Chapter Fifty-Two

Ghost

I scanned the empty street again.

Glancing one more time at my sat feeds, I checked the entire neighborhood.

No movement.

Not for the past two hours, and not since November'd had a lock on the location. Before that, there hadn't been any activity in or out of the abandoned-looking house in days, but that didn't mean the hacker was wrong.

Switching to thermal imaging, I checked again.

Same as before, no heat signatures.

Quickly logging out of my feeds, I erased my digital footprint, then jammed all satellite imagery in the area before shoving my phone into my pocket and grabbing my Glock.

Screwing on the suppressor, I scanned the perimeter of the property and the house one last time. Then I disabled the interior lights of the stolen late-model sedan, opened the driver's door, and was Oscar Tango Mike.

Thirty seconds later, stepping carefully across the rotted back porch, weapon trained, I glanced in the rear window and saw the reason why there hadn't been any heat signatures.

Two meters past the back door was a fifteen-foot-wide, twelve-foot-long, eight-foot-high concrete bunker built into the middle of the fucking house.

Breaching the back entrance, I cleared the space around the saferoom, then hit the access door on the west side.

The reinforced steel was cracked open an inch.

Christ , the hacker was right.

I did have company.

Holstering my Glock, I shoved open the door, then flipped a switch on an exposed junction box attached to the wall. The room lit up from the single overhead fluorescent light.

"Not smart holstering your weapon before you cleared the room."

Ignoring the comment and the source, I scanned the bunker. Desk, computer, couch, sink, toilet, shelves with supplies, and a bed with a bloody profiler, curled in fetal position, unmoving.

I glanced back.

Leaning a shoulder against the wall behind the door, arms crossed, meeting my hardened gaze with equal footing was my nemesis.

I'd holstered my piece before I'd walked in because I knew there was only person who'd leave the door open. "How long have you been here?" Only this asshole would invite that kind of trouble.

He glanced at the profiler. "Long enough to know sepsis has set in."

Good. "She verbal?"

"She could be."

Fucking great. Walking over to the shelves, I searched the first aid supplies for what I needed. "You knew she was working for al-Hashimi."

"Not at first, and neither did you."

Asshole. "How long was she his mole?" I found what I was looking for.

"Eight years, I'd imagine."

Imagine . This fucking prick. I shoved the safety cap off the EpiPen. "Since when do you speculate?"

"Since a profiler was ignorant enough to pick you for Ground Branch."

Not that I disagreed, but I was damn sure our reasons for thinking so were different. "I was a bad choice because?" I strode toward the bed and shoved the profiler to her back.

"You have family."

Glancing over my shoulder at another ghost, one who rarely showed up in the field anymore, I reminded him of who the fuck he was. "So do you."

Gaze purposely vacant, he stared at the profiler. "What do you think you're going to get out of her?"

"Answers." I jammed the epinephrine into her chest.

The profiler sucked in a breath, her eyes popped open, and she looked up at me. "G-G-Ghost."

"Al-Hashimi's dead, and all of his trafficking cells have been eliminated. Tell me if my women are still in danger. If so, from who." Fuck the asshole behind me. I wanted to know if she'd been working with anyone else at the Agency. "Withold intel or lie, and I'll kill you. Tell me the truth, and I'll take you to the hospital."

"D-dead?"

"Yes. You're out of time. My women?"

Her eyes briefly closed like she was relieved, then she looked back at me. "N-no danger."

A sheen of sweat covered her ashen face. I studied her.

She stuttered through the effects of the EpiPen and the shock her body was in. "I-I swear."

"You swore to me eight years ago." Right before I HALOed into a trap. "Who else at the Agency was in on this?"

She shook her head. "N-no one."

I stared.

She whispered. " H-hospital ."

I drew and pulled the trigger.

My round hit her between the eyes.

Holstering my Glock, I turned toward the asshole behind me. "How did you find her?"

"Old CIA safehouse." He tipped his chin toward the body. "Not exactly the hospital."

She got what she deserved. "Your point?"

"Did you get what you came for?"

"Did you?" Not that I cared. By this time tomorrow, I'd be back in Florida.

"Not yet."

No longer giving a shit about whatever the hell his agenda was, I aimed for the door. "It's your turn. Clean up the mess."

"I humbly serve as a guardian."

Hearing the cherry-picked phrase from the SEAL Ethos, one I knew was meant to provoke me, I paused. "Make no mistake, you're no guardian."

He plucked another locution. "Never out of the fight."

For eight years, he'd used me and I him, but I'd had a purpose. Just because I wasn't on the Teams anymore didn't mean I wasn't still a SEAL. I'd always carry that honor. My mission had been honorable. But him? I didn't know what the fuck motivated him anymore.

"What do you want?" I refused to address him by his call sign, alias, or codename. I refused to use his name, period.

"You disabled my access to the satellites."

Un-fucking-believable .

"Sell them to me," he demanded.

This is why he came here. To get my fucking satellites. "Buy your own." There was a reason I'd cut off his access to mine.

"You know I can't afford that kind of visibility."

"Not my problem."

He didn't accept defeat. Never had. "Your mission is complete. You're out. You have no use for them."

I didn't miss his acknowledgment of my status in his second statement. I also didn't miss his bullshit in that third sentence. Men like him and I would never be fully disengaged—not unless all our enemies were dead.

Until then, I was keeping my satellites, and he could fuck off.

Ignoring him, I walked out.

Thirty seconds later, I was getting behind the wheel of the stolen sedan when my burner vibrated with an incoming text.

I glanced at the screen.

Your female left the premises. Her decision.

Silently cursing, I fired off a return text.