Page 32 of Ghost
The takedown is silent, efficient. One arm across his carotid, pressure in precisely the right places, and he slumps unconscious. I ease his limp body into the snow, zip-tie his wrists and ankles, and relieve him of his radio and weapons.
Through the trees, Chaos scents one of the assailants. His posture goes rigid. When our eyes meet, I give the signal—a single finger point, the command we’ve practiced a hundred times.
Attack. Disable. Don’t kill.
Chaos moves like liquid shadow, launching from his hidden position. The operative has no warning—one moment he’s advancing cautiously, the next seventy pounds of military-trained canine hits him from the side. The man goes down hard, a startled cry cut short as Chaos clamps onto his weapon arm with precision, the pressure calculated to immobilize without severing arteries.
By the time I reach them, the man has stopped struggling, his eyes wide with fear as Chaos maintains his grip, a low growl vibrating through his powerful jaws.
“Good boy,” I murmur, administering a sedative to the operative before securing him. Chaos releases on command, circling once to check for additional threats before returning to my side, mission focus unbroken.
That leaves Drake.
The most dangerous.
The one Willow fears the most.
I signal Chaos.
Track.
He lifts his nose, head tilting slightly, as he catches the scent molecules drifting through the cold air. His entire demeanor transforms from silent shadow to precision instrument. The Malinois moves in a zigzag pattern, nose working the air currents, processing information no human could detect: microscopic skin cells, the chemical signature of weapon oil, and the distinct human pheromones of heightened alertness and aggression.
His ear flicks back toward me once—confirmation. He’s on target.
Chaos drops low, belly nearly touching the snow as he advances through the underbrush. His movements are fluid and economical—the result of countless hours of specialized training.
Twenty yards ahead, he freezes, one paw lifted, tail perfectly still—the classic pointer stance that tells me exactly where our quarry is positioned.
Drake has taken cover behind a large pine, approximately forty yards ahead. Perfect tactical choice—good sightlines, protected position, multiple escape routes. But he doesn’t know about Chaos.
I signal again, two quick hand gestures.
Circle. Contain.
The dog acknowledges with an almost imperceptible ear movement before melting into the forest. His tan-and-white winter coat disappears against the dappled light filtering through the pines. He’ll circle behind Drake, cutting off his retreat options, becoming a silent sentinel ready to launch on command.
I track Drake through the trees, moving like a shadow. He’s good—better than his companions. His head swivelsconstantly, checking his six, maintaining awareness of his surroundings even as he approaches the cabin. When the second missed check-in comes through, he immediately goes defensive, taking cover behind the massive pine exactly where Chaos indicated.
“I know you’re out there,” he calls, voice carrying in the still air. “Let’s talk like professionals.”
I remain silent, circling to his flank. He’s expecting an attack from the direction of the cabin, not from deeper in the forest. Chaos is positioned perfectly through a gap in the trees—completely still, almost invisible, waiting for the command that would send him launching at Drake’s blind side.
“Reynolds just wants what’s his,” Drake continues. “The woman and the drive. No need for bloodshed.”
The casual ownership in his tone when referring to Willow ignites something primal in my chest—a killing rage I haven’t felt since Syria. Since I watched my team die while I survived.
I tamp it down, force it into the cold calculation that keeps operators alive in hostile territory.
Drake shifts position, still scanning. “She’s not worth dying for, whoever you are. She’s damaged goods. Judge Reynolds has used her up, wrung her out. Nothing left but a shell.”
Each word feeds the fury building in my chest, but I channel it into focus, into precision. I want nothing more than to put a bullet between his eyes, to end the threat he poses to Willow.
But I need him alive.
I need to know if more teams are coming. Need to guarantee her safety beyond the immediate threat.
I slip closer, using his voice to mask the sound of my approach. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
