Page 20 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

FOURTEEN

Willow

The world narrows to heartbeats and gunshots.

I huddle behind the fallen tree, snow seeping through my borrowed pants, while Cooper’s blood stains the pristine white beside me.

His breathing is labored, and his face is pale as Jackson works on his wound.

The coppery scent of blood mingles with gunpowder and pine, a surreal cocktail that makes my stomach lurch.

Four men lie in the snow. Three dead. One is alive, but neutralized.

Four men who came to take me back to Steffan. One of Mason’s men is wounded and bleeding because of me.

Bear presses against my side, his massive warmth anchoring me to reality as my mind threatens to float away on waves of shock. The Newfoundland’s presence is solid, real. His deep, rumbling growl has subsided, but his body remains tense, alert to any further threat.

Mason moves among the fallen men, questioning the survivor, his voice too low for me to hear. The ease with which he and his team neutralized the threat should terrify me. Instead, it fills me with a strange, terrible relief.

For the first time in three years, the violence isn’t directed at me. Men with weapons are using their skills to protect me rather than harm me.

“Stay with me, Cooper,” Jackson mutters, working efficiently to stem the bleeding. “Just a through-and-through. You’ve had worse.”

“Beirut, ‘18. That was worse.” Cooper manages a tight smile despite the pain.

“Much worse,” Jackson agrees, taping a pressure bandage in place. “You’ll live to complain about this one, too.”

Their camaraderie wraps around me like a protective blanket—these men who’ve clearly faced death together and speak a shorthand born of shared battlefields and mutual trust.

Ryan appears from the trees, rifle slung across his back as he approaches. “Chopper’s gone. They likely had fuel constraints after dropping the first team at the cabin.”

“There’s another team?” The words hit hard. “The cabin?”

Ryan nods, his expression grim. “They dropped a team there before coming here.”

Mason returns, face tight with focused intensity as he crouches beside me.

“You okay?” His voice is low and intimate, despite our audience.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

His eyes search mine, looking for truth beyond my automatic response.

“We’ve got a problem. The team that dropped off at the cabin will be following our tracks. Bear’s been making a clear path. They’re maybe ten, fifteen minutes behind us.”

“What about Cooper?” I glance at the wounded man.

“I’m good,” Cooper interjects, already struggling to his feet with Jackson’s help. “Just a flesh wound.”

Even I can see that’s a lie. His face is ashen, jaw clenched against pain as blood continues to seep through the pressure bandage.

“We’re splitting up.” Mason’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently before he turns to Ryan. “Martinez, Jackson, take Cooper and Willow to the LZ. Bear goes with you—they’ll need his strength to break trail.”

“And you?” Ryan asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.

“You, me, and Chaos double back. Intercept the pursuit team before they can reach the others.”

“Mason—”

The tactical logic is sound, but fear spikes through me at the thought of separation.

“This isn’t a debate,” he cuts me off, his voice gentle but firm. “Cooper needs extraction. You need extraction. The evidence needs to get out. Ryan and I can handle a single team.”

I want to argue, to demand we stay together, but the steel in his eyes stops me. This is the soldier, the protector, making decisions that will keep me alive. My desire to stay with him is selfish when measured against the reality of our situation.

“How far to the LZ?” Martinez asks, already moving to Cooper’s side.

“Half mile, northeast,” Ryan supplies. “Clear path most of the way, then a steep climb at the end. Martinez on point, Bear following, Willow behind Bear, Cooper and Jackson bring up the rear.”

The precision of their planning and the lack of wasted words or movement steadies me. These men know what they’re doing. This isn’t the first time they’ve had to adapt under fire.

“Go. Stay close to Martinez and Bear.” Mason turns to me, his hand cupping my cheek briefly. “We’ll be right behind you once we deal with the pursuit team.”

“Promise me.” I search his face, memorizing every detail—the scar that bisects his eyebrow, the steel-gray of his eyes, the tight line of his mouth.

“I promise. Now go.” Something flickers in his gaze—a shadow of doubt, quickly mastered.

The simplicity of the words belies their weight. In three years of marriage to Steffan, I never heard a promise that wasn’t eventually broken. Yet from Mason, a man I just met, the words feel like gospel truth.

We move quickly through the forest, our group splitting up. Mason, Ryan, and Chaos head back the way we came, weapons ready, moving like shadows through the trees. The rest of us turn northeast, toward the extraction point where our ride awaits.

Bear takes the lead, moving with surprising stealth despite his size.

