Page 21 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

The gunfire from the other direction—where Mason and Ryan went—has stopped entirely. The silence is somehow worse than the sounds of battle. Does it mean they’ve won? Or that they’ve fallen?

“Hurry!” the man at the helicopter door shouts. Jackson boosts Cooper inside, then turns back to help me.

Martinez retreats toward us, still firing as he moves. One of the UTVs breaks cover, racing toward the clearing. Martinez drops to one knee, takes careful aim, and fires. The driver slumps forward, the vehicle veering wildly before crashing into a tree.

I reach the helicopter, Jackson’s strong hands pulling me aboard.

Bear leaps in after me, his massive weight rocking the aircraft slightly.

Martinez is twenty yards out, running full tilt toward us as the remaining UTVs emerge from the tree line.

Jackson lifts his weapon, firing over Martinez at the UTVs closing in.

“Come on!” I scream, though my voice is lost beneath the rotor noise.

Martinez makes it to the helicopter just as bullets begin to ping off its armored exterior. He dives through the open door, rolling to create space as the crew chief slams it shut behind him.

“Go! Go! Go!” he shouts to the pilot.

The helicopter lurches upward, the sudden acceleration pressing me back against the seat. Through the window, Steffan’s men spill from the UTVs, weapons raised but no longer firing as we climb beyond effective range.

But it’s not them I’m searching for.

I scan desperately across the forest, seeking any sign of Mason, Ryan, and Chaos. Nothing. Just endless pines and pristine snow, broken only by our tracks and the gouges where the UTVs passed.

“Mason,” I whisper, pressing my palm against the cold glass. “Where are you?”

The helicopter banks sharply, turning east toward safety, toward the Idaho border and whatever sanctuary awaits beyond it. With each second, the distance grows between me and Mason.

Cooper groans as the medic aboard works on his wound. Bear settles beside me, his massive head resting on my lap, dark eyes watching me with what seems like understanding. Martinez and Jackson exchange low words—tactical assessments, contingency plans, things I should care about but can’t focus on.

All I can think about is Mason’s promise: “I’ll be right behind you.”

A promise I desperately want to believe, even as the Montana wilderness recedes beneath us, taking with it the only man who’s ever made me feel safe. The only man who saw me beneath the bruises and the fear.

“They’ll be okay,” Martinez says, his voice calm despite the urgency vibrating through the helicopter’s frame.

He doesn’t look at me—his gaze is fixed on the tablet in his lap, monitoring aerial feeds, heat signatures, and satellite data with surgical focus—but he must notice the way I’m glued to the window, straining for one last glimpse of Mason.

“Ghost has gotten out of worse situations. Much worse.”

The nickname pulls my attention away from the blur of snow and treetops. I turn toward him, blinking against the stinging wind leaking through the doorframe.

“Why do you call him Ghost?”

He taps the screen, zooming in on a flicker of movement in the trees, then relaxes slightly.

“Because the man’s a stealthy bastard. Recon mission in Aleppo went sideways.

He infiltrated a fortified compound, extracted two hostages, and ghosted out before the enemy even knew he was there.

No comms. No backup. No trail. Surveillance showed nothing but shadows—until he signaled for evac.

” He glances over, one brow raised. “We started calling him Ghost because he could vanish in plain sight and reappear only when he decided it was time.”

I let that settle, trying to picture the man I’d shared a bed with, trembling in the snow, doing something that superhuman.

“Wow.” My voice feels small over the thrum of the rotors. “Do you all have them?”

“Call signs?”

“Yeah.”

Martinez smirks, fingers still flying across his screen. “Ryan is Brass. Cooper’s Whisper. Jackson’s Fuse.”

I nod slowly, each name painting a clearer picture now that I know the men behind them.

“And you?” I glance at him sidelong. “What’s yours?”

He finally looks up, that signature crooked grin curving his mouth. “Halo.”

I arch a brow. “Like the video game?”

“Nah.” He leans back, checking the distant horizon through the glass. “Like a guardian angel’s always watching over me.”

A soft laugh slips out before I can stop it. Somehow, despite the gunfire still echoing in my bones and the fear anchoring deep in my gut, I smile.

The moment stretches for a beat, held there in the thrum of the blades, the steady hum of electronics, and the growl of our escape across the Montana wilderness.

My fingers find the flash drive in my pocket—three years of evidence, of suffering, of careful documentation. The key to destroying Steffan and everything he’s built.

It should feel like triumph. Like victory. Instead, it feels like another loss—another price paid in blood that isn’t mine.

“Where are we going?” I finally ask, pulling my gaze from the window.

“Safe house in Idaho,” the medic answers without looking up from Cooper’s wound. “Guardian HRS facility. You’ll be secure there until we can arrange more permanent arrangements.”

“Guardian HRS?”

“Friends of Cerberus. Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists. They’re going to help us make you disappear.”

“What about Mason and Ryan?”

Martinez meets my gaze steadily. “They have extraction protocols. Secondary and tertiary rendezvous points. They’ll make contact when they’re clear.”

If they’re clear, the words hang unspoken between us.

I lean back, exhaustion suddenly crashing over me like a physical weight. Bear shifts, pressing his warm bulk more firmly against my legs, offering silent comfort. My hand rests on his massive head, fingers buried in thick fur.

“He meant what he said,” Cooper manages, his voice thin with pain. When I look over, his eyes are clearer than they have any right to be, given his injury. “Ghost always keeps his promises. Always.”

I want to believe him. Need to believe him. But as the helicopter carries me away from Montana, away from Mason, I find myself adrift between terror and hope. For the first time in three years, I’m not someone’s property. Not a victim. Not a target.

I’m just me.

Willow.

The thought carries me into uneasy sleep, my dreams filled with gunfire and snow, with Mason’s steel-gray eyes and his final promise: I’ll be right behind you.

But as the miles between us grow, I wonder if that’s a promise even he can keep.