Page 17 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

Drake’s face reveals nothing, but the tension in his shoulders speaks volumes.

Twenty minutes pass. We alternate between prisoners, feeding each contradicting information, creating an atmosphere of mistrust and urgency. It’s textbook psychological manipulation—and while Drake resists with the resilience of his training, Carver doesn’t have the same reserves.

When Martinez finally emerges from Carver’s makeshift cell, his expression tells me we’ve succeeded.

“Carver broke,” he says quietly. “Gave up everything. Teams, timetables, operational parameters.”

“And?” I prompt.

“One team from Billings, led by a former Ranger, a six-man squad. Another from Idaho Falls, four specialists. Their comm window is 0600 hours. When Drake misses it, they’ll accelerate deployment.”

When Martinez returns to us again, his expression is grim but satisfied .

“Carver’s talking freely now,” he reports quietly, well away from both detention areas. “Kid’s scared. Says he only signed on for executive protection work, not whatever this is.”

“What did he give you?” I check my watch—0430. Ninety minutes until their check-in window.

“Reynolds has a network that goes way beyond normal corrupt judge activities. Arms deals with Mexican cartels, evidence tampering, witness intimidation. But the real money’s in connections to a Serbian weapons dealer named Drazen Kostic.”

Ryan and Jackson exchange glances, recognition flickering in their eyes. Kostic is on multiple international watchlists—a ghost who supplies arms to terrorist groups across three continents.

“The thumb drive Willow has—Carver says it contains everything. Bank transactions, meeting recordings, names, dates.” Martinez continues. “Reynolds isn’t worried about a corruption charge. He’s worried about treason. And the people he works with… They solve problems permanently.”

“That explains the resources he’s deploying to find her,” Ryan observes. “How many people know she’s alive?”

“According to Carver, everyone,” Martinez answers. “Reynolds activated his entire network when she ran. FBI contacts, local sheriffs, and state police. There’s a blanket cover story that she’s mentally unstable, armed, and dangerous.”

I process this information, constructing contingencies in my head. “Did he say anything about satellite coverage or air assets?”

Martinez nods. “Reynolds has a contact in the FBI field office in Helena. They’ve got a BOLO out for Willow, and they’re monitoring air traffic. Carver said any chopper in this region will be tracked.”

“What about Drake?” I ask. “Anything useful?”

Jackson shakes his head. “Stone cold. Won’t give up a thing.”

“Keep trying with the third one?” Ryan suggests.

“No time,” I decide. “We’ve got what we need from Carver. Let’s focus on extraction.”

I process this information, constructing contingencies in my head. “The chopper—where will it land?”

“She won’t make it to the chopper,” Drake says, voice dripping with certainty. “Reynolds has satellite access through his FBI contact. The moment that bird is in the air, they’ll track it.”

“Mason.” Ryan’s voice cuts through the tension. “A word.”

We step outside, leaving Jackson and Martinez to guard the prisoners. The cold hits like a physical blow after the claustrophobic heat of the shed. The pre-dawn sky is beginning to lighten, stars giving way to a slate-gray expanse.

“He’s telling the truth,” Ryan says without preamble. “About Kostic, at least. If Reynolds has that kind of connection…”

“Then this isn’t just about a domestic abuse victim running from her husband,” I finish. “It’s national security.”

Ryan nods grimly. “We need to get that drive to people who can act on it. And we need to get Willow somewhere Reynolds and his network can’t reach her.”

“Ideas?”

“Guardian HRS can help us. I’ve got contacts at their headquarters who operate outside official channels.

They specialize in this kind of extraction, including hostage rescue and witness protection.

They can provide secure transport, new identity, the works.

” He checks his watch. “But we’ve got a more immediate problem. ”

“The FBI BOLO.”

“If it’s legitimate, every law enforcement officer in the state will be looking for her. Your place is remote, but not invisible. Reynolds will have given them approximate coordinates by now.”

“We move,” I decide. “Immediately. Bring the chopper to the secondary LZ, northeast ridge. Three-mile hike. It’s higher ground with better defensive positions. ”

Ryan nods, already reaching for his comm unit. “What about them?” He jerks his head toward the shed.

The question hangs between us.

What about them indeed?

“We patch up the wounded one as best we can, then leave them,” I decide. “It’s up to Reynolds to find them when he realizes they’ve failed. Not our problem if they survive until then.” My voice is clinical, detached.

“And Drake?”

I think of what Willow told me in the privacy of the cabin. How Drake watched, participated, and violated her on her husband’s orders. How he hunted her through the storm, determined to bring her back to more torture.

“He doesn’t leave this mountain,” I say finally.

“Why?” Ryan’s eyes narrow, understanding immediately.

“Because he touched her. Hurt her.” I nod once, jaw tight. “Because he enjoyed it. Because some men don’t deserve oxygen.”

“And the others?” Ryan’s expression remains impassive. He doesn’t judge. Doesn’t question. Just nods once.

“Carver seems salvageable—he didn’t know what he was getting into. Give him a fighting chance. Jackson can patch him up, leave him with some supplies.”

“And the last one?”

“Your call.”

Ryan considers this, then nods. “I’ll handle it.”

“Prep for immediate departure. I’ll brief Willow after I handle one last thing.” My voice is even, controlled.

Ryan studies me for a moment, understanding crossing his features. “We’ll be ready in twenty.”

I return to the shed where Drake is secured. There’s a cold clarity settling over me—a familiar feeling from combat zones. The tactical mind takes over, emotions filed away, replaced by pure intent.

Drake watches me enter, his eyes tracking every movement. He’s still calculating, still looking for a way out. That’s what made him good at his job. That’s what kept him alive this long. It’s why I’m going to kill him.

“Your boy Carver sold you out,” I tell him, voice conversational as I crouch in front of him. “Told us everything about Reynolds’s operation. About Kostic. About what you did to Willow.”

Drake’s face reveals nothing, but his pulse jumps visibly at his throat.

“My team is leaving,” I continue. “Taking Willow somewhere Reynolds and his network will never find her.”

“You’re dead, you know that, right?” Drake finally speaks, voice hoarse. “Reynolds won’t stop. He has resources you can’t imagine.”

“I’m counting on it.” I lean closer. “Because when he comes, I’ll be waiting. And after I’m done with him, I’ll start working through his network. One by one.”

“Big talk from a washout hiding in the woods.”

I smile, and Drake’s confidence falters for the first time. There’s something in my expression that triggers his survival instinct—too late.

“I want you to know something before you die.” My voice drops lower. “She told me what you did to her. How you watched. How you took pleasure in hurting her. How you violated her on Reynolds’s orders.”

For the first time, uncertainty flashes in Drake’s eyes.

“I served with men like you,” I continue. “Men who enjoyed inflicting pain. Who got off on power and fear.”

“Just following orders,” Drake manages, but there’s no conviction in it .

“No.” I shake my head. “You enjoyed it. And that’s why you don’t leave this mountain.”

My hands find his throat. Not a combat choke designed for quick unconsciousness, but something slower. More deliberate.

Drake struggles, but the restraints hold him firmly. His eyes widen as he realizes what’s happening—that there’s no escape, no rescue coming.

I maintain eye contact as I apply steady pressure. I want him to know why he’s dying. Want him to feel the same helplessness Willow felt.

“This is for Willow,” I say quietly.

Drake’s eyes bulge as his oxygen depletes. The fear in them is primal, all calculation and bravado stripped away. His face reddens, then begins to turn blue. Purple. His struggles weaken.

The light in his eyes dims, and I see the moment he accepts his fate—the moment he knows that he’s already dead.

I don’t look away until it’s done.