I memorized its layout the moment they dragged me in here. I need to reach the northern exit—there’s a supply shed there, a place to regroup, to plan my next move.

My team is gone—every last one of them slaughtered in an ambush we never saw coming.

I should be dead, too. I will make them pay.

I slip through the corridors, silent as death. There are voices ahead, laughter, the indistinct murmur of men who don’t know they’re about to die—all of them.

I move fast, bringing the rifle up and firing in quick succession. Two go down instantly. The third reaches for his weapon—I shoot him in the kneecap, then put a bullet between his eyes before he can scream.

I keep moving.

The air thickens as I near the exit. I smell the ocean, the distant scent of gasoline. My heartbeat is steady, my hands sure.

Almost there.

I press against the last door, listening. Nothing. I push it open, stepping out into the humid night. The compound’s outer wall looms ahead. Just a few more steps and I’ll be outside—one step closer to freedom.

Then I hear it. The unmistakable click of a safety being switched off.

I freeze and turn around slowly. Three red laser dots paint my chest.

Fuck.

I lift my head slowly, meeting the eyes of the men waiting for me. They’re not pirates—at least they’re not dressed in the ragtag way of most of Warsame’s men. They’re dressed in all black—no insignia, no markings. Just shadows wrapped in Kevlar. One man steps forward, his face obscured by night vision goggles and the balaclava he is wearing.

“Nick Ryeland,” he says, his voice smooth, with a heavy French accent I can’t quite place. “Your pathetic attempt to escape has failed. Although I suppose technically you escaped those idiot pirates. But you will not escape me. You’ve got two choices: put the gun down and come willingly, or we’ll drag your sorry ass back for further questioning.”

I scan the area, calculating. I’m outnumbered. Outgunned. There’s no way I can escape this time, but if I submit, perhaps there will be another chance. Slowly, I lower my rifle. The lead operative gestures to his men. They move in, weapons raised, closing the distance. I’m ready to do whatever I have to do in order to survive without betraying my country, but then something slams into the back of my skull and pain detonates behind my eyes. The world tilts, and everything goes black.

The metallic tang of blood fills my mouth, sharp and unrelenting. My head throbs with every pulse of my heartbeat, a dull, persistent reminder that I’m still alive—though not for much longer.

The ropes binding my wrists cut into my skin, slick with sweat and blood. My swollen left eye is shut, my ribs protest with each breath, and I feel the deep gash on my thigh seep warmth down my leg. One man in Kevlar stands in front of me gripping a jagged knife, playing with me like a toy.

“You are stubborn,” he says in his French accent, his voice filled with amusement.

I don’t answer. My throat is raw from screaming, from the hours of beatings, from the dehydration clawing at me like a living thing.

But I don’t beg. I never will.

He steps closer, pressing the flat of the blade against my cheek, dragging it down slowly until it rests at my throat. “Your team is dead. Your country has forgotten you. No one is coming.”

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