Page 4 of Code Name: Ghost

The blood spurts, hot and fast, and I don’t stop until the fight leaves his body.

Panting, I wrench the blade free and use it to saw through the ropes at my wrists. The second I’m loose, I grab the rifle from the cooling body and turn toward the door.

I make it two steps before the night explodes again.

A chopper sweeps in low, its rotors kicking up dirt and debris as it hovers just beyond the compound’s walls. The men outside scream in confusion, their weapons useless against the sheer force of the assault.

And then two figures drop from the bird, moving with lethal precision.

Robert Fitzwallace. Sawyer Barnes. Cerberus.

The first shot takes out the sentry at the main gate, his body crumpling before he even registers what’s happening. The second figure—Sawyer—moves like a ghost, cutting through the remaining hostiles with calculated efficiency.

I stagger forward, my vision blurring, my body fighting to stay upright.

Sawyer’s gaze locks onto mine, his expression unreadable beneath the night-vision goggles. “Jesus Christ, Ryeland.”

“Thought you were dead,” Fitzwallace adds in his Scottish brogue, stepping over a corpse as he slings his rifle across his chest.

I let out a ragged breath. “So did I.”

Sawyer extends a hand, his grip firm as he hauls me to my feet. “We’re getting you out of here.”

More gunfire erupts behind us, but the chopper is already lowering, its side door open, waiting.

“Move!” Fitzwallace orders.

I don’t have to be told twice.

We sprint for the chopper—well, they sprint, kind of dragging me between them—the gunfire turning to distant echoes as I haul myself inside. The second we hit the metal floor, the pilot lifts off; the jungle disappearing beneath us.

I lean back, breathing hard, my vision swimming.

Cherise.

Her name is the last thing I think before the darkness takes me.

2

NICK

The steady beep of a heart monitor is the first thing I hear when I claw my way out of unconsciousness.

The second is the distinct scent of antiseptic and something richer—aged whiskey and fresh-cut tobacco. A mix I’d recognize anywhere.

I pry my eyes open, blinking against the soft glow of a lamp illuminating a room far more luxurious than anywhere I have a right to be. I know before I even sit up that I’m in England, tucked away in the private estate of Lord Nigel Pedersen, a man who deals in power like other men deal in currency.

I shift, and pain lances through my ribs, a reminder that I’m not out of the woods. I ache in ways I cannot describe—my captivity has permanently scarred my skin and soul. I’m alive, but I shouldn’t be.

The heavy wooden door swings open, and I don’t have to turn to know who it is. Robert Fitzwallace—Fitz—walks in, dressed in a pressed button-down and slacks, the picture of calm authority. He’s holding two tumblers of whiskey, offering one to me before taking a seat in the leather armchair beside my bed.

“You look like hell,” he says, taking a slow sip.

I snort, pushing myself up against the headboard with a wince. “Feel like it too.”

He studies me for a moment, his gaze sharp, assessing. “You shouldn’t be alive.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

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