Page 13 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

NINE

Mason

Chaos detects them before the sensors do. His hackles rise as he positions himself by the door, a four-legged weapon primed and ready. Bear’s already with Willow in the safe room—right where I need them both.

Protecting Willow is my singular focus, a mission that eclipses everything else. Not because she’s an innocent caught in the crossfire. Not because she carries evidence that could bring down a corrupt federal judge. But because in less than twenty-four hours, she’s somehow become essential.

Necessary.

Mine.

The thought should terrify me.

After Rachel, I swore I’d never let another person get close enough to become a liability. A target. Yet here I am, prepared to unleash hell on anyone who threatens the woman I protect.

Movement flickers across the security monitor. Three heat signatures approaching from the southwest, using the trees for cover. Their formation suggests military training—staggered approach, with overlapping fields of fire .

Professional.

Methodical.

Good.

Professionals are predictable.

I check my weapons one last time. Glock 19X at my hip, suppressed.

KA-BAR tactical knife strapped to my thigh.

M4 carbine modified for close-quarters battle slung across my back.

Flash-bangs and smoke grenades on my tactical vest. Overkill for most situations, but against trained operatives hunting an injured woman, I’m not taking chances.

The nearest figure disables my outermost motion sensor rather than tripping it.

Definitely professional.

“Time to introduce ourselves.”

I move to the gear closet, pulling out the white camouflage snow suit designed specifically for these conditions.

Each piece is applied methodically—tactical thermals first, then the reinforced snow pants and jacket, both of which are layered with ballistic material at vital points.

The hood features a mesh face covering that allows me to breathe without creating visible vapor clouds.

When fully suited, I’ll be nearly invisible against the pristine snowscape outside.

I reach down, fingers brushing the thick fur of Chaos’s ruff. His body quivers with anticipation, every muscle taut, waiting.

We head outside. I stamp the snow between the cabin and outhouse, making it look like a well-travelled path. Inside, I secure the lock and open the hatch to the narrow concrete tunnel below.

Chaos follows silently, his nails clicking softly on the concrete. The passage is tight but navigable—six feet high, three feet wide, reinforced to withstand both weather and potential discovery.

Fifty yards of careful movement brings me to the exit point—a concealed hatch inside a small grouping of boulders. I pause, listening for movement above, then carefully push open the hatch designed to allow snow to fall away without creating an obvious opening.

The cold hits like a physical wall as I emerge. Chaos slips out beside me. The pristine snow stretches unbroken in all directions. My white camouflage renders me nearly invisible against the landscape as I pull the hood up and secure the mesh face shield.

Using the snow- laden pines for cover, I circle behind their position.

My breath clouds briefly before the specialized mesh disperses it, preventing the telltale vapor that could give away my position.

The storm has eased slightly, but visibility remains poor—an advantage for the defender who knows the terrain.

“Intercept and herd,” I murmur low, my voice just for Chaos.

The Malinois’s ears flick. One soft huff is the only acknowledgment before he slips into the shadows, silent as smoke, vanishing like a ghost into the snow.

I trigger the first trap—a simple but effective distraction on the northwest side of the cabin. The small explosion sends birds scattering from the trees.

The advancing team halts.

Reassesses.

Standard procedure when encountering unexpected resistance.

More importantly, now they know.

They’re not dealing with some backwoods hick holed up in a cabin with a shotgun and a grudge. I hope they jump to the conclusion I’m some paranoid prepper living out in the woods.

They have no idea they’re dealing with someone who’s trained.

Prepared.

Someone who’s likely more dangerous than they are.

What they do next will tell me everything I need to know.

If they pull back, regroup, and wait for a better opportunity—that’s a tactical mind at work. Measured. Disciplined. It will give me the time I need until my team arrives.

But if they continue? They’re desperate.

Getting Willow matters more to them than caution, more than logic.

And desperate men make mistakes.

Let’s see which kind I’m dealing with .

The familiar calm of impending violence settles over me—the stillness that earned me my call sign: Ghost.

While I circle left, Chaos moves right. His military-grade training activates. He knows to remain silent, observe, and wait for the command.

I spot the first man through my scope, checking his gear, adjusting his comm unit after the distraction. His attention is focused forward, toward the cabin. He never hears me approach from behind.

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 swivels constantly, 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.

“Last chance,” Drake calls. “Give us the woman, and you walk away. This isn’t your fight.”

Five feet .

“You’re wrong about that.” My voice startles him, but he’s good—already turning, weapon rising.

Not good enough.

I close the distance before he can acquire his target, driving my shoulder into his sternum while deflecting his weapon arm upward. His shot goes wild, echoing through the trees. We crash into the snow, a tangle of limbs and murderous intent.