His massive body creates a path through the deeper snow that the rest of us follow.

Martinez comes next. I stay close behind him.

Cooper and Jackson bring up the rear. Cooper’s labored breathing is the only indication of how badly he’s hurting.

The forest grows thicker as we climb, old-growth pines towering overhead, branches heavy with snow. Every step is a battle against gravity and exhaustion. My borrowed clothes are soaked with sweat beneath, and snow-covered outside; my muscles are screaming from the steep ascent.

But I don’t complain. Can’t complain. Not when Cooper is pushing forward despite a bullet wound, not when Mason is risking his life to buy us time.

Gunfire erupts in the distance—behind us, where Mason and Ryan have gone to intercept the pursuit team. The sound echoes through the trees, making it impossible to count individual shots.

My steps falter. Martinez notices immediately, turning back to grab my arm.

“Keep moving,” he says, not unkindly. “Ghost and Brass know what they’re doing.”

Ghost. It fits him—the way he moves through the forest, the way he appeared out of the storm to save me, the way his eyes go distant sometimes, lost in memories I can’t share.

The gunfire continues, sporadic now. Individual shots rather than clusters—aimed, deliberate. I try not to think about what each report means, about the men behind those triggers, about Mason in the crossfire.

We crest a slight rise, and Martinez signals for a halt. “LZ is just through those trees. We wait for my signal before crossing the open ground.”

Cooper sinks to one knee, his breathing shallow, face gray with pain and exertion. Jackson crouches beside him, checking the bandage, which is now soaked through with fresh blood.

“Need a new dressing,” Jackson mutters, already pulling supplies from his med kit.

“No time,” Cooper manages through gritted teeth. “I’ll make it.”

“We’ve got time for me to slap a bandage on that leg.” Jackson ignores Cooper and sets to work.

Bear circles back to me, pressing his warm bulk against my legs. I rest my hand on his massive head, drawing comfort from his solid presence. His ears suddenly prick forward, head turning toward the forest behind us.

“What is it?” I whisper.

“Listen.” Martinez is already moving, rifle raised.

At first, I hear nothing beyond the rasp of Cooper’s breathing and the whisper of wind through pine boughs. Then—a mechanical growl, growing louder. Not the distinctive thump of helicopter rotors, but something else .

Something moving fast through the forest.

“UTVs,” Jackson says, voice tight. “Multiple. Reynolds must have a team stationed nearby.”

“How did they—” I begin, but Martinez cuts me off.

“Doesn’t matter. They’re coming, and they’re coming fast.” He turns to Jackson. “How mobile is Cooper?”

Jackson’s expression is grim. “He’ll make it to the LZ, but he’s not fighting anyone off.”

“Then I’ll hold them here while you three make the extraction.” Martinez’s voice leaves no room for argument.

“Like hell,” Cooper grunts, struggling to his feet. “I can still shoot.”

Martinez opens his mouth to argue, but a new sound cuts through the air—the unmistakable thump of helicopter rotors approaching from the east.

Our extraction.

“LZ, now,” Martinez orders, already turning to cover our retreat. “I’ll buy you time.”

We move as one, breaking from the cover of the trees into the small clearing that serves as the landing zone. The helicopter appears over the ridge line, a sleek black silhouette against the pale morning sky. Not military—private security, with the distinctive profile of a modified civilian craft.

The mechanical growl of the UTVs grows louder. Closer. Through a gap in the trees, I catch a glimpse of movement. Three all-terrain vehicles race through the forest, each carrying two men in tactical gear. Six more of Reynolds’s contractors are closing fast.

The helicopter descends toward the center of the clearing, snow billowing beneath the downdraft of its rotors.

Martinez takes a defensive position at the forest edge, rifle braced against his shoulder. “Go!” he shouts over the roar of the approaching helicopter. “I’ll hold them until you’re aboard!”

Jackson half-carries Cooper toward it, Bear loping alongside them, his dark fur stark against the pristine white.

I hesitate, torn between the safety of the aircraft and the wrongness of leaving anyone behind. “What about Mason and Ryan?”

“They’ll find another way out!” Martinez fires three shots into the tree line, forcing the approaching UTVs to take cover. “That’s what Ghost does. Now move.”

The helicopter touches down, its side door sliding open to reveal a man in tactical gear, gesturing frantically for us to hurry. Jackson pushes Cooper toward it, the wounded man summoning a final burst of strength to cross the clearing.

I follow. Bear stays close to my side. Behind us, Martinez fires controlled bursts that keep the enemy pinned down.