Page 73 of Code Name: Ghost

"Understood. I'll prep the exfil."

By the time I reach the extraction point, the night is carved in smoke and fire. Smoke curls from the east wing like a serpent rising from a pit, thick with the stench of scorched silicon and burning rot. The comm servers are ash—obliterated in the controlled blast Logan set while I secured the black case. Every connection Vallois used to mask his operation has turned to vapor. But we paid for it in silence and risk.

We return the way we came, emerging from the shadows—faces tight, rifles drawn, eyes scanning the perimeter even as we load into the van with practiced urgency and efficiency. No alarms. No encounters. But it was close—too close. The last sweep skimmed our window by less than ninety seconds. One mistimed breach, one faulty detonation, and we'd be chalk outlines in a firestorm dressed as a villa.

Back in the van, Cherise waits, eyes sharp. She reaches out, laying her hand on my thigh. Her touch saying more than words and grounding me back in the world. As Logan slides the door shut, I cast one last look back. There’s no celebration. Just firelight reflecting in Cherise’s eyes as she watches the burn. This isn’t victory. It’s survival laced with a promise: we’re not done yet. Not even close.

"I'm waiting," she says quietly.

I grin; Logan laughs as I shake my head. "I love you."

She takes my face in her hands. "I love you too."

Logan makes a gagging sound. "And I think I may throw up."

"Shut up, Logan," Cherise and I say in unison before I put the van in gear, and we drive away—only fire and silence in our wake.

* * *

The screen flares to life.

Fitzwallace. His face is stone. But his voice carries something heavier. "Well done. All that's left is the last cleanup and that weasel Hector. Interpol would rather not have any of this ever see the light of day. There will be no inquiries. Do you need backup?"

I glance at Logan and Cherise. "No. We've got this."

"Then you’re on your own. If you can get this shut down, we'll have reshaped the landscape. Permanently. And more than that, we'll have the undying gratitude of Interpol."

"Understood."

The call ends. I stare at the dark screen.

One node gone. One monster dead. Only Hector is left.

I shake my head. "We end it where it started."

20

CHERISE

Marseille, France

24 Hours Later

The sun is setting pale and thin over Marseille, casting long, golden streaks across the harbor. It shouldn’t feel familiar—not anymore. Not after everything that's happened, but it does. The scent of brine and diesel, the distant clang of metal on metal, the voices bouncing off stone alleyways like they’re echoing from another life. We had a home here once; one of many homes we owned. Tried to have a life. Tried to be a wife. A partner. Tried to be safe... to live my life.

Our entry into Marseille yesterday was quiet—surgical, even. No Cerberus backup, no visible footprint. Just three forged identities, burner comms, and a clean drop into a city I once tried to call home. Logan handled the logistics, securing us rooms above a shuttered tailor’s shop tucked between two forgotten alleys. The place smells faintly of cedar and dust, the type of scent that disappears the moment you stop noticing it. Sparse, functional, unremarkable. The walls are thin; the floors creak in the corners, but it’s safe. Contained. And for now, it’s ours.

The day has been spent tracking Hector, my ex-husband, across Marseille, until we finally found him holed up on a sleek, sterile yacht moored at one of the outlying piers in the Vieux-Port—the same one he used to vanish for days at a time. I never set foot on it during our marriage. It was reserved for ‘business’ and the kind of extracurriculars that shredded any remaining illusion of fidelity. Just another betrayal in a long list. Another reminder that, to Hector, our marriage was never a bond—it was a transaction. A useful lie wrapped in vows he never intended to keep.

Nick keeps a steady hand at the small of my back as we move through the narrow side streets, blending into the evening bustle like we belong here. Every gesture is deliberate—his presence more than just protective, it’s commanding. Each quiet directive he gives, every flick of his eyes, draws me deeper into the mission. Not just as an observer, but as a partner who knows her place in the plan. Logan stays a half block ahead, eyes sharp behind mirrored glasses, sweeping the crowd and murmuring into his comm link as he updates our perimeter checks. We’re a unit. Tight. Focused. And I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

"You're clear," Logan says over comms. "Target location confirmed. Yacht moored right where Cherise said it would be. Same vessel from the intel drop. He's onboard."

Nick doesn’t break stride. “Confirm security,” he says, voice low but commanding, gaze already scanning the far end of the dock. He doesn’t look at Logan, doesn’t need to—the question is a formality. It’s the stillness in him that grabs me, that cold, relentless calm he wears like armor. Like nothing surprises him anymore. Like he’s already calculated a dozen ways this could end and is prepared to face every one of them.

"Four guards on deck. Two visibly armed and two in tailored clothes pretending to be crew. No civilians. They look like they're waiting for something."

"His final shipment before disappearing. We make our final approach in one hour," Nick says, steering me back to the surveillance van in the harbor parking lot.

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