Page 6 of Code Name: Ghost

I think about it for a moment. “No. That part of my life needs to be dead to me. Best I just keep moving forward.”

Sawyer leans against the passenger door, arms crossed, his ever-present scowl in place. “I’m not sure that’s the best move, but it’s your call.”

“Yeah, it is.” I slide into the backseat, stretching out my sore muscles as Fitz gets behind the wheel. “What’s the next move?”

Sawyer glances back at me. “We hunt.”

The car pulls away from the curb, and we head to a private landing strip and board a private jet. As we take off, I watch the ground drop away, leaving my old life behind. I should feel something—relief, closure, maybe even purpose. But all I feel is the cold, steady pulse of resolve.

They took everything from me. Now, I’m going to take everything from them. But no matter how much I tell myself I made the right choice; there’s one thought I can’t shake.

Cherise.

I see her in my mind’s eye—her green eyes filled with fire, her body curled against mine in the dead of night, the way she whispered my name like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

She thinks I’m dead.

And maybe, for her sake, I need to stay that way. Because if I ever saw her again, if I let myself touch her, claim her the way I once had, I wouldn’t be able to let go.

And right now, I have a war to fight—one I don’t plan on losing.

* * *

CHERISE

San Diego, California

Ten Years Ago

The knock at the door hits me like a bullet—hard, direct, already fatal before I even open it.

Two men in uniform stand on my porch. Their faces are blank, practiced. Their backs too straight, their hands too still. I already know.

“Ma’am, may we come in?”

I don’t want to let them. I don’t want the words. I don’t want the world they’re about to deliver—the one where he's gone.

“We regret to inform you that Lieutenant Commander Nicolas Ryeland was killed in action…”

Everything after that fractures. My breath. My heartbeat. The air. The sky. The floor beneath my feet. It all shatters, and I fall straight through.

* * *

Lyon, France

Eight Years Ago

The rain starts just as I step off the curb, a soft, insistent drizzle that coats the cobblestones in slick silver. I curse under my breath and fumble with my umbrella, which, of course, decides now is the perfect moment to snap.

"Allow me."

The voice is smooth. Polished. French, with just enough gravel to make it interesting. A large black umbrella appears over my head, and I glance up—heels pausing mid-step.

He’s taller than me. Impeccably dressed. Expensive suit. The sort of confident smile that says he's used to being listened to. And those eyes—dark, unreadable, but searching me like he already knows the answers.

"Thank you," I manage, shifting my tote higher on my shoulder. "Seems Lyon weather hates me."

"On the contrary," he says, falling into step beside me. "I’d say the weather’s just done me a favor."

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