Page 68 of Code Name: Ghost

Nick stands in front of the operations terminal, arms crossed, jaw set, his silhouette cut sharp against the blue glow of the screens. Logan and the others move like ghosts through the room, collecting fragments—satellite sweeps, encrypted comms, digital crumbs scattered across the ether. Cerberus operatives loyal to Fitzwallace send whispers from the shadows, piecing together a map, but it’s like trying to catch smoke. Every lead fades before it sharpens. Every thread breaks before it connects. Nick doesn't speak, but I can feel the pressure building behind his stillness—the storm just beneath the surface, coiled and waiting for the right flash point.

I take a breath and step closer, thoughts turning over like puzzle pieces in my mind.

"When Hector hosted events in Lyon," I say, voice low but firm, "he always booked them with six-day gaps. Never seven. Never five. Six. He always said it gave him some breathing space. He used Corsica once. He said he liked it, as it was discreet and not under the same microscope as Monaco."

The second the words leave my mouth, I see it land in Nick’s eyes, sharp and certain. The dots are connecting faster now, a pattern rising out of static. Corsica isn’t just a possibility.

Nick’s gaze shifts to me instantly. "Corsica?"

I nod. "He called it a buffer zone. Said the consulate routes were barely watched because they weren’t 'prestigious enough to warrant concern.' If he and Vallois are relocating, and Juliette was silenced for being too close to the logistics..."

"...then Corsica’s the next waypoint." Nick’s voice is a growl of agreement, low and lethal. His eyes don’t leave mine as he says it, and I realize he’s not just agreeing with my conclusion. He’s already there—mentally mapping exits, flank points, contingencies. My memory didn’t just help; it confirmed a kill zone.

He turns to Logan. "Pull every satellite vector in and out of Corsican airspace in the last twelve hours. Cross-check with port activity and private charter logs. I want every cargo manifest flagged."

Logan doesn’t question it. He just moves... fast.

Nick looks back at me. His hand brushes the small of my back—not to guide, not to claim. Just... contact. Grounding—not me, but him—like he needs to feel me there, the same way I need him.

I exhale, heart still hammering. "Juliette thought she was insulated—too vital, too connected to ever be considered expendable. But that kind of arrogance? It always creates a blind spot. She was so focused on managing the threats around her, she never saw the one aimed from within."

"She was wrong. And so is Vallois if he thinks Corsica—secluded, diplomatic, quiet—can hide him from what’s coming. We see him now. We know where he’s headed. And we’ll be waiting."

The edge in Nick’s voice doesn’t scare me. It steels me. Because I know what’s coming next.

War.

* * *

The comms unit flares to life behind us—secure, encoded, but familiar. A quiet beep precedes the flicker of the screen, illuminating the dim room with Cerberus insignia before shifting to the sharp, weathered face of Fitzwallace. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days—jacket off, sleeves rolled, jaw clenched with barely leashed urgency. Nick doesn’t hesitate. He swipes to accept the call and leans in, his posture steel and shadow, ready for whatever comes next.

"I just got word," Fitz says without preamble. "You’ve ID’d Corsica."

Nick nods once, slow and sure, then turns toward the screen. "We’re moving now," he says. A declaration. A line in the sand.

The blue light from the monitor throws sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the lines etched deep from years of violence, loss, and calculated silence. For a moment, no one moves.

Then Logan’s already shifting into motion behind him, barking quiet commands through an earpiece, while I stay frozen, heart pounding, because I understand what just happened—Fitzwallace gave us the green light.

Nick doesn't even flinch.

"I can have field operatives in place within twelve hours," Fitzwallace says, the words clipped but measured, like he already knows what Nick’s going to say before he says it.

Nick doesn’t blink. “We don’t have twelve hours.”

The silence after those five words is deafening. Even Logan stills across the room.

Nick folds his arms, his body radiating lethal resolve. “Juliette’s execution wasn’t a message—it was a trigger. Vallois is cutting his ties, accelerating the exit plan. If we stall, we lose him. Possibly forever.”

Fitzwallace exhales through his nose, muttering something unintelligible before straightening. “Then you go in with what you have. But you won't have much in the way of backup or Cerberus air support. You’ll be in shadow territory. We have no field operatives in close proximity...”

“Understood,” Nick replies, calm as ice.

Fitz’s eyes shift to me. “And her?”

Nick doesn’t hesitate. “She’s in. This window exists because of her. She’s not just part of this op—she’s part of the outcome.”

Fitz’s brow furrows. “You’re certain?”

